As we reach the end of a particularly difficult year, I feel as though I’m holding up a mirror to the past 12 months. I find myself reaching into the darkest corners of 2020 and wondering how the things that went wrong went catastrophically so; and how the things that went triumphantly right feel like small wins in comparison.
This is the year the world as we know it stopped, and the year that we decided to try and bring you to life. The first national lockdown gave us clarity. Without the outside noise and distractions, we spent time together like we hadn’t before. And I mean real time: waking up until going to sleep. No commutes, no work, no pubs, no dinners. Our home became our sanctuary and the more time we spent together the more we realised we’d changed from the people we were when we met. We missed our friends and clubbing and boozing and being stupid, but we didn’t want those things to define us anymore. We wanted more and when we started trying to pinpoint what was missing, we found that you were the negative space.
Deciding to try and have you at the start of a pandemic wasn’t our most sensible decision; but we’ve never made sensible decisions. Every single poorly thought-out choice we’ve made has worked out for the best and I can feel in my bones that deciding to have you is going to change our lives for the better in every single way.
We’d been looking for a way to bring you to life for a while when we came across the right donor. After years of just getting by as a freelancer, I landed a job as a creative at an advertising agency that paid well enough that we could save for treatment. The lockdown had given us space to build foundations and we felt stronger than ever together. Everything fell into place.
This year we have made you, with all the hormones and injections and appointments and procedures. At times I have been terrified, but mostly I have been hopeful and desperately excited to meet you.
You might not be sentient, but you’re now on this planet – something that feels like a miracle when you’ve felt other worldly for so many years. I still can’t get my head around the fact that you were made in a petri dish (along with your could-be siblings) and that one day you’ll be a fully-functioning human. The fact that science can make this happen makes me want to go back to school and get some GCSEs so I can do this for other people, because it’s the closest thing to magic I’ve ever known.
This time last year you were a spark of an idea; a future fantasy. Now I’ve spent the majority of the year thinking about you, whoever you are. I think so often of when you’ll arrive, what you’ll look like, whether you’ll be a good baby.
I want you to know that we have worked so hard to have you. Not as hard as some people, but harder than others. We had to save for you; do countless injections that made my body go wild and trek to the clinic for endless scans. We were forced to learn to be resilient – to bounce back when my ovaries didn’t respond to medication; to get out of bed on the days when it felt like my heart was breaking. We had to believe in ourselves and in science, even when our faith in both was faltering.
I remember one Sunday morning in November, when it was unseasonably warm and I was rallying friends to swim with me in the Walpole Bay tidal pool. That morning, all I could think of is how I’d rather it had been more difficult. I’d have rather had to make the decision as to whether Jess or I went for a swim, because you were sleeping and we couldn’t wake you. I’d have rather caved and roused you from your slumber so we could take it in turns to swim while you watched with the other mum from the shore. I’d have rather worried about whether people will think we’re awful parents for carrying you as we walk along the edge of the tidal pool.
On days like that Sunday, I feel your absence so acutely. It’s as if I can feel the weight of you on my hip and your breath on my neck.
I don’t know how far away you are yet, but I feel closer to meeting you everyday.
There’s no AMA this time!
If you have a question, please ask me literally anything and I’m very likely to write about it! I want for Open Arms to become a source of support, information and guidance for anyone considering starting a family, but particularly those in LGBTQI+ relationships and those going solo. Please message me on Instagram or email me if there’s anything you’d like to ask. There’s no question too big, too small or too silly! If there’s a question I can’t answer, I’ll find someone who can and report back.
The Reading List
It’s been a while since the last newsletter, so the reading list is a long one this time:
England's first not-for-profit IVF clinic to open in 2021
This is some of the best news to come out of 2020. The British Pregnancy Advisory Service is setting up a not-for-profit clinic to address inequalities in provision. There’s zero information as to whether same-sex couples will be afforded the same access to treatment as older and single women here, but we can hope for now.
The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read (and Your Children Will Be Glad That You Did) by Philippa Perry
I’ve been really enjoying this book about the ways in which our own past and behaviour affects our children. I grew up in the 90s with a diet-obsessed family which has led to a lifetime of disordered eating and body hang-ups. This book is helping me understand how I can not pass this on to our kids.
Companies who offer egg freezing as a perk may be giving women a false sense of fertility security
Companies like Facebook, LinkedIn, Apple and Goldman Sachs are giving employees egg freezing as a benefit to try and force women into working until they’re old and grey without taking a break to have a kid. The problem is that egg freezing only gives you a small chance of having a baby (embryo freezing is much higher in comparison).
At-Home Fertility Tests Are Booming, But Are They Worth It?
A US piece about how start-ups are making bank on the capitalisation of fertility anxiety with at home ‘fertility tests’ that actually reveal very little about your ability to conceive.
My fertility treatment failed three times in 2020 and I discovered how to live with uncertainty
Lynn Enright writes a brave and honest account of having fertility treatment in the hellfire of 2020 (something I would not wish to repeat). She also mentions her chemical pregnancy (a very early miscarriage) which is something I feel no one really ever talks about. It’s so inspiring to hear of someone finding light on the darkest of paths, so thank you Lynn!
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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.