Start of the journey

Natural conception impossible. IVF recommended.

Last week, my husband and I heard those words at the end of a very long and very difficult day and it has completely torn the rug out from under our lives. It’s one thing to be struggling to have a baby, suspect that you will need extra help, and go for investigations, but totally another thing to actually hear that it is never going to happen without significant medical intervention.

So, let’s whizz back to the beginning!

A very good place to start... 

Interestingly, the beginning is before we started trying for a baby, back in 2015, when I went for a smear test and the nurse found a polyp on my cervix. She was quick to reassure me that it wasn’t dangerous, and I was referred to the hospital. The specialist explained, “There’s no point removing it as it won’t affect your chances of having children and it isn’t causing you any symptoms.”

So… I put it out of my mind.

Fast forward to January 2016, when I got married and immediately stopped taking the pill. Perhaps foolishly, we assumed that I’d fall pregnant within a few months and when it didn’t happen, I naturally began to wonder if something was wrong. Lots of people gave us the (very good) advice to not worry about it, that it takes longer for some people, that it doesn’t mean there is actually something wrong. All good advice. All well meant. Still, I just couldn’t shake that feeling.

Everyone in my family got very used to hearing, “I know the doctor said that the polyp wouldn’t prevent pregnancy but what if it is?”

I have tracked my symptoms and periods on an app, I took ovulation tests, I understand terms like ‘follicular phase’ and ‘basal body temperature’, and a hundred other things that would be extremely familiar to other women struggling to conceive.

Still nothing.

And that polyp. Always at the back of my mind. What if it’s stopping us?

Approaching a year of us unsuccessfully trying to conceive, my husband insisted that I book an appointment with my GP. We know that often they won’t refer you until you’ve been trying for 2 years, but he felt that if I made my worries about the polyp clear, then she might agree that it is causing problems and refer us anyway. She did.

A year and 2 months after we started trying, we went to our first appointment at the fertility clinic (unhelpfully referred to as ‘infertility’ on the referral letter. Thanks for the confidence, NHS).

We had all the standard tests booked in – I was weighed, scanned, booked in to become a human pincushion, my husband made to give a sample. Then the nurse doing the internal ultrasound saw the polyp, her eyes widened and she said, “Well… that’s rather large. Think that will need to come out!”

The doctor took the nurse’s advice and referred me for surgery to have it removed. She also booked in for the surgeon to do a hysteroscopy (camera put up into the uterus), and a laparoscopy and dye test (keyhole surgery to observe the outside of the uterus while dye is injected to test the freedom of movement through the fallopian tubes) while I was already under anaesthetic for the polypectomy.

2 months later, I got a letter with my surgery date (5 days later!) and although I was nervous to go under anaesthetic, I felt good. I felt like something was happening and we were on the road to becoming parents! It felt good to be busy getting ready for hospital, rather than just waiting.

4.5.17 – I arrive at the hospital at exactly midday, for my afternoon surgery. A simple procedure, going home the same day, no need to even really bring anything with me.

An hour later, we were seen by the consultant, who expressed his scepticism that the polyp was causing our infertility. He said that if he saw the need to remove it then he would, but doing so could cause a lot of problems so he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think it was necessary. I had to give my consent for about 6 different procedures and would only know which ones had been done once I woke up. Still, it would be worth it if it helped us have a child, so I swallowed my (by this point quite considerable) anxiety and went back out into the waiting room.

Another hour and another blood test later, I was given a gown and shown to a small room where I was told that I could wait to be walked down to theatre, because there were no beds available and it wouldn’t be long. My husband was told that he should come back in about 2-2.5 hours to sit with me as I recovered.

I sat. I waited. Waited. Read a noticeboard all about pressure ulcers. Waited. Read about a hospital wide competition to train all staff about pressure ulcers – closing date 14^th January 2013. Waited some more. Heard my husband’s voice asking where his wife was recovering.

Needless to say, he was livid when he realised that not only had I not gone to surgery yet, but that no-one had been in to check on me or even seemed to know I was waiting in that room. So he came to wait with me and also read about pressure ulcers.

Eventually I did go down to theatre, then spent 2 hours in Recovery, waiting for the ward to answer the phone to tell the Recovery staff if there was a bed for me. Once I was up on the ward, I asked my husband if he could find out when the consultant would be coming round to tell me what procedures had been done. The nurse’s response was “Didn’t he speak to her when she was in Recovery?”

No. No he did not. If he had done, I would not be asking.

She would find the on-call doctor to look at my notes and tell us, the nurse promised. This is when an already exhausting and emotional day became devastating.

I feel so sorry for the on-call doctor. He had never met us before, didn’t know our history at all, and accidentally ended up giving us the news that my fallopian tubes were so blocked that without IVF, we’d never conceive.

He was reading through the notes, telling us what the surgeon had done and what hadn’t needed to be done, and I could see the exact moment when he’d begun reading the sentence, had realised what it was about to reveal, but couldn’t stop there or we’d know something was wrong and would panic.

Heartbroken. Numb. Practical and making plans. Utter despair. Anger – lots of anger.

Anger at the consultant for not explaining what had been done during my surgery (because he knew the results, he wouldn’t have revealed them before our results appointment). Anger at the local clinical commissioning group for only allowing one NHS funded cycle of IVF. Anger at God (who I don’t even believe in!) for allowing so many people who don’t care to have child after child that they mistreat, but not even giving us the chance to have one, very loved child. Anger at myself – is it something I’ve done that has blocked my fallopian tubes and scuppered our chances?

Natural conception impossible. IVF recommended.

It has helped though, to think of it as grief. It’s helped to know that I don’t have to feel silly for being this upset. So I will cry and cry some more, I’ll talk to my husband about it and write about it here. We aren’t giving up but I’m also not being foolish enough to think that it will be an easy journey.

First step on that journey is to lose weight – the NHS will only fund a cycle of the treatment if I meet certain guidelines and that means losing weight. I’m already a member of Slimming World (other weight loss and lifestyle change programmes are available!) so I’ve told my consultant and she’s giving me all her support to get my weight where it needs to be.

Onwards and upwards.