My biggest fear when I embarked on the IVF cycle that has ruled my life for
the past three years was that I would become pregnant and miscarry. In the
end, that’s exactly what happened — but to the doctors behind the treatment,
I represent a positive result. The statistics that support their work aren’t
about live birth rates — they’re about pregnancies. And so, in their eyes,
I’m a success.
I remember telling my sister when I was 12 that I wanted to be a mum when I
grew up. Having a career was also important to me, to the extent that I now
run my own business, but when I met my future husband, Matt, he agreed that
work should go hand in hand with having a family. We married in 2003, when I
was 26, but we weren’t in any hurry to conceive. In fact, flying to Africa
for our honeymoon, Matt was alarmed when I realised I’d forgotten to pack my
contraceptive pills. How could I be so irresponsible? The irony now makes me
feel sick.
Two years later, when I was 28, we decided to go for it.I stopped taking the
pill on December 9, and we took off for a three-week Christmas holiday in
Thailand. It was a magical time. We felt we were embarking on something
thrilling together, and I remember sitting on the beach, convinced that I’d
be pregnant, or even have a baby, by the following Christmas. When nothing
had happened by March, Matt decided to get himself checked out. The results
of those first tests showed that there was a problem, although it would be
another year until we found the cause — a rare genetic disorder called a
“translocation”, which means that Matt carries two defective chromosomes. As
well as being virtually impossible for us to conceive naturally, if we did,
the chances were I’d give birth to a severely handicapped child. I felt the
world beginning to close in on us.
Over the next two years, we underwent two rounds of a risky and controversial
form of IVF called pregenetic diagnosis. This involves creating petri-dish
embryos using my eggs and Matt’s sperm, allowing them to grow to four or
five cells before taking one cell with a probe to check for the defective
chromosome.
At a cost of £10,000-£12,000 per treatment, we were incredibly lucky to secure
NHS research funding. Over the course of the treatment, we saw 14 different
doctors, not one of them twice. I began to feel like a walking biology book,
the process consumed my every waking thought. The deeper in we got, the more
isolated I felt. My friends and family were incredibly supportive, but so
often their words — no matter how heartfelt — seemed irrelevant. Worse,
having been open with everybody about our situation, I felt I was now also
carrying the weight of their expectations.
I also found it very difficult to deal with my friends getting pregnant all
around me. In quick succession, all five of my close girlfriends gave birth.
Of course, the first thing I wanted to feel was overjoyed, but in truth it
was always “Why isn’t it me?” I recently discovered they’d organised a
secret Santa without me — what would I have to bounce up and down on my lap
when they all met up for Christmas lunch? I found comfort online, at the
forum fertilityfriends.co.uk, where I could discuss what I was going through
with women in the same situation.
It sounds strange, but these total strangers were the people I turned to in
times of distress. When our first attempt failed (despite ingesting
industrial quantities of hormones, I failed to produce enough eggs to give
us proper odds), we lurched straight into round two. With hindsight, I don’t
think I gave myself long enough to recover, but my emotions were all over
the place from the hormones and, by now, it felt as if we were on a
merry-go-round we couldn’t get off. This time, I produced even fewer eggs,
but the doctors were able to harvest two and use them to create two precious
embryos. We decided to have them put back as they were, without the testing.
It was a huge risk, but by now I’d had enough of feeling like a science
project and wanted to grasp this slim chance while we had it.
Two weeks later, on July 2, I got a positive result. Sitting on my bed that
morning, in stunned silence, the sense of relief was overwhelming. It was
our fifth wedding anniversary on July 19 and we took the dog down to Devon,
going for long walks and spending hours just sitting on the beach. One of
the happiest moments of my life was telling my dad he was going to be a
grandfather. We couldn’t have been more excited, but in the back of my mind,
there was a cloud of doubt. Two days after we got back, we had to go in for
a scan. They’d told me it would be too early to see the foetal form, but
that if all was well, they’d be able to see the foetal pole — the spine and
a butterfly heartbeat.
I knew straight away that something was wrong. The nurse didn’t say a word. I
was lying on the table thinking, “Please, just tell me. Just let me get up
and go,” but she went off to seek a second opinion. Then somebody else came
in and confirmed it. Whatever had been there wasn’t any more. They asked if
we wanted to see someone, but what could anybody possibly say? When we got
home, all I wanted to do was throw myself on the floor and wail, but I knew
that, at some point, I’d have to get back up again and carry on with life.
It took 10 days for me to miscarry, and it was horrific, painful and as
heartbreaking for Matt as it was for me. I knew in my heart that this had
been the only chance of a Matt and Laura baby, and here I was, flushing it
down the lavatory. They’d told me to check, to have a look to make certain.
But I couldn’t do it. It was sit down. Flush. Go. Afterwards, I felt a huge
urge to do something to mark those tiny lives, which otherwise will go
completely unrecognised, and I plan to plant a tree for them with a charity
initiative called the Fertility Forest.
At the outset of our IVF journey, we were told there was a 15%-20% chance of
success. By the time we finished, they admitted it was nearer 5% — partly
due to my responding badly to the drugs. Thankfully, unlike so many couples
who go through IVF together, the experience has made our relationship
stronger. We’ve given ourselves until next month to decide what steps to
take next — be it thinking about adoption or even a donor. We’re not there
yet, but there’s also the consideration that maybe a childless future is the
right one for us.
Coming out of it, I feel an overwhelming sense of failure, and while we’re
still unsure about what the next stage is for us, what I do know is we won’t
try IVF again. The process can become addictive — there’s always that voice
that says: “Next time, it could work.” But after my miscarriage, I can’t
take the risk again.
Laura Wood talked to Ruby Warrington
