“At least you already have one…”

When I was 14, I took a Child Development class as part of my GCSE’s. Was I interested in babies? No. Was I interested in ever having babies? Also no. Was I interested in finding an easy class that required minimal effort but ensured me a half-decent grade? Yes.

Now, I didn’t pay much attention in that class. Me and my friend were too busy making signs on A4 advocating the beauty of putting your gross kids up for adoption or the absolute importance of contraception in a world where you only needed to LOOK at a penis and you had an 86% chance of unwanted pregnancy. I was super NOT into having any kids. Ever. I could barely look after myself. My daily routine consisted of using my bus money to buy chips, cheese and gravy, finding new and creative way in which to piss off my she-devil biology teacher and planning how I was going to watch Footballer’s Wives that night without being caught (that pool table sex scene was a moment of TV gold by the way). I was a young, naive kid. Babies were disgusting. That was that.

At the still rather tender age of eighteen, I ventured out into the world. I started University, I had a boyfriend WHO HAD A CAR. I was living on my own in student halls. Okay, so they smelt like rotting Asda 9p noodles and deep regret but I was free. I could buy what I wanted, I could eat what I wanted (but still basically Asda 9p noodles) I was in my element after a long eighteen years under the strict reign of the monarchs of Parentsville. Alas, my world was about to come crashing down.

Constantly drunk, I barely noticed my missed period. I overlooked the way my boobs felt like they were being stabbed with ice picks if I dared to venture outside. I even turned a blind eye to my sudden loathing of the smell of Subway. Until one day, for fun, I took a pregnancy test. I saw the two lines and laughed. Ha ha ha. This is clearly a joke. Ten minutes later though, that second line was still there. Panic ensued.

I decided to keep the little foetus and packed up my books and my noodles and my freedom and moved out of student halls and away from university. Away from the foam parties and the Pat Sharp student nights and the constant purchasing of Primark knickers because it was cheaper to buy new ones than wash the old ones. It was time to be a mum.

My darling daughter was due on 29th June 2008. But just like her mother, she was way too comfy in bed and wasn’t about to get up and actually have to do stuff. On 2nd July 2008, I had a nurse elbow-deep in my nether regions sweeping away at my poor cervix. Hours later, another nurse went basically elbow-deep into the other end, inserting a pessary that would for sure help with the slow early labour pains (it didn’t). After lying in a pool of my own vomit for some time at home, I had my third and final trip to the hospital where, on the wonders of gas and air, Grace was born as I wondered loudly in awe of the amount of blood I had coming out of me. Sure enough, she was pretty gross. She was all bloody and covered in white stuff but heck, she was mine. All 6lbs and 8.5oz of her. We spent our first night alone together at the hospital staring awkwardly at each other. I thought back to four years previously, never in my wildest dreams would I have believed I’d end up here.

That was nine years ago. 9 friggin’ years ago. She is still gross in every way but I love her. I’m not with her dad anymore, he left me for a man when she was 6 months old. I’m not even kidding. That really happened. But for the last 4 years, I’ve taken up residence with another fellow. We have fun, all three of us and just the two of us if my daughter is at her dads. We go out, we have drinks, we laugh uncontrollably, we make up back-stories for people we see in restaurants… We do have a pretty good life. But there’s one thing missing and that is another gross little baby. So just like we were taught in school, we decided we would have one, because it’s just that easy right? Wrong.

I got super baby fever after my boyfriend’s brother and his girlfriend had a baby boy last November. I went off to my doctor and she removed my implant and chatted with me about how I should start trying straight away and aren’t babies just so cute and hopefully the next time I saw her I would be shoving positive pregnancy tests in her face. I laughed heartily and imagined me maybe two, three months down the line sitting in that same office discussing midwife appointments with her. Unfortunately, that didn’t end up being the case. The next time I spoke to her, it was to discuss fertility tests to find out why I couldn’t get pregnant despite trying our hardest.

I’ve never really KNOWN infertility. It doesn’t run in my family. My mum has had three children. My grandma had three children. I’d been pregnant before and I was actually on birth control at the time (but missed just one…) It was something I always assumed wouldn’t happen to me. I was taught in school that if you have unprotected sex at any time, you would most likely get pregnant, end of story. I had no idea about what some women go through to try and have a baby, sometimes never getting pregnant despite doing everything right. I especially didn’t know that you could have one, maybe even two children easily but then struggle for months, sometimes years to have more. It was a realisation that hit me very quickly and very suddenly. This wasn’t going to happen when and how I wanted it to. If ever. I’m 28 years old and as far as I know right now, I’m not “officially” diagnosed with anything that would stop me getting pregnant (although Asherman’s Syndrome HAS been given as a possibility. Uterine scarring if you can’t be bothered Googling) It’s frustrating as hell.

I sometimes feel though, like I’m not justified in my frustration. I’ve had said to me the words “at least you have a child already, some people never have any” which honestly is about one of the nastiest things you could say to someone. It doesn’t matter whether you have no babies or 9 babies, the reality is the same; wanting something with every single part of you and not being able to have it. It is devastating.

I wanted to start this blog not just to document my journey through this but also for people who have never experienced fertility issues to try and understand what we go through on a daily basis. I’m lucky in that I am just short of a year of trying and I know many women have been trying almost for decades but every failed month has the same effect for everyone.

Fourteen years ago, I drew a sign in my Child Development class after watching a video of a woman giving birth (I’m talking business end with no blurring, just full bushy vagina) I drew a giant stick baby and what was meant to be a condom but looked more like a deflated carrot and across the page I wrote in huge letters “SAY NO TO BABIES!” Fast forward to now and I would love to go back and give fourteen year old me a smack around the head.

Bex

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