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 14th 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.
