It is a common saying that you should be careful about what you wish for. And isn’t it true that, sometimes, when you don’t get what you wished for, what you end up with can be so much better?
That’s certainly true for me. Recently I came to the dramatic, and uncomfortable, realisation that I’m actually glad my IVF didn’t work. I’m happy I don’t have children. It’s true.
I’m sure there are people out there who think I am trying to convince them that I live a happier life. This is to protect myself from the painful years of IVF failures that have left me feeling numb.
This is, however, not true. Honestly, I know that if my fertility treatment had been a success, then there would have been no way I would have achieved the professional success I have, or be living the life I do, a life that I’ve no desire to change. I know this is quite a bold admission and what surprised me even more in the aftermath of this ‘Road to Damascus’ moment last week was that it was followed by feelings of guilt and shame.
Amanda Revell Walton said she recently came to the dramatic, and uncomfortable, realisation that she’s actually glad her IVF didn’t work
Did it not make sense to me that I felt happy because my baby was not with me? Is this not natural? Was there something wrong with me that I was glad I’d not been able to have children? My revelation was kept secret for a time. It was almost as if it were something I was ashamed to say.
What is the problem? Why did I feel that I couldn’t be honest about how I felt? Did I worry that others would ridicule me? Did I think that mother after mother would conclude that my childless life is better than those with children? (I’m not.)
There’s no denying there was a time when I desperately wanted the IVF to work. In my 30s, I had tried to have children with Paul (my husband whom I married in 2006) since the day we first fell in love.
I’d always wanted to be a mum and revelled in being auntie to my nephews and niece. My children would become best friends. Since I was a child, my sister and I were close. It seemed natural for us to have children who are as close as we were.
When nothing seemed to be happening after Paul and I had been trying for six months, we were referred to a gynaecologist who told us we hadn’t been trying long enough and to come back in 12 months’ time.
One year later, we were again in the same room. The tests began: A dye was passed through my fallopian tubes for safety and then my ovaries were examined.
Everything looked perfect. An analysis of Paul’s sperm quality and mobility was carried out. That sperm sample produced a mix of relief. . . Not only was Paul able to perform the deed upon demand, even though he was poor and embarrassed, but everything else seemed normal.
No one was able to see any reason why I wasn’t able to fall pregnant. I was diagnosed with ‘unexplained infertility’.
There’s no denying there was a time when I desperately wanted the IVF to work. When I was in my mid-30s I tried to have a child with Paul. He had married me in 2006.
After a while we waited, we raised enough money to pay for IVF. We were denied treatment by the NHS as Paul had already married his first wife. This was a bizarre case of gender bias.
After that, we were referred by a private clinic to enter the mad world of In Vitro Fertilization.
During my two cycles of IVF, each of which lasted around three months, I snorted drugs up my nose, injected them into my stomach and the top of my leg, took pills to shut down my reproductive organs, stuck more needles into my stomach to bring my ovaries back to life, had countless internal ultrasounds, inserted progesterone pessaries to thicken the lining of my womb, endured the ‘harvesting’ of my eggs under sedation (not a pleasant experience, made more so when I woke up during the middle of it all).
Then there was a nail-biting wait to see if my painfully retrieved eggs would actually fertilise in a Petri dish with Paul’s sperm, then another uncomfortable appointment on the bed with the stirrups while two embryos were implanted into my (by now) thickened womb.
Then — and this was definitely the most mentally torturous time — came what is known in the world of infertility as the ‘Two Week Wait’ (2WW).
The first time I didn’t have to wait for two weeks to find out the treatment had not worked. It was absolutely horrible. Literally. The second time was worse still — certainly crueller — as after the 2WW I did a test which showed I was pregnant, only to then suffer an early miscarriage.
My blood tests revealed that my body was experiencing the menopause very early at age 42. There’s no two ways about it: I was heartbroken.
It felt like I was being cheated. It was hard to believe. Resentful that I’d subjected myself to two cycles of IVF (never mind spent more than £10,000) and now my reproductive organs were shutting up shop, about a decade before they should have.
But, I was actually blessed by that blood result. It stopped me trying for cycle three and God knows how many thereafter, and it forced me to put the whole idea of becoming a mother behind me — and just get on with life.
(I didn’t want to go down the adoption or donated egg route.)
I have heard and read about couples who have parted because the woman couldn’t or didn’t want to have a family and the man did. This was not my experience with my husband.
Paul was a father to children from his previous marriage. He didn’t want to start a family, but it wasn’t a major deal-changer for him.
As I’ve said, Paul had children from a previous marriage, so, although he also really wanted to have a family with me, for him it was not a game-changer. Yes, he was upset and frustrated and sad, but his main concern was for me and how I’d be affected.
This must be said, however, that our circumstances were very different from many couples who tried to have an IVF child. Paul, 43 years old, was diagnosed just as we were about embarking on our first cycle with a metastatic tumorous tumour in his neck. He also had a secondary occult tumour at the back of his tongue.
There was a huge question mark over whether he’d be around to see any children we might have grow up. In the midst of his diagnosis my determination and desperation to have Paul’s child became stronger.
If he died (a very real possibility) then I needed more than anything to have his baby — to have a part of him with me after he’d gone.
When nothing seemed to be happening after Paul and I had been trying for six months, we were referred to a gynaecologist who told us we hadn’t been trying long enough and to come back in 12 months’ time
Following multiple biopsies to determine the extent of his cancer, the removal of the secondary tumour and a neck dissection in order to get rid the lymph nodes, as well as six weeks’ intensive radiotherapy, both we felt just grateful that he was still alive.
While the IVF failures were devastating and heartbreaking, I couldn’t help but feel the sorrow of losing my husband. It was difficult to see the reality of my reproductive failure. I was able to see the happiness in his survival (everyone keeps their fingers crossed), and it helped me dry my tears.
You will find many testimonials that IVF has a high success rate. My Fertility story is not the only one that ends with no child.
When I first pitched an idea for a book I had entitled The IVF Diaries (I had written a column for a popular women’s weekly magazine charting my fertility journey alongside my husband’s battle with head and neck cancer), publishers said that they loved it but . . . They all wanted the book only if it had a happy end.
The happy end is that the last chapter describes the joy and excitement of having a child. I argued that this was the whole point of the book — that IVF can and often does fail, but that does not mean it’s the end of the world, that life can still be fun and fulfilling and that there are other happy endings to be had. However, it didn’t work.
Then I got to work and was soon asked to create a series that featured a group women working in warwork.
I’d always wanted to be a mum and revelled in being auntie to my nephews and niece. My children would become best friends. Since my sister is close to me, it was only natural for our children to be best friends.
Ironically, the opportunity came only because an editor read my novella about infertility/cancer and liked my writing style. I was asked to create a concept for the series and then write the first 3000 words.
To my amazement and delight she came back with an offer for a six-book deal, even though I’d never written any kind of fiction before — never mind historical novels.
Let’s be honest here, had my IVF been successful and I’d had one, possibly two children (IVF often comes hand in hand with twins as they generally implant two embryos), there would have been no way that I would have been able to juggle being a mum and working as a freelance journalist, while, in my spare time, thrashing out the first third of a novel.
But I wasn’t having to be mum so I could devote myself to it entirely.
Also, without a book deal I would have struggled to meet the deadlines for completing a novel each six months.
Also, I wouldn’t have been able move back to North East to Sunderland, where my books were based.
It would have been impossible and unjust to send any of the children away from school.
Now I will be honest about what I think about not being able to have a child because it is my desire to help other mothers who are facing similar fates.
When I first started writing The Shipyard Girls and I learnt that handing over the first draft of a book to an editor is called ‘delivering’ a book, I thought it a little ridiculous. It was actually funny.
‘ “Delivering” as in a baby?’ I asked. It felt a little perverse — probably more so after my many years of trying to conceive.
But as time has gone on, I’ve realised that, like a baby, a book is something I have created — just with my mind rather than my body.
In the past six years I have written 12 books — most of which have become bestsellers and in total the series has sold more than half a million copies and been translated into foreign languages. There is currently interest in acquiring dramatic rights for the production of television dramas from my books.
I was railroaded off of the train tracks I wanted to go all those years ago. I’ve made peace with that fact and realized that IVF failed. Because I don’t have children.
When I first started writing The Shipyard Girls and I learnt that handing over the first draft of a book to an editor is called ‘delivering’ a book, I thought it a little ridiculous. It was actually a laugh.
Now I will be honest about what I think about being infertile. I do this because other women facing the same fate should not lose hope for the future.
You might not be destined to walk down the Yellow Brick Road, but — and I can’t stress this enough — there are other, just as colourful, just as enchanting, just as exciting roads to be skipping down.
And, like Dorothy, you won’t be doing it alone, because there are plenty more women like me out there.
It is enough to get out of our shadows and let go of any guilt, or in certain cases the sense of being outcast. Then, we can embrace the lives that have been given to us all.
- Amanda’s new book Shipyard Girls Under The Mistletoe, written under her pen name Nancy Revell, (Arrow, £7.99) is out now.