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‘How dare they? HOW DARE THEY?’
Paul had learned, from bitter experience, that there wasn’t much point in even attempting to answer my question. He kept quiet as I hurled my glossy magazine across our living room. And the reason behind this angry outburst of mine? I had wanted our baby’s name to be original; I had wanted it to be unique. I certainly didn’t want people to think that I’d copied it from some Hollywood starlet – an actress who, along with her baby, seemed to be plastered across every single magazine that I opened. I was furious.
I had been warned about the possible side effects of fertility drugs. My fertility specialist had talked about hot flushes and weight gain and problem skin. He’d mentioned mood swings and I’d read countless newspaper and magazine articles about the ‘hormonal hell’ of fertility treatment, about it being permanent PMT - multiplied by about a hundred. And although nothing could have quite prepared me (or my husband, Paul, or any other poor soul who had the misfortune of crossing my path) for the emotional wreck that I became while taking fertility drugs, I was happy to endure their side effects, if they helped me to have a baby.
I took four cycles of Clomid, the drug of my fertility specialist’s choice. I tried so hard to stay positive and hopeful when not one of those cycles worked. And then I had three attempts – although the specialist recommended four - at Intra Uterine Insemination (IUI). IUI is a fairly low-tech procedure, really, the last stop before IVF. Sperm is washed and spun - to improve its chances of fertilising an egg - before being injected into the womb. I had to go through our third IUI treatment alone. Very few companies are prepared to rearrange meetings around their employees’ fertility treatment. Paul’s wasn’t one of them. So I was left feeling lonely and small and vulnerable, lying on an examination couch, my bare legs bent at the knee so gravity could help Paul’s sperm along. And when my period started, a couple of weeks later, I was totally and utterly devastated. I felt as though time and options were running out and any last trace of positivity, of hopefulness, just seemed to vanish. I couldn’t face putting myself through a fourth cycle of IUI. Making the decision to have a baby together – a decision that, at first, had filled both of us with happiness and excitement - had instead become a source of sadness, frustration and failure. Life seemed horrendously unfair.
Looking back, maybe I was a little naïve. I assumed that having a baby would be easy, that Paul and I just had to make up our minds to start trying for one. I didn’t think that there was any particular rush. We had always talked about having a family, at some stage. We’d even had ‘the baby conversation’ before we were officially a couple, when we were still just good friends. But – and so many other couples say the same - we wanted everything to be perfect first. We wanted secure jobs and a healthy bank balance. We wanted a comfortable family home in a decent area. And although it had been widely reported that as many as 1 in 6 couples would struggle to have a baby without medical intervention, we didn’t imagine for one minute that we’d be one of them.
And so I suppose it was a bit of a shock, in many ways. Trying to get pregnant without success. Setting out on a seemingly endless journey of appointments - with doctors, with specialists. We had investigative tests with frustratingly vague diagnoses. We were told that there was no physical reason why we shouldn’t have a baby, that our infertility was “unexplained”. We underwent treatment that seemed to take over our life but offer little hope of success. And we did it all without thinking. We did it because maybe - just maybe - there was a baby waiting for us at the end of it all. But gradually, as each cycle of failed treatment passed, trying to conceive began to drain the joy out of our life. Both of us started to feel helpless, hopeless and utterly miserable. And so, despite our desperate longing for a family, we decided to put a stop to fertility treatment. We decided to let nature take its course. As soon as we’d made up our minds, the relief was incredible - no more trips to the fertility clinic, no more drugs, no more IUI. After almost four years of ‘trying for a baby sex’, we could start to make love again. It felt like we’d reclaimed our life.
Not being able to have children made me question everything. It turned all of my expectations about life upside down. I thought that having a family with my husband would be the ultimate expression of our love for each other. I thought that our future life together would be filled with children. When it seemed that wasn’t going to be the case, Paul and I both realised that we had some very important decisions to make. We could sit around feeling sorry for ourselves, wallowing in self-pity because our life hadn’t worked out quite the way that we’d planned. Or we could pick ourselves up, shake ourselves off and get on with the rest of our life. We decided that we’d had enough of sitting around, waiting for something to happen. So we sold up, we kissed goodbye to the rat race and we followed our dreams to the Irish countryside. Paul rediscovered his love of photography. I’d always wanted to write; my novel had been almost finished for far too long. And, finally, we had the breathing space to get our ideas off the ground.
Because it is unexplained, our infertility, I have never quite lost hope – even though it’s been more than six years now. I don’t think that I will ever be able to say, honestly, that Paul and I are no longer trying for a baby. People tell me stories with such happy endings. I hear about women who had given up hope of ever becoming a mum and then, ten years down the line, realise that they’re pregnant. And Paul and I made an incredibly exciting decision, earlier this year; we’ve applied to become adoptive parents. There are still times when I wish that I could look into a crystal ball, to see what the future holds for us. Will I ever give birth to Paul’s baby? Will our adoption application be successful? How many children – birth kids or adopted kids – will we eventually have? But - and this is such a turning point for me - I’ve realised that I’m excited about the future, anyway, whatever it has in store.
It can be a dark and lonely place, infertility. Full of raised – then dashed – hopes as longed-for pregnancies fail to go the distance. As fertility treatments are tried – ‘just this one last go’ – but don’t succeed. As friend after friend calls to share their own happy news and you feel as though your heart is breaking. Knowing that you’re not alone can be a lifeline. Knowing that someone, somewhere, knows exactly what you’re going through. And that’s why I decided to write, “Pink for a Girl”. I hope that reading my story will help other couples to realise that there can still be a happy ending for them, even if ‘the baby thing’ never happens.
About my book
At its most fundamental level Pink for a Girl is a story about coming to terms with unexplained infertility but it’s also a story about creating your own happy endings, about realising that though life is seldom perfect, it can still be fantastic.
“Pink for a Girl: Wanting a baby and not conceiving – my personal story” by Isla McGuckin is published by Hay House, €15 (£9.99). |
