What I didn’t know about IVF (until I tried it)

I never thought I would do IVF.

I never thought I would need to.

I definitely never thought I would do IVF over and over and over again.

I never thought I would need to.

I never thought I would want something enough, to put myself through so much.

But I did.

I never thought I would be willing to invest hard-earned savings in a process with so much uncertainty, and so little chance of success.

But I did.

And I don’t regret it.

I never have. Even when I didn’t get a baby.

When it seemed like IVF was my best chance, maybe my only chance, of becoming a mum, I threw myself into it.

And it felt like I was throwing myself into the unknown. Despite having my treatments through reputable clinics, supported by great teams, who provided me with information leaflets, talked me through the process and forewarned me of the prospects, I was really quite naïve.

There’s so much I didn’t know, and couldn’t know, or fully appreciate, about IVF, until I tried it. Some knowledge can only come from experience. But when we share our experience, we make it possible to help others. So here are some of the things I learnt about IVF along the way:

That it would be so exciting in some respects, and so utterly terrifying, painful and challenging in others.

That it would impact all aspects of my life – my health, my hobbies, my work, my relationships.

That it would, impact all aspects of my well-being – physical, mental, emotional, social, financial.

That it would be so difficult to do in silence, and so difficult to keep secret. That the weight of that secret would sometimes feel too much to bear.

That I would need to turn to others for support, both in my personal life and in my professional life.

That before, during, and for some time after, my life would feel on hold.

That there would be so much uncertainty. That I wouldn’t be able to plan. That when I did, those plans would often go to waste. That I’d get tired of saying “no”. That I’d feel like I was constantly letting people down. That I would feel increasingly isolated from family, friends and co-workers.

That it would bring me even closer to my husband. That through the process, I would come to love and appreciate him even more.

That there would be so much to juggle – so many appointments and so much rushing around.

That it would be on my mind most of the time.

That at work I would struggle to concentrate, and sometimes to care, but that instead of doing less, I’d find myself doing more. That I’d feel guilty about my absences, and fearful about the perceptions of others. That I’d feel, and bow, to a pressure to perform and prove that it wasn’t “getting in the way”.

That there would be so much admin and so many forms.

That I would have to think like a mum, before becoming a mum, and consider my child’s future, before they were created.

That I would become a patient, a nurse and a chemist in one.

That I would ever have the confidence, or courage, or capability, to mix vials, fill syringes, and prepare needles. That eventually I would be able to do it all with ease.

That I would ever have the confidence, or courage, or capability, to insert a needle into my body, not once, but multiple times. That eventually I would be able to do it with ease.

That subcutaneous injections really aren’t that bad.

That intramuscular injections really are that bad.

That I would need, and trust, my husband to put a needle that looked like it was meant for a horse, into my bottom, night after night. That I would allow this to happen again and again, even when I was so swollen and sore I could barely stand.

That my body would bruise so much, but heal so quickly.

That I would bloat so much and, ironically, look so pregnant, without being pregnant.

That there would be so many drugs. That they would take up so much room in our fridge and in our house. That we’d need to buy another fridge, (but thankfully not another house).

That the more drugs I took, the more I would lose my sense of self. That it would take weeks, and sometimes months, of being ‘clean’ to find myself again.

That it would be such a rollercoaster of emotion. That I would be so upset or furious one moment, and so balanced and calm the next.

That I would feel so proud of my body when it did what it was “supposed to do”, and so let down when it didn’t.

That I would feel so much love for, and connection with, our embryos. That I would feel so proud of them when they were developing, and so bereft when they were not. That I would look at their photos for hours on end. That I would feel empty without them. That I would miss them, and long for them, when they were in the clinic, and grieve for them when they passed on.

That having our embryos successfully transferred to me would be such a relief and such a magical moment – full of love, full of joy, full of hope.

That immediately following embryo transfer, no amount of logic or medical reassurance would stop me from adopting a comedy walk to prevent my embryos from falling out.

That the “two week wait’ would be so excruciating. That I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from imagining what might be. That I would notice and analyse every little symptom. That the signs of “success” could, cruelly, also be signs of “failure”. That time would go so slowly and my patience would be tested so much.

That deep down, I typically knew the outcome before it was confirmed. That if it wasn’t what I wanted, I would still try to convince myself otherwise. That if it was what I wanted, I would still try to prepare myself for disappointment.

That a negative pregnancy test would feel so cruel. That I would be overcome by grief. That I would ruminate on everything I had invested and everything I had lost.

That a positive pregnancy test would feel so incredible. But that it still wouldn’t mean a live birth. That it was just the beginning, not the end.

That it was never a solution. It was only ever a chance.

If you’re embarking on, or thinking of embarking on, IVF, I hope you find this useful.

But remember, these are my experiences and my learnings.

Your experiences and your learnings will be different.

No two IVF cycles are the same.

And nor are we the same once we’ve been through it. Regardless of the outcome.

You go into the process of IVF to have a baby. But sometimes you come out of it with something else.

IVF and my wider fertility journey taught me so much about myself and how I approach life and how else I might choose to approach life too. It gave me a new lease of life before it gave me new life.

I wonder what it might give you.

Emma Menzies | 20 July 2024

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What I didn’t know about miscarriage (until I had one)

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How to survive and thrive on Mother’s Day when You’re on a fertility journey