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I only made one resolution this New Year: have a baby. And being a single woman in my late 30s with nary a respectable parenting partner in sight (the best men I know are either married – too complicated – or related by blood – too illegal), I decided to get creative. I underwent IVF, or in vitro fertilisation, using sperm from an anonymous donor.
Why IVF? Well the other option is IUI (intrauterine insemination), or the "turkey baster" method, if you’re in a Hollywood rom-com. IUI is typically drug-free and therefore less expensive and invasive but is also less likely to result in a pregnancy. According to the Human Fertilisation & Embryology Authority, a woman in my age bracket has a 10% chance of conceiving through IUI; with IVF, it’s 15%. It’s not a huge leap, but when you consider that miscarriage rates increase with age, and that IVF allows one to implant the best-quality embryos, it seemed like the most reasonable path for me.
And it was: I lucked out on my first round, and will give birth this autumn. Now that I’ve reached the blissed-out phase of pregnancy — complete with a Father Christmas belly and a larder stocked with pickles — it’s almost easy to forget the anxiety-riddled months spent undergoing tests, choking back tears in multiple doctors’ offices, bitterly regretting not paying more attention in biology class, and basically feeling like I was the first person on the planet to have this wild idea of using modern science to have a baby on my own.
It’s utterly overwhelming, and so tempting to talk yourself out of doing it — especially if you’re a single woman. Every day I give myself a mental high-five for somehow pushing through and just doing the damn thing. My child will one day be able to recite from memory my monologue on the emotional turmoil and financial drain to which he owes his blessed existence.
There’s a lot of information out there about IVF, but I found very few firsthand experiences that I related to. So I’m spilling every last dirty detail, in the hope that more disclosure helps the next woman — single or coupled-up — feel a little less shellshocked.
Don’t hold out for the NHS
I love the NHS. I do not love the random doctor who literally giggled and asked "How are you going to have a baby without a man tee hee?" when I enquired about getting help with my solo fertility journey. (I managed to squeak out "You’d be surprised" before sinking into a stony silence.)
Officially, the NHS does cover IVF for couples (emphasis on couples), provided the woman is under 43 and they’ve struggled to conceive after either two years of trying or 12 cycles of IUI (which, frankly, could pay for maybe two rounds of IVF). I know hetero couples who have fibbed about their baby-making efforts to get assistance, such as free fertility testing. But the decision of who is eligible for NHS-funded IVF treatment rests on a local panel with strict, varying criteria. It’s worth discussing with your GP — who will hopefully not be a complete asshole like mine was — but don’t assume that you’ll get a freebie.
Clear your calendar
I theoretically could have started IVF months before I did, but had foolishly managed to plan holidays right in the middle of my periods. Rookie mistake. IVF requires full commitment and a flexible schedule. Typically, you’ll start taking ovary-stimulating medication when your period begins, and your doctor will want you in the clinic every couple of days to monitor your progress and see how your follicles are responding. Assume that your body is perpetually "on call"; there’s no room for weekend getaways or rescheduling. Hormone shots must also be done at the same time each night, which can definitely put a damper on dinner plans. Another social sacrifice: the booze you’re not meant to be drinking during this stretch. I told everyone I was doing Dry January and ordered in a lot of sushi while I still had the chance.
The price is not the price
Paying for private? Whether you go with a one-off IVF cycle — which is what I did — or a round of three, you’ll be quoted a fairly steep sum. Now add a few grand on top of that. My actual IVF "package" cost £3,650 but that didn’t include my initial consultation and tests (known as a fertility MOT, £370); donor sperm (£950); bloodwork (£150); a Human Fertilisation & Embryology Authority licensing fee (£80); or sedation for the egg collection (£600). I also paid an extra £600 for a "blastocyst culture", in which my embryos were essentially left to mature for five or six days rather than the standard two or three, letting my doctor get a better sense of which one might successfully implant. Freezing and storing my remaining embryos came to another £600 on top of that. Additional procedures, such as pre-implantation genetic testing, can also cost thousands more.
The medication required to stimulate the ovaries varies from woman to woman, but each "cocktail" will set you back at least a grand. I was given the option of ordering via the clinic or trying a pharmacy, but the price Boots quoted me was substantially higher than the clinic. In the end, I didn’t end up needing to use all of the meds I had purchased, and the boxes are still taking up precious fridge shelf space. There are no returns, and it’s illegal to flog your leftovers to someone else. It may feel like a waste, but the medical risk is too great.
Long story short, this baby has already cost me around £8,000, which is double the £3,650 price tag I initially thought I was getting. In hindsight, I wish I’d had a better understanding of what was included in that price and what wasn’t, because once the wheels are in motion, haggling over costs or drafting a new budget feels futile.
It’s also worth noting that countries like Denmark charge less for IVF and other fertility treatments. I spoke to a couple of Danish clinics, but ultimately decided that travel costs and the impracticality of flying back and forth for appointments wasn’t worth the discount.
Pay attention to the medicine demos
A nurse showed me how to mix and inject the medicine so I could do it at home. I nodded impatiently, scrawled some notes, went home, and… panicked. Some people freak out about the thought of jabbing a needle into their own stomach (it’s not that bad), but my biggest fears were air bubbles, giving myself the wrong dose, and wasting all of these pricy drugs because I’d made the lifestyle choice to sit on my arse and watch box sets of Grey’s Anatomy rather than go to actual medical school or at the very least develop a heroin addiction. Fortunately, my confidence spiked slightly after a few YouTube video tutorials and reassurance from my nurse.
TMI alert: Things will get messy
I have dozens of mum friends. I’ve heard about forceps deliveries and vaginal tears. I know things. So why in the hell did nobody warn me that I’d be jabbing a progesterone pessary — designed to help activate those baby-making hormones — up my fanny three times a day for about three months? (This is in addition to the pessaries I was advised to, erm, deposit elsewhere after my egg collection.) A fun fact about pessaries is that they tend to leak, which means half my wardrobe ended up with cryptic, grease-like stains, ushering in what I like to call the "winter of black yoga pants".
On the subject of inserting objects up your nether regions, be warned that you’ll have to undergo a transvaginal ultrasound during your period, which will feel like a deleted scene from Carrie if you’re a heavy flow kind of gal (hi). It’s the first of many occasions on which your bits will have an audience — including the final embryo transfer, when you’ll have no fewer than three people, including an impossibly hot embryologist, hovering over and scrutinising your exposed bottom half with the concentration of a tattooed builder from Billericay on Naked Attraction. Yes, I know labour will be a vaginal free-for-all, but still — I wish I’d gone for a bikini wax first.
Resist the baby boards
Science has never been my strong suit, but physics class was a breeze compared to trying to decipher the terminology and medical stats used on online fertility forums. As a non-millennial, I barely know what DTF is, let alone TTC (trying to conceive) and BFN (big fat negative, as in a negative pregnancy result). While it was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one experiencing side-splitting bloating as a side-effect of my meds, the flurry of information — typically presented in painstaking detail, down to the last millimetre — was mystifying and probably not all that helpful. Knowing more about strangers’ follicle counts than my own made me feel stupid, not informed. I felt like I hadn’t done the homework — and students who don’t do the homework are the ones destined to fail.
After working myself into a panic on a daily basis, I decided to stop googling and start going with the flow. The growth of one woman’s follicles or how many eggs she collected really had no bearing on my own body, and all I could do was trust the process.
Find a confidant
Baby boards are alluring because they can serve as a support network, but I can’t understate the value of having a flesh-and-blood person to talk to throughout the process. I was determined to keep everything top-secret — and administered every one of my shots myself — until my nurse announced that I would need a buddy to take me home after my egg collection, because I’d be drowsy from the sedation. An Uber just wasn’t going to cut it. I begrudgingly broke the news to my old flatmate, who was so delighted, she bought me a T-shirt for good luck. She also stopped my woozy self from face-planting when I tripped during the post-procedure walk back to the Tube — that anaesthetic is no joke. Though I worried her enthusiasm would jinx the process and result in disappointment, it was ultimately such a relief to have at least one person in on everything. Find that person — be it a partner, friend or family member.
It’s okay to cry
Claire Danes’ trembling chin has nothing on me — and you know what? Who cares! Every single meltdown has been a teaching moment — a sign that I didn’t feel comfortable with a particular doctor and should find a more supportive clinic, for instance, or a reminder that I should stop comparing myself to other women. You are bound to feel frustrated, or doomed, or maybe even just deliriously excited. In a process that can often feel so unnatural, having a good cry can be the most natural, human reaction in the world. Keep those tissues handy and let ‘er rip.
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