The IVF Diaries: A Man’s View Of A Woman’s World
Part 3
How Do You Like Your Eggs?
The method of IVF we proceeded with meant my single, most powerful sperm had to be selected and directly inserted into one of Emma’s eggs through the special, Hogwarts-like powers of an embryologist. This was to be performed in the lab, so a form of egg extraction had to take place. Formally known as an ‘egg collection’ and, prepped by the preceding two weeks of injections, drugs, and a weighty dose of anxiety, Emma was sedated and sent to the surgery room for these eggs to be uprooted and married to my sperm.
At the same time, I was sent to my own surgery room, which involved a lot less sedation and a lot more satisfaction.
Let’s not forget it takes two to make a baby, after all.
Throughout our IVF journey, Emma had three egg collections. While the embryologist may well be able to fertilise 4 or 5 eggs — or even 10 in our first case and 15 in our second — it’s rare that all of these will reach the much-coveted ‘five-day’ stage where they’re officially coined ‘blastocysts’, and, alongside sharing a title seemingly only reserved for Pokémon characters, are essentially a tiny human embryo that is five or six days old.
Much like waiting for your GCSE results, you patiently linger by the phone each day, ready to find out how many have reached that all-important five-day checkpoint, and whether these can either be implanted immediately (known as a ‘fresh transfer’) or frozen for a later date, when they’re eventually defrosted — like your mum realising she’s had that Bolognese sitting at the bottom of the freezer for three years — and used when ready.
On our first attempt, we only had one healthy, ready ‘embryo’; on our second, we had five, and by our third, we had three.
The actual insertion of the embryo is preceded by further planning and preparation, akin to the precise organising of a Jewish wedding, with additional protocols, timetabled drugs, specific injections, and strictly-measured tablets all being enforced — colours of invitations notwithstanding.
When your body is sufficiently prepped and pumped full of the requisite hormones — with bladder full to aid the insertion (on occasion mine, too, not just Emma’s) — you shuffle into that special surgery room, laden with a dentist-like chair, stirrups, computer screens, a selection of ominously-looking utensils, and the lingering ambience of hope and expectation from the many previous transfers that had taken place in that very same spot.
Aside from the consultant, there were often others present in the room, from the nurses to the embryologist, to any other willing onlookers from the clinic — which, in itself, seemed strange given this was the moment we’d officially be coined ‘pregnant’.
Were we doing this naturally, I probably wouldn’t have invited a further four audience members along for a front-row seat; the nerves emanating from having to perform with one female set of eyes on me is enough to lavish me with the confidence and performance level of an earless rabbit caught in the headlights of a freight train, let alone an extra eight. This wasn’t a fucking orgy.
Having run through the requisite protocols to ensure it was, in fact, our embryo being carefully inserted into Emma’s uterus and not ‘Dave and Jo’s’ instead (a perennial fear of mine), the embryologist transported our embryo from the lab into the surgery room, carrying it in like a prized and delicate capuchin monkey perched on its very own velvet cushion.
We’d closely watch the live TV screen, ensuring the catheter made its way up through the cervical canal and to the required location in the uterine cavity to officially label us — what’s commonly known amongst the IVF community as — ‘PUPO’.
Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise.
This particular acronym just one of the many banded around across those undertaking IVF; an attempt to keep up — and stay sane — with the onslaught of information present and, clearly, hark back to the halycon days of MSN Messenger and Noka 3310s.
There, resting inside Emma, was our beautifully created embryo, which, given the right environment, hormones, and time, would blossom into a baby Harrod.
Each time, we’d walk out of that fertility clinic, silently praying to our God — any fucking God, to be honest with you — and often the random man munching on his Pret baguette walking past us on the street that this would be the time it works. That, that embryo would stick and continue maturing into the tiny human it deserved to be.
We were told that no amount of sneezing or coughing would dislodge itself from its newfound home following the transfer, which was nice to know. We were also under strict instructions to eschew hot baths, to avoid pain killers, to avert the temptation for an alcoholic beverage, and to abstain from intercourse three days post-transfer (I’ll pay to find anyone who wants intercourse within three days post-transfer).
Following each transfer, we’d try anything and everything to help coax the process along, from listening to stand-up comedy in the car on the way home, to stopping off at McDonald’s to devour the largest bag of salty fries we could order — to keeping Emma’s feet warm and creating our own seventeen-dish, pineapple-core tasting menu — all in the hope of giving us an extra 0.00001% of chance of this thing fucking clasping onto Emma’s seemingly inhospitable environment and maturing.
Of course, we knew these old wives’ tales were about as worthless as a battered, racially-insensitive Dandy comic at a car boot sale, but I’d have run down Shepherd’s Bush High Street with my willy out and sporting nothing but a John Terry Chelsea shirt had it guaranteed us the chance of each transfer working.
Yes, I was that desperate.
Those two weeks following the transfer and before finding out you whether you were successful or not, were filled with anxiety, longing, and a lot of ‘Are you still in there’s?!’ directed at that embryo. Emma would avoid watching any stress-inducing programmes on TV; while I tried to impart so much positivity and confidence onto the situation, I was one exaggerated hand clap away from joining Tony fucking Robbins on tour.
We’d then sit, hope, and wait.
The entire egg-collection, drug-ordering, embryo-transfer-process was, of course, all preceded by the most painful part of the process: paying.
Sticking around seven-and-half-grand on your credit card was bittersweet. Bitter in that it’s seven-and-a-half-fucking-grand; sweet in that we were essentially — potentially — paying for a baby.
And, despite it really helping with the AMEX Travel Rewards, I’m still convinced we’d have got it cheaper in Argos.
In truth, the price was trivial. When you want — and can’t physically have — a baby, you’ll do everything to make it happen — even if it means forfeiting a holiday or four and having to order the Sainsbury’s own-brand peanut butter on the weekly shop. The costs, add-ons, and drugs rapidly accumulate; so much so, you become numb to the shipping out of another few hundred pounds here or a £1,000 blood test there. It’s like purchasing a house: what’s another few hundred quid when it only comprises a small percentage of the overall bill?
It would be ungrateful, at this point, to fail to acknowledge the financial input and assistance we received from parents. We were undoubtedly privileged in that our loved ones could support us, and it would be contemptuous to overlook the fact that others don’t occupy such a fortuitous position.
We’d heard of couples willing to take out loans and delay house purchases to fund rounds — to perch nervously at the IVF casino table, placing thousands and thousands of pounds on their one solitary lucky number and praying that that little roulette ball lands where it’s supposed to.
Often, it’s really that much of a gamble.
Being able to go down the private avenue without shovelling our bank accounts into thousands of pounds worth of debt was not taken for granted, and while our financial situation was somewhat comforting, it’s not to say we believe we were any better for taking it. It’s farcical many will potentially be obstructed by financial difficulties in their bid to fall pregnant, and only served to cement our gratitude for the situation we were in.
Fortunately, we did benefit from NHS funding for two of our failed rounds.
When we move land and water to get a week’s free HelloFresh delivery, we’re not going to turn down the opportunity for more free shit, are we?
The oft-random NHS funding process affords you anywhere from one to three free rounds (with other benefits and bursaries should you decide to send frozen eggs and embryos away for research), with many couples and single mothers delicately placing their futures in the hands of ‘local commission groups’ to decide whether they’re able to utilise additional financial backing. It seems ludicrous not every area within the country is guaranteed NHS resources, with these panels illogically deciding whether a couple is entitled to funding for perhaps one of the most prominent human rights.
It’s like enrolling in your own NHS postcode lottery, if you will.
I only hope and pray every couple who struggle to conceive are offered a path and opportunity that enables them to eventually cradle a son or daughter, regardless of their financial position.
Hey, We’re Pregnant!
Having spent a fair share of my youth toiling away for two-and-a-half hours every Sunday morning at a Jewish Sunday School, I’m now reasonably cognisant of not only the intricacies of a seder plate but also the ins and outs of the Ten Commandments. Now, while I may have called my father ‘a bit of a knob’ on occasion (sorry, Dad, there goes commandment number five), I’ve been fairly respectful of the rules and principles by which I should live my life.
There does exist one burning exception, however:
Thou shall not covet.
I don’t think you’ve experienced true jealousy — or ‘coveted thy neighbour’s wife’ (I won’t tell you which one) — until you’ve been on the receiving end of an unwanted FaceTime call from friends informing you they’re pregnant.
I have no qualms in admitting it’s pure unadulterated envy.
While we may be slightly begrudging of a friend’s new car or another’s 2489 Instagram followers, I don’t think you know what it’s like to be so embittered with what’s essentially unbelievable news until you’re faced with the prospect that the ones you love are expecting a baby — all while simultaneously struggling to conceive yourselves.
It’s an eclectic gathering of feelings. From, of course, candid happiness at their wonderful fortune to what can only be described as resentment to the same announcement, it’s a confusing and painful time.
Why is it so easy for others? Why can’t it be you? Why am I so happy for them yet absorbed in feelings of anger that they’re having their moment and we can’t? Why — as Mario Balotelli would say — always us?
It’s undoubtedly — hand on seder plate — one of the most challenging moments to overcome during the whole trying-to-get-pregnant experience.
It’s strange. We didn’t want their baby. We didn’t want to take away from their happiness. We didn’t want them to patiently wait until we were pregnant before they were allowed to even try — as much as that sounded like a good idea. Yet, their joyful fate only served to highlight our incompetence. Our inability. Our frustration and sadness at being unable to share in the same euphoria.
How dare they sneeze on each other a mere few days after getting married and fall pregnant while we painfully worked our way through the sixteenth edition of the Kamasutra in a bid to unlock the secret sex code to get this damn thing up and running.
Unfortunately, telling someone not to be jealous at that precise moment is akin to sticking a plate of cheese in front of a ravenous dog and instructing it to eat it slowly. You know you shouldn’t be spiteful of others’ delight but can’t help but feel a twinge of malevolence to them.
Suppressing envy is like suppressing the desire for the triple-Belgian chocolate cookie lurking in the cupboard: fucking impossible.
So, we, of course — through gritted teeth — showed our delight and congratulations via FaceTime, only to rage and moan and bitch afterwards. Not specifically at our friends but more so at life. And, while we were all too aware that life, of course, didn’t owe us a thing, expressing that anger made us feel slightly better.
If you’re one of our friends or family reading this and, during the last three years, called to inform us of your wonderful news, we apologise. We apologise for not being fully present, and we’re sorry for holding back on displaying complete feelings of elation for you.
Emma also apologises for running into the other room without comment on occasion.
It’s not that your friends aren’t happy for you, it’s that they just can’t process the painful information in a rational and caring way.
I don’t think anyone should ever hold back on their excitement at sharing the news of a pregnancy; I do, however, think there should be care and consideration taken over who you’re telling and how. While we should never assume what others are going through, it makes sense to take a moment and contemplate who is receiving the news. Is there a chance they may find this hard to deal with? Is this the best way of telling them? How can we be empathetic in this situation?
Do we really need to FaceTime them?
Sorry, Your Transfer Failed
Waiting two minutes for the result of a conventional pregnancy test seems like waiting five hours. (We were only too aware because one month into the beginning of our journey, under the guise of carefree and childlike baby-related optimism, Emma had convinced herself she was pregnant and — much to her dismay at the inevitable result — took a test. Oh, how little did we know).
When you have to actually wait five hours, it’s a whole different ball game — much like sitting through a marathon of Songs of Praise re-runs with a bout of piles.
Having gone for a pregnancy blood test in the morning following the two-week wait after our first transfer, we sat by the phone for the results to return. We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And knew.
As soon as we placed the nurse on loudspeaker, the tone of her greeting indicated all we needed to know.
Our first transfer hadn’t worked: we weren’t pregnant.
An avalanche of devastation consumed us. All hope and belief drained from our bodies as we came to terms with the overwhelming ramifications.
There was confusion — why hadn’t it worked? There was anger — whose fault was this? There was shock — what would happen next? There was fear — what if it never works? There was worry — we’ll have to pay again?
There were tears — plenty of tears.
All that physical effort and emotional energy plunged into the past few months seemed like a waste. What was the fucking point? When you want something so desperately — and you do everything in your power; everything you’ve been told to do to get there — only for it to fall flat on its face, it feels like you’re sprinting away on a never-ending hamster wheel of doubt and failure.
You mean we have to start all over again?
It turns out that asking Alexa, ‘How to soothe your inconsolable wife following a failed embryo transfer,’ doesn’t quite cut it in terms of support. A blanket of gloom enveloped the Harrod household every time we’d find out our efforts were all in vain. Words, hugs, and positivity seldom dampened the negativity piercing the air, and you can’t help but feel lost in the few days following a negative outcome.
Instead of seeking a new plan of action, as it’s so easy to do as a man, I quickly learned it’s a time to comfort and hold; to push down the temptation to provide solutions, answers, and justifications for the gaping well of failure you find yourselves in and to simply be present.
That second failed attempt delivered further feelings of defeat and despair. It wasn’t any easier. Everything we’d done — the injections, the patience, the positivity, the planning, the belief — was for nothing. All that eagerness and hope decimated in a matter of seconds as the nurse drops the, ‘Sorry, your transfer failed’, bomb over the phone. Again.
How could such a guaranteed and idiot-proof science be so precarious?
It was grief; losing something you once had. A microscopic embryo that barely resembled a peanut, yes, but an embryo that still had the potential to become a human.
We got a dog to help ease the pain. At least we’d have something to look after, care for, and clean shit up after.
Each period of time between collections, transfers, and appointments felt like an eternity, a Saturday morning Synagogue and Sunday morning Church service all rolled into one elongated painful stretch of time. You so desperately wanted to do something to get the ball rolling again — to avoid those feelings of wasting precious time — but often had to just sit and wait, ready to pounce on the right time to start another cycle or investigation or have something else shoved up your vagina. It was infuriating.
Fuck the sermon, let’s get on with this thing.
We, unfortunately, didn’t even make it to the pregnancy test on the third attempt. Emma started bleeding a mere few days after the transfer, and blood to a potential pregnancy is what Winnie the Pooh is to dieting: a fucking disaster.
The closest feeling I’ll get to anxiety when frequenting the toilet is to see how dire my urine smells following the previous night’s asparagus-based dinner; I can’t imagine the panic and dismay knowing your period has arrived when you’ve spent the last nine days accruing a boatload of hope, optimism, and belief that you could be pregnant. All that ripped away from you while on the fucking toilet.
Emma said it was ‘the most painful period she’s ever had’.
She, brutally, still had to continue with her pessaries and couldn’t even use a tampon until she’d officially found out the test was negative. This a stark reminder as to how easy I had things and the severe psychological and physiological episodes the women trawling through this painstaking experience must endure when things don’t go according to plan.
Ordinarily, you’d return to the drawing board following a failed attempt at getting pregnant. Drawing board in any typical case being sex — which is a nice thought for most — but when your drawing board involves weeks of anxiety, blood tests, injections, days of discomfort, rare periods of optimism, and more time to stomach the unknown, however, the drawing board is about appealing as having a splintered baseball bat shoved up your arse.
It’s a lonely place that drawing board, a desolate and grief-stricken enclave where negative feelings are amplified, and hope is an unrecognisable concept. More time wasted. More emotional resilience battered and bruised. More pain. The last thing you want is the thought of enduring more months of that stress-inducing unrest all over again.
You half consider giving up. You flirt with the idea of packing your bags and hiking in the foothills of Mount Tibidabo for three years to escape it all. Discussions of surrogacy and adoption and kidnapping other babies seep into the conversation.
You wonder if life with children just isn’t meant to be.
Alas, time plays its part, that pain heals, and you eventually return to the cardinal desire that’s kept pushing you on and on for what seems an eternity. You do want a baby, and you’ll do anything to make it work.
Emma sought the help of a counsellor every week. She experimented with the fragile science of fertility acupuncture. She stopped using plastic Tupperware to transport her tuna salads around in and, with barely concealed frustration, discontinued her monthly nail and hair appointments, hoping that providing her body and mind with the ‘cleanest’ environment would increase her fraught chances of falling pregnant.
Much like using fat-burning supplements to drop those few stubborn pounds from around your stomach, these all seemed like expensive and worthless endeavours. In all honesty, however, she couldn’t have cared less, simply comforted with the assurance that she was doing everything in her power and control to hopefully reach that coveted conclusion, evidence-based or not.
Of course, by the fourth transfer, you’re desperate.
We acted like we were pregnant throughout that two-week wait. We looked at food ingredients more closely, thought about the trips and holidays we may have to cancel, and wondered how soon after we received a positive result, we’d tell people.
Everything was a sign in the right direction. Emma felt a ‘pulling’ in her tummy — she must be pregnant. She detected the faintest smell of coriander in her Ben’s microwave rice (which, admittedly, may well have put her off Ben’s microwave rice for life) — she must be pregnant. She was extremely exhausted — she must be pregnant. I was extremely exhausted — fuck, I must be pregnant.
Those particular twelve days felt different. How could it not have worked? Emma had stuck more needles in herself than an 87-year-old on their latest Covid vaccine round, had undergone numerous tests to figure out the intricacies of this latest drug-ridden protocol, and braved more psychological trauma than I dared imagine.
Of course, when you then can’t even see the faintest of fucking lines in that second big box on the pregnancy test stick, you’re lost.
We honestly couldn’t believe it. Should we do another test? Was there a mistake? What had gone wrong? A lot of, ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me’s’ and the temptation to chuck a few bathroom bins into mirrors were banded around.
We lay in bed stunned. This was a different type of disconsolation to the previous three failed attempts; almost a resignation. We almost laughed. We’d done all the positive thinking we could, all the tricks, tips, and pregnancy hacks we could think of to aid the process, only to ride the high of feeling like we were pregnant and be catapulted at an astonishing pace back down to earth — with the biggest of painful and heart-wrenching crashes.
Through the tears and bereft thoughts, we grabbed on to any baking sheet-thin positives we could. Maybe this was the right protocol; the coin had just landed on the wrong side of that 50–50 chance we had. After all, it wasn’t always a foregone conclusion it would work. Maybe this ongoing pain was the path we were meant to take. Maybe we’d try something different next time: more steroids, different infusions, other techniques, the traditional Chinese ‘Bird’s Nest Soup’ aphrodisiac. We’d considered worse ideas.
There’s no easy answer to overcoming the despondency of a failed embryo transfer. It certainly doesn’t get any easier; possibly even harder each time those results come back with a big fat negative sign. And while the words, ‘You will get there — no matter how, when, what, or why’ feel about as reassuring as a hug sandwich from Gus Fring and Walter White, I firmly believe that everyone weathering an infertility journey will reach their destination somehow.
It’s hard to clutch onto that frail promise when you’re consumed with those continual feelings of desperation, but perseverance and resilience — words you, admittedly, found hollow and meaningless at the time — are imperative.
It will happen.
