My husband and I started trying for a baby just over 18 months after getting married. We didn’t want a baby too soon, you know?
How little did we know.
Unfortunately, with every passing month we failed to get pregnant our frustration, exasperation, and sadness grew. Everyone around us seemed to be falling pregnant with the click of a finger, while we felt like we were being left behind. We didn’t understand.
After a year of failed attempts, we finally sought the help of an IVF clinic, who ran test after test and deduced that our chances of falling pregnant were – while without any real explanation – significantly reduced. We started our IVF journey.
We’ll admit, we had no idea what lay ahead. Not to mention the naivety we shared around the numerous appointments, the relentless tests, the never-ending scans, the endless catalogue of drugs, the precisely-timed medical schedules, the overwhelming emotions, the painful costs, the excessive time taken off work, the heart-wrenching failings, and the exhausting and agonising three-and-a-half-year IVF journey that would soon welcome us with open, albeit crushing, arms.
We quickly learnt about egg collections (we had 3 in total), fresh transfers (we had 1), frozen transfers (we had 4), and a host of medical add-ons – from intralipid infusions, to endometrial scratches, to probiotic treatments, to ALICE, EMMA & ERA tests. Each protocol, procedure, and test a wish and the flip of a coin into hopefully getting pregnant.
We soon realised the IVF science is a precarious one. Fertility treatment isn’t as simple as we’ve been led to believe. It’s not a case of simply marrying the egg and sperm in a lab – like putting the milk in your tea – letting science do its thing, and the next thing you know you’ve got a crying baby to nurture and tend to.
Each embryo transfer failure led to an avalanche of devastation. All hope and belief drained from us as we came to terms with the overwhelming ramifications. There was confusion – why hadn’t it worked? There was anger – whose fault was this? There was shock – what would happen next? There was fear – what if it never works?
Each period of time between collections, transfers, and appointments felt like an eternity. You so desperately wanted to do something to get the ball rolling again, but often had to sit and wait, ready to pounce on the right time to start another cycle or investigation. It was infuriating.
I sought the help of counsellors, acupuncturists, and fertility support groups. I tried everything from stopping eating food in plastic Tupperware to not getting my nails done. That last one perhaps the hardest bit of the journey. I struggled with the relentless pregnancy and baby posts on social media, friends not supporting me as I’d have hoped, and random strangers I came across asking me when I was expecting kids. It’s fair to say I was not in a happy place.
My husband took Impryl – a supplement to improve egg sperm and quality – which undoubtedly helped improve our chances. We were fortunate to have such useful and valuable tools at our disposal, even through those tough times.
Fortunately, we kept persevering. When you start out on your own IVF expedition, you look at those who’ve undertaken 4, 5 – even ten – egg collections and six, seven – even fifteen – embryo transfers and confidently say, ‘Imagine having to go through all that. Surely, we’d have given up by then.’
And then, five rounds and untold months and years of strain later, you find yourself in that very same position, with absolutely no intention of giving up, nor with any lingering doubts about this now being your life’s work.
The hope still persists and the longing still remains.
After our fifth embryo transfer we finally found ourselves pregnant. We didn’t quite know what to do with ourselves. A mixture of emotions engulfed the room as we just sat. Reflected. Looked at each other in awe and disbelief. We were delighted and astonished and relieved in one fell swoop. Was this truly it? How had it happened? Did this mean we were finally going to have our own son or daughter?
After eight months of pure anxiety, our son, Zigi Reuben Harrod was born. His namesake and great-grandfather, a Holocaust survivor, paving the way for a lesson in encountering, embracing, and, ultimately, overcoming a hardship and pain we, too, experienced in finally meeting our son.
Rather poignantly, I don’t believe it any coincidence that Zigi Shipper’s passing in January of 2023 – his end – arriving a mere two days before our final IVF round – and Zigi Harrod’s beginning – started.
Zigi’s celebrated arrival put a timestamp – but, importantly, not closure – on the heavy cloud of the infertility journey that had consumed our lives for the past few years. Each morning, afternoon, and evening spent fixating on everything fertility, ranging from the order of injections it was for that particular day, to the desperation at watching friends, one by one, fall pregnant, to the heartache at having to start all over again after each negative pregnancy test, to questioning whether you’d ever get there.
This chapter of our story has closed for now but will never be forgotten.
