#7 The Pregnancy Announcement
Trigger warning: scan photos and talk of early pregnancy stuff
I don’t know why the number 13 is superstitious; or why this week – the 13th week of my pregnancy – feels so different. I’ve always been wary of the number 13: I’ve asked to be moved from hotel rooms, I’ve dodged viewing houses and I purposefully avoid the row on trains and planes. When I was told our due date was Friday 13th August, a knot formed in my stomach.
I’ve always been superstitious. My mum is too, in a ‘no new shoes on the table’ kind of way, and the persistent quirks trickled down to me. These little superstitions are much like the list of must-dos for IVF – the acupuncture and cocktails of vitamins. Once you’ve heard them, you can’t shake them. Why would you take any risks? Stick to the rules and you’ll be safe.
This superstition has extended to announcing my pregnancy. We found out I was pregnant when I was 4 weeks and 2 days, which is ridiculously early – I hadn’t even missed a period yet. Like most people, we held off for the 12-week scan to tell anyone. I’m not sure why, and part of me feels like a fraud for sharing so much of our journey and then keeping this bit a secret.
The truth is that I have been, and still am, terrified. After a year of appointments going wrong and all news being bad news, none of this feels real. Everytime I tell someone I’m pregnant, I think of how sad it will be if I have to tell them I’ve lost the baby. Even now we’re out of the so-called ‘danger zone’ (pre-12 weeks), I still can’t shake this feeling that it’s not real.
But then sometimes I can’t stomach food that I love, or I get painfully tired for no apparent reason, or try to suck in my stomach in the mirror only to realise it’s distended for a reason, and I feel a warmth rise up inside me; as if my whole body is glowing. The moments in which I feel pregnant are euphoric, and I hope that these little snippets of light will outshine the darkness of my doubts in the coming weeks as the baby grows and I start to feel them there.
This week though, I haven’t really felt anything. Week 13 means I’m finally out of the first trimester, which has now passed painlessly and without much fuss. I was never sick, and for the most part I felt exactly as I did before. Many have told me how lucky I am, but after the torment of IVF it felt like my body was playing a cruel trick on me.
I had a fresh embryo transfer on 25th November, five days after my egg collection. We got the train to London early that morning and walked from St Pancras to Harley Street, having a surreal conversation about how this could be the day I finally become pregnant. I’d spent the previous five crippling days on the sofa – my stomach painful and swollen – recovering the egg collection and on a hangover from the stimulation drugs.
The transfer was anticlimactic. I lay there for the second time that week with my legs in stirrups as the consultant navigated a catheter up through my cervix and into my uterus. Once it was in place, the embryologist entered ceremoniously holding a thin tube on flat palms. She walked slowly and carefully across the room, asking my name and date of birth to confirm that the embryo she was so gently handling was mine; that it was our baby. Our microscopic baby in a plastic tube. The procedure itself was so quick and painless that I was convinced it hadn’t worked from the minute the embryo was in place.
We were free to leave the clinic 10 minutes after the transfer, and told to take a home pregnancy test in 14 days. The two week wait (or the 2ww as it’s dubbed on fertility forums) is a limbo like no other. After months of regimented alarms for injections and driving to scans; there is nothingness. Our days were ours again. We were no longer trying for a baby, just hoping that the five day old blastocyst that had been inserted into my uterus had found a home there.
During those two weeks, I Googled every single feeling to see if it was a symptom, and every time I found a forum that said I was pregnant. Cold? Pregnant. Thirsty? Pregnant. Tired? Pregnant. Want to eat nothing but Lunchables for three days straight? Definitely pregnant. Being told I was pregnant by symptom-spotting strangers on the internet did little to quell my gut feeling that it hadn’t worked. I was sure of it. My fears were seemingly confirmed when I started to bleed, 11 days after the transfer.
I’d already bought a box of 30 pregnancy tests, knowing that whatever the result was I wouldn’t believe it. I did the first test and the faintest line appeared. I did another one, still positive. Three, four, five tests – all positive. I was pregnant.
The ‘it’s positive’ moment we were expecting didn’t come. We didn’t embrace or cry. The limbo of the two-week wait had just been extended – I was pregnant and bleeding. We became convinced I had experienced a chemical pregnancy, a very early miscarriage in which the embryo embeds and hCG (the pregnancy hormone) levels spike, only for the pregnancy not to progress.
We booked a blood test with the clinic to confirm the result. They called me 24 hours later and told me what we already knew – I was pregnant. This wasn’t enough. Although I’d stopped bleeding, the real test was whether my hCG levels were higher 48 hours later. I had another blood test, and got another confirmation that the pregnancy was viable. My hCG levels were doubling every 48 hours as they should and the baby was growing.
Finally, almost a week after the first pregnancy test, I was being told I was pregnant and that everything was going as it should. But I still couldn’t believe it. Pregnancy became another exercise in getting through the day until the next appointment; craving the results of the next blood test or the first ultrasound scan. I still feel like I’m waiting for the next scan at nearly 14 weeks.
On 5th January, we schlepped to the clinic for what felt like the thousandth time for a scan. This one was the big one: the viability scan. The nurse who’d been with us throughout our entire journey hugged me tightly when I arrived, knowing that every ultrasound up until now had revealed a complication. I shook as she scanned me, as she had tens of times before, and then we saw it. The little prawn with a heartbeat, ticking away inside me.
The nurses took us to the same consultation room we’d sat in when we were told that IUI wouldn’t work for us; that I hadn’t responded to medication; that I had a ‘worrying’ cyst on my ovary. I cried as they discharged us, knowing that without the two nurses there I would never have coped with the trauma and pain we’d endured over the previous months.
We were released into the care of the NHS midwives. I counted down the days until our 12 week scan. At 12 weeks, you’re cruising into the second trimester, where complications have made themselves known and the risk of miscarriage drops drastically. Partners aren’t allowed to attend scans in our NHS trust, so we booked a private scan a few days before so Jess could come too.
The private ultrasound centre was in the middle of an industrial estate, inside what seemed like an normal office building. The scan took place in what seemed like a meeting room. I lay on the bed with my eyes shut, unable to look at the screen in front of me as the sonographer squeezed surprisingly warm jelly onto my stomach. I was convinced she was going to start scanning to find an empty space. Then she said “there’s your baby,” and we cried together as we watched this tiny human dance around in my uterus. We listened to their heartbeat and watched them somersault and rest. I couldn’t feel a thing, but the baby was thrashing around inside me; it was magic.
Now we wait for the 20 week scan, and hope that in the meantime I start to believe that I am pregnant rather than counting down to the next milestone as we have for a year with IUI and IVF.
I suppose this is the newsletter I had always hoped I’d write, but now it’s come down to it, I feel that is too much to say and not enough. Finding the words to describe this feeling is impossible. Pregnancy isn’t what I expected, but it’s more intimate that I could have ever imaged. After so much longing and praying (something I had never done until we started fertility treatment), it’s finally here.
We can’t wait to meet you, whoever you are.
What’s next for Open Arms?
Obviously this pregnancy changes things a little. I started Open Arms not just to share our fertility journey, but with the intention of creating a space for all queer people who want to start a family. While my own journey has reached a crescendo, I still feel like I have so much more to say and there are so many queer voices that I want for you to hear. I hope to create more Over to You newsletters in the coming months, giving a platform to people from our community who are trying to - or have - started families. I’ll promise to make an effort not to turn Open Arms into a queer parenting newsletter. I really hope you’ll stick with Open Arms as I take it to new places!
AMA: We’re going for an egg collection at the London Women’s Clinic on Harley Street. What can we expect?
Firstly, don’t eat or drink on the day of your collection! Even if your appointment is late in the afternoon! A woman in the clinic with me had her collection cancelled because she’d eaten in the morning and the anaesthetist wouldn’t allow it. It’s traumatic. Just don’t eat or drink anything, ok?
Secondly, I’d really recommend driving or getting a lift. I’m sure some people hop on a tube/train/bus or whatever straight after the egg collection, but I absolutely couldn’t have done that. Parking outside the clinic is a bit of a lottery, so allow plenty of time to find a spot and be prepared to pay about £30 to park for a few hours.
At the moment, partners/friends/parents aren’t allowed to attend the clinic with you, so you’ll have to wave them goodbye at the door. You’ll check in at the reception upstairs, then get sent down to a strange basement conservatory where they have a cute tea/coffee station that’s currently closed because of Covid, and a massive TV with the news on loop. The day I was there, Meghan Markle had just announced that she’d suffered a miscarriage.
You’ll then be called through by a nurse and taken to a little private bay where you’ll get changed into your gown and go through some paperwork, including confirming your sperm donor’s details if you’re using one. You can leave all your stuff here while you go through for the egg collection.
The anaesthetist will come and see you, then you’ll walk yourself through to the theatre and be popped on the bed with your legs in stirrups. You’ll be put to sleep and hopefully have lots of healthy eggs collected. You come around in the theatre and then you’re taken back to the bay in a wheelchair (although I imagine some people wake up right as rain and walk back themselves).
I asked for pain relief, and was given some straight away, along with a couple of biscuits and a bottle of water. If I did it again, I’d take snacks for after as you haven’t eaten all day at this point. Within about half an hour of coming round from the anaesthetic, I was walking out of the clinic. The appointment probably took around two and a half hours in total.
I’ve written about the egg collection process in more detail here, but I hope that helps to answer any practical questions about what to expect!
The Reading List
Doctors call for ban on ‘no baby no fee’ IVF deals
I touched on the difficult gamble of IVF refund packages in my newsletter on financing IVF. Interestingly, Britain’s biggest fertility clinic group is offering ‘no baby, no fee’ deals directly to couples. Campaigners argue that this puts patients at risk by forcing outcomes quickly to save costs. This means overstimulation, rushed treatments and more.
New York to make fertility treatment fairer for same-sex couples
Good news, New Yorkers! Under a state directive put in place yesterday, same-sex couples are now able to claim for the cost of their fertility treatment before they start. This means same-sex couples won’t have to pay for their treatment up front and claim it back.
Paris Hilton says she’s having IVF to have twins
Paris Hilton appeared on podcast The Trend Reporter with Mara and said that she’s starting IVF treatment to have "twins that are a boy and a girl”. Sex selection is permitted for IVF in the US; it isn’t in the UK. I’m still not sure why everyone is so obsessed with baby’s genitals but there’s an interesting discussion around ‘designer babies’ here, and also the shame and stigma that clouds fertility treatment. Is Hilton making light of her battles with fertility? I don’t know, but I’d guess that making a comment about having cute twins is a lot easier than admitting that you’re struggling to conceive. This comment piece offers a good insight.
Jersey government plans to provide free IVF for all women under 40
Jersey government plans to not be classist and homophobic, but only slightly less ageist in their offering of free IVF treatment. They plan to offer all women under 40 three free rounds of IVF, in line with Scotland’s offering. Currently in Jersey, only couples with a combined household income of under £34,000 qualify for free treatment. I was surprised to find out that all women under 40 currently have their drugs paid for, but have to shell out for the IVF itself – still a step up from the vast majority of NHS hospitals in the UK.
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Disclaimer
I’m not a doctor! I’m not a fertility consultant! I’m just writing about my own experience. I’m happy to guide you in the right direction, but you must know that I’m wrong a lot of the time. As with anything you find on the internet, it’s imperative that you do your own research.