it was normal.
For two months, I bled really heavily, huge clots, every day. Eventually, because I’d become so anaemic, I passed out at my sister’s house the day before Christmas Eve, and had to be rushed to A & E. It turned out a bit of the pregnancy tissue had been left behind, and it was signalling to my body that I was still pregnant. I had a D & C (dilatation and curettage — where my womb lining was scraped out, including the left-behind pregnancy tissue) under general anaesthetic.
It felt as if I’d used up my last egg and our one chance to have a baby. Every period after that was a mixed blessing: I’d think it might be my last one, but at least it meant I had ovulated again.
I booked in for an IVF consultation at the Lister. I saw Mr Hossam Abdalla, the medical director, who was realistic, but not as fatalistic as previous doctors I’d seen. He put my odds of getting pregnant at 5 per cent, with a high chance of a miscarriage. A lot of clinics won’t even take on patients with POF. (The problem is that the drugs they give you during IVF to boost your egg production are, in fact, the same hormone — FSH — that your body is overproducing because of the menopause.) Mr Abdalla said that giving me extra FSH might not make me ovulate, but it would be my best chance of getting pregnant, and at least I’d be closely monitored.
So we embarked on IVF with the highest amount of drugs possible. I wasn’t hopeful. I knew the odds were against me, but I was really determined. I kept thinking of older women who get pregnant, like Cherie Blair. My mantra was: ‘As long as there’s one egg, I can get pregnant.’
I enjoyed the whole process of IVF. I’m not a control freak, but I liked the fact that, for the first time in ages, I knew exactly what was going on. By now, my menopausal side effects — feeling exhausted, hot flushes, brain fog, being so angry I wanted to chuck things out of the window — had got so bad that I actually felt better taking the IVF drugs.
Scans showed I had three follicles growing on my left side (and I only needed one, I kept telling myself). But when it came to egg collection, only one egg was mature enough and it was damaged. So that was the end of that.
We licked our wounds, and decided to carry on. I was absolutely not going to give up. For as long as I was ovulating, we were going to try.
By then, I’d read everything I could find on fertility, gone completely teetotal, given up caffeine and switched to organic food. I’d started to have weekly reflexology and acupuncture too. I felt panicky though, as no matter what I did, my periods — and so ovulation — were beginning to get less regular. Sometimes two months would go past without any sign of one.
I carried on at the Lister, doing cycle monitoring, so we’d know the best time to have sex. But treatment wasn’t cheap; we’d already spent around £7000 on IVF, £100 a week on reflexology and acupuncture, £100 a scan and more for blood tests too, and I knew we couldn’t carry on spending this kind of money indefinitely.
At the time, it seemed as if all my friends were getting pregnant around me, as if I was surrounded by bumps and prams. And I had this feeling of guilt that was weighing me down all the time. I was putting on weight and every time I had a hot flush, a fit of anger or woke up at 5 a.m., it was a reminder that I was menopausal and couldn’t get pregnant. My only consolation was the thought that if I didn’t get pregnant, we could try egg donation or adoption. I wasn’t ready to stop trying for my own biological child just yet, but not having children at all wasn’t an option.
That September, six months later, we started a new cycle of IVF. I did the injections for the usual two weeks but there was no sign of a single egg this time. Another full week of injections later, there was finally one egg there. I was fully expecting that we’d have to abandon the cycle completely. And, as I’d expected, the doctor advised us that the risk of damaging our only egg by taking it out was too high. But he had an idea: he suggested that we do IUI, where David’s sperm would be put inside my uterus at exactly the right moment. Great, I thought. At least we have one option. So I did the injection to make me ovulate, started on progesterone suppositories, and we had the IUI procedure two days later.
I put the fact that I had begun to feel different down to the progesterone. But two weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, I decided to do a pregnancy test (it was a couple of days early, but I wanted to know if I could drink, after being teetotal all year), and it was positive. It was a brilliant New Year!
Still, in the back of my mind, I knew the pregnancy wasn’t safe. David used to phone me from work every day and ask me how I was feeling, going through a checklist: still feeling sick? Yes. Still got sore boobs? Yes. After my 12-week scan showed a healthy baby, I did start to relax, though not completely. I loved being pregnant, the novelty of it and feeling special. I didn’t take one second of it for granted. I hope I never complained about it. But just the slightest thing — bleeding and, later on, not feeling the baby move — sent me straight to the hospital for checks. It all went well though and, in September, Charlie was finally born: our dream come to life, a gorgeous little lad.
My periods became pretty regular after I stopped breast-feeding Charlie at six months, so I felt positive about getting pregnant again, and we started cycle monitoring again. We do know how lucky we are to have Charlie, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but we both would have loved a brother or sister for him. If the pre-baby me had heard me saying that, I’m sure she would have told me to shut up and just appreciate what I have! But there is a sense we haven’t finished our family, and I hate the thought of both of us being a burden to Charlie when we’re older.
When Charlie was 14 months, I did get pregnant, but it ended in a miscarriage at 10 weeks. Now, he’s four and starting school. I thought I’d get pregnant again naturally, but we haven’t managed it. Things have really slowed down for me hormonally, and I have gone four months without a period. Six months ago, we tried injecting fertility drugs again to see if I could get an egg, but it didn’t work.
David struggled for a couple of weeks after that, coming to terms with the fact we won’t have any more children who are fully related to us and Charlie. Now, egg donation really is our only option. I’m on the list at a clinic in the UK, but I’ve got mixed feelings. I am most of the way to accepting that Charlie will be an only child, and to seeing the good side of that. It’s not what we would have chosen, but it’s definitely enough.
Q: WHAT HELPED YOU COME TO TERMS WITH YOUR DIAGNOSIS?
I didn’t accept or come to terms with the diagnosis of an early menopause until very recently. Instead, I fi xated on getting pregnant. One doctor told me that your ovaries can sometimes stop working temporarily, and then restart again. So that is what I chose to think. My desire to get pregnant was stronger than the horror of facing an early menopause, so I let that be my overriding emotion. I found out that Premature Ovarian Failure happens to one in a hundred women, and it was enough to know that I wasn’t alone, without having to speak to anyone who was going through the same thing. I did look at support group websites for women with Premature Ovarian Failure, such as the Daisy Network, but only to see if there were any success stories. When I couldn’t fi nd any, I stopped.
Q: WHAT IS YOUR ADVICE TO ANYONE WITH PREMATURE OVARIAN FAILURE?
Get the symptoms treated. A month ago, I got a private referral to a doctor who specialises in POF. I had avoided doing anything about my menopausal symptoms as I hadn’t wanted to interfere with getting pregnant. But I thought, enough is enough – it’s time for HRT. My doctor prescribed me bioidentical HRT – body-identical forms of oestrogen and progesterone. He told me that, if it made any difference at all, HRT might have increased my chances of getting pregnant. In fi ve years, no one had mentioned that. And, two months into taking the hormones, I feel a lot more human.
Q: WHAT’S YOUR VIEW ON EGG DONATION?
I’d say, don’t rush into it. It’s a big step and one that needs to be thought about carefully. And you’ve got time because it’s the donor’s fertility that matters, not yours.
I would definitely tell any child conceived by egg donation that he or she was a donor baby. But, after having Charlie, I can’t make up my mind if it would be fair to have a child who wasn’t fully related to