Walking on eggshells

I started drafting this post many times. First time in 2022, this version now made it out into the wild. I have been thinking if I should tell that story in all of its detail, or if a short version will be all I can muster. For now, I think I will try the short version.

Walking on eggshells, many broken eggs. Figuratively, not literally. After the break-up with my ex-boyfriend (some may remember that it was rather traumatic), and after many moments of clear thinking and pragmatism, I decided I needed to seriously think about this quiet want of a family. Sadly, I was not lucky enough to meet the right man at the right time, and I was never inclined to force the subject. Maybe naively so, maybe it was my knowledge that I could never force something that would make any relationship less sincere (if not wanted by everyone involved).

I want to give a short account on the impact multiple failed IVF cycles have had on me. I went into the treatment knowing that it will have a significant effect on me, both physically and mentally.

  • Hormone treatments.
  • Lots (and I mean lots!) of needles and injections.
  • Multiple trips to the hospital per week.
  • So many blood tests that I stopped counting.
  • Finding a sperm donor and debating candidates with a friend. This part reminded me of online dating apps.
  • Medication deliveries, medication in big boxes in my kitchen and my fridge.
  • Counselling sessions and learning all of the legal subtleties of using donations.
  • Countless hospital visits on my own, leaving the hospital after having had anaesthetics, signing forms that I take responsibility for making my way home on my own (always using public transport).
  • Hope. What seems unlimited amounts of hope that was required.
  • Despair. Devastating news and heartbreak. Again and again.
  • Picking myself up again, as I need to have a positive mindset for the next round of treatment.
  • Alternative treatments to support fertility and additional tests and treatments to rule out other factors before the next treatment.
  • Learning and digesting the news that my own eggs are no longer good enough to be used, as they produce genetically abnormal blastocysts. Coming to terms that there will never be a ‘mini me’.
  • Confiding in friends. Receiving lots of patronising advice from some friends. Utter ignorance from others. Some I didn’t tell. A small handful was utterly wonderful, amazing and supportive.
  • Tears. So many tears. And putting a smile on as soon as I had to face the world again. I did this so well that many people never noticed what I was going through.
  • Dealing with my own guilt for not thinking about this earlier.
  • Being super happy for friends who make pregnancy announcements, and being heartbroken at the same time.
  • Staying strong and not giving in the temptation to buy baby products. Any products. I had my eye on a fantastic carrier that I could have used for hikes. And I had my eyes on a golf club attachment for baby buggies. Genius!
  • Noticing that with every round of treatment I will fit into less clothes because I can’t regulate my weight. Not to talk about the impact on my skin.

I have done this seven times. Seven failed attempts. Seven rounds of a rollercoaster of hormone overload, bloatedness, hope and sorrow. For just over two years.

At the very beginning, when I made the decision to embark on this, I promised myself that I will stop after my funds run out. I was lucky enough that I had a good pot available, and that my health insurance covered some of it. And I thought that I would be level-headed enough that I can call it a day. But to be honest, when I was in the trenches of treatments and crushed hope, I could have gone on for longer if my money hadn’t run out. I can see how people going through it get caught up in. Whilst my rational side has understood that this door has closed, my heart is still trying to make sense of it.

There is an underlying sadness that I was too late to start this journey. Lots of ‘what if’ and thoughts of ‘I’d tell my younger self’. But, I am proud that I tried. I tried very hard. I gave it my all and more. I learned an awful lot about my own resilience and self-belief. My GP said to me that he had never seen a single woman going through all of this on her own for so many cycles. Most couples would stop after half of what I did. So, I really tried. I tried not to be swallowed up by this, and still lead a normal life, so some people never even noticed.

I would have been a fantastic mum.

What now? Life goes on. Life is still beautiful. It will be different, not how I had imagined I would spend my later life, but I still have plenty of time to set many things in motion to make it equally worthwhile and wholesome.

To everyone who goes through this at the moment, or who is planning to do it: be brave. Something wonderful may happen and I sincerely hope this will be the case for you. It will be hard, but you’ve got this. To others who have friends or colleagues going through it: hold back with advice. Just provide some positivity and distraction. And don’t judge. They may just be walking on eggshells.

And some final words on silver linings: I have now met the most wonderful man. We won’t have children of our own, this was ruled out from the start and I accept this. But I feel as if I have arrived home.

NB: The cover picture is the Maori goddess for fertility, Hei Tiki. A dear friend of mine gave it to me at the beginning of my treatment. I believe it helped me to keep my good spirits.

Everything happens for a reason

For two years now I have had some things going on in my life that are hard. That could throw the strongest person off-course at some point. That could break me. That could consume me. I am still standing.

I have been trying to put it into words into a blog post to share with you all, but it is hard. I seem to be lost for words (for once) when it comes to this thing.

In spring this year I organised a poetry competition at work, and submitted my own poem, trying to describe the thing. It climbed to 4th place, which I am absolutely chuffed about. I want to share the poem with you. Maybe that’s the beginning of my story of this thing, maybe this will set free the words that I have been searching for.

It all happens for a reason

Carefree,
Joy, who needs to worry.
Places to be seen, stamps
To be collected in my passport.
Career, yes please.

Heartache, perseverance,
Broken heart and teas.
What are the odds for wishes to come true,
Yearning, longing.
More fish in the pond, plenty of time.

Realisation hits, there is no time.
Mad scrambling, lots to worry about.
Passport in the cupboard.
Instead loyalty stamps collection for clinic visits.,
Disappointment, despair.
Advice. Well-meaning words. Hurtful words.
Everything happens for a reason.
You are glad you never had to explore your reason.

Don’t speak. Don’t assume.
Exploring, evaluation, finding sense and purpose.
Focusing and not forgetting to feel.
Joy. Places to be seen.
Experiences to be had.

Not everything happens for a reason.