Alex O’Connor is not a Doctor, a Leading Consultant nor a Professor of Medicine.
He is the husband of Beth; one lady who has, like many others, travelled a route so painful and emotionally charged that he can only guess at the pain she has endured. She has undergone surgery so intrusive that it is hard to imagine the equivalent procedure from a male point of view. She has participated in drug treatments designed to suppress her natural body cycles in order to develop the all important harvest of ‘golden eggs’.
She has also cried, broken hearted, as she has realised that IVF, for various reasons, has failed to provide the one thing she has craved; the gift of pregnancy.
And, throughout the entire heart wrenching process, Alex has sat beside her, helpless as she has endured it all. This book is designed to be read by those who are, or will be, travelling the IVF route. It is not a definitive piece of work nor is it an oracle of facts and figures.
This book is written by a husband who has stood beside his wife as she has proved, time and again, her love for both him and the child they both ache to hold.
This blog sets out the journey of two people seeking a child to call their own. It charts the highs and the considerable lows experienced by Beth and Alex as they have exhausted every avenue open to them. The search has taken them from one end of the country to the other and for Alex, inspired a turn of events that would take him half way across the world.
Wednesday 18th August 2004
Beth is sitting alone in the conservatory. I am in the kitchen preparing to go out and collect some groceries or something just as trivial. I know she needs to talk but I really don’t know what to say. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; long periods of silence broken only by Beth crying and the dog trying his best to work out what’s wrong.
It should have been a lot easier for the pair of us as we knew the statistics were stacked against us. However, faced with the reality of the situation, I for one was totally lost to the scene unfolding around me. You see, for the previous 3 years I had been the support structure for Beth. I had escorted her to appointments, collected medical supplies, sorted finance when required and, more importantly, been the strong one when times were hard. In a way, I had divorced myself from the situation in order to look after the patient: Beth.
And that is why I am standing in the kitchen desperately searching for the right words to comfort her. I am not grieving for the loss of what could have been the child we both so desperately want to love. She is the one the doctors have focused on. She is the one who has had to subject her body to daily injections with constantly increasing levels of strength. She is the one who has endured intrusive procedures whilst wishing she was somewhere else instead of staring at a cold, faceless ceiling.
And I am the Husband. I am the one who has stood by and watched as she has travelled this path. She knows she is not alone and that I am there for her whenever she needs me. But she needs me now and I am lost as to how I can let her know I love her with every ounce of my body and soul. I am only a spectator, almost an outsider to a show that is playing out in front of my eyes. If anything, I have a small bit-part; that of a supporter. There have been times when doctors have refused to make eye contact with me whilst nurses and reception staff have failed to even recognise I am in the room. And that has hurt.
But this is not about me, not today.
This is the aftermath of our failed attempt at In Vitro Fertilisation; IVF.
I am trying to make the transition from Support Worker to grieving partner. I know I need to be with Beth, hold her, comfort her and help her to move forward and look to the future but it’s so bloody hard.
And so, with tentative, almost childlike steps I make the journey and we come together as Husband and Wife, joined in a grief that is just so hard to explain. You see, the thing we have lost, a couple of miniscule cells, was such a small and delicate thing. What we have lost however, represented so much more to us than we could ever realise. At the most basic level it was three years of hard work combined with, literally, a considerable amount of sweat, tears, love and prayer. At the more emotional level, that small group of dividing cells represented the one thing we both desperately wanted more than anything in the world; a child of our own to hold and cherish.
Today was perhaps the hardest day of my life.
Early Days
It had always been our plan to start a family when we both turned 30. I don’t know why we picked that age; it just seemed to be a good solid number. Both Beth and I knew that we had things to do before we settled down to ‘family life’ and therefore we both were happy with the plan.
At the time of agreeing this great plan we were both 27 and about to marry. We had met two years earlier though mutual friends and we were simply enjoying each other as only young lovers can. She was, and still is, a damn fine Primary Teacher and I was just about to leave the Army following ten years of service.
If the truth be known, we first discussed children and numbers whilst visiting Alton Towers with my parents. Back then it was so easy, almost naughty, to plan our futures down to the last detail. Things like where we would live, the type of dog we would have, how I would look after her by writing one Best Seller every two years. It is fair to say that we were young, desperately in love and keen to get on with our future.
And so, we embarked on our lives together with the same amount of bravado that all young couples seem to posses. We holidayed in Spain, took up new hobbies and generally enjoyed our time together. It really didn’t seem like three years had passed before we began to realise that the baby scenario would soon be upon us.
It seemed strange at first, not using contraception, as I for one had spent my whole adult life ensuring that angle had been completely covered. However, this was the real deal for the pair of us. It wasn’t for fun, although it was great at the time; this time we really meant business: we were making a life! Now to some, that may sound a little corny; making a life. But that’s what it all boils down to: the bringing together of DNA in order to create another Human Being, is the bottom line. It’s one of the most basic functions we can complete and thousands, if not millions of people do it on a daily basis.
In the early days we were just happy to enjoy the moment, the sheer excitement of the situation and the potential consequences of our actions. There was no need to worry as we had so much on our side. Youth, health, a strong love for each other and, above all else, a determination to succeed. I have to say that it is a wonderful feeling when your partner turns to you and lets you know that she is ready to bear your baby. It really is a great feeling and one that I will cherish forever.
Over the following six months we began to grow slightly concerned over the lack of progress. You see, Beth had suffered from irregular and painful periods as a teenager and had therefore been prescribed the contraception pill as a solution. In fact, her hormone levels were so screwed up it was the only way of re-balancing her. Therefore, it came as no shock at all when the doctor told us of his slight concern and that he was referring us to the NHS clinic for further consultation and tests.
I say it came as no surprise although, with hindsight, it was to be the beginning of a long and emotional journey for the pair of us. It was also the time when I began to experience the transition from Husband to Support Worker. I am sure it was unintentional but, when I look back, I am sure that’s when it first occurred.
Things soon settled into a routine after that first consultation at Winchester General Hospital under a leading Consultant and his team. It was here that my feelings of second citizenship began to develop. For example, when we first met one of the junior members of the team, he was quick to settle Beth down and begin the work up of endless forms and questions. Not once did he bother to ask me how I was or if I was settled. Nor did he look at me when confirming my details which were done via Beth.
At the time I let it pass as I had heard this was the norm when dealing with our type of problem. Obviously the focus was on Beth as she was the one who would eventually have to carry our baby. It was, however, the first time I had experienced such behaviour, and as Beth and I left the building, I was aware of a niggling voice in the back of my head that would, over the coming months and years become such an issue that I often found it very difficult to bite my tongue. Why? Because I was there as well; travelling along this path beside my wife. At times I wanted to shout at the doctors just to let them know that I also hurt, was also devastated, also wanted to cry.
If I am brutally honest I was quietly fuming with their behaviour which was both insensitive and arrogant. It alienated me from the process and, in part, from Beth at a time when we needed to be there for each other. These feelings of anger and frustration stayed with me for a lot longer than I ever thought they would. The NHS really need to take a hard look at themselves and how their behaviour is perceived by the very people they are trying to help.
All in all we were under the NHS team for about nine months. As every cycle came and went we began to realise that, perhaps, we would need to look for other avenues of treatment if we were to achieve our goal. Whilst the NHS team had tried their best and provided the relevant drugs at the correct times it just wasn’t working. On occasions, however, I did feel they had to be pushed along in order to arrive at a decision in our favour. Whilst I am loathe to give them a hard time, I have to say we very rarely saw the same doctor twice and I still feel that had an impact on the way our treatment was monitored.
Beth’s treatment included various forms of drugs, one of which was to be injected at critical times during her cycle. Prior to this it was tablets but when she switched to injections I began to suffer. I know it’s a strange thing to say when I am not the one actually being injected. However, I defy anyone who loves another to sit there and not feel for that person as they prepare a needle dosage and then inject it into themselves in the same place on a nightly basis for up to four weeks.
At this time, and for the first time in my life, I felt an emotion so strong it scared the hell out of me: guilt.
Here I was, sitting in our lounge, trying not to watch Beth inject herself with drugs in order to realise our desire for a child. And it struck me that, realistically, that’s all I could do. At times she would swear as it hurt so much. At other times she remained silent but in considerably more pain that she was letting on. And, throughout the entire process all I could do was ask if she was OK. Yes, I felt useless and yes it was devastating.
To deal with this guilt I would often channel it into humour, pretending that I was not watching as I was afraid of needles and that I would faint if I had to do it rather than Beth. However, in the back of my mind I was asking if I actually would have the courage to do it? Would I be able to do what she was doing? I often think about that question, even today, and I really don’t think I could. And that’s where the guilt lies. It was at this time that I began to see Beth in a new light; she was as hard as nails and twice as tough.
Also, I recognised that the distance between the pair of us was growing in terms of patient and supporter. It was Beth who was collecting the prescriptions and administrating exact dosages on a nightly basis whilst I provided humour and soothing words, tea and biscuits. It was also Beth who suffered the many side-effects of the drug whilst I carried on with the mundane chores of everyday life.
This form of treatment continued for three cycles. Now, it was a period of our lives where we began to realise that time was measured against Beth’s cycle. She would inject and, at the optimum moment, I would provide my DNA and we would wait with baited breath. This was, perhaps, the hardest bit for the pair of us. However, as time went on we became hardened to the expected result. We likened it to sitting on a roller coaster as it really was a case of riding the ups with the downs. Whilst we enjoyed the highs of trying to make a baby, well who wouldn’t, we really found it difficult to deal with the fact that at the end of every cycle we were left with nothing.
And so, we would begin the whole monthly process again, starting with the visit to the NHS clinic for the normal round of questions and suggestions about the way ahead. Again, it was during these times that I was almost excluded from the process as Beth was the main focus. However, I was beginning to fight back. I began to develop the art of asking the questions as that meant the doctor would finally have to acknowledge the fact that I was actually in the room! Well, that was the plan. What happened, however, was that they would answer the question whilst looking directly at Beth. Damn!
It came as no surprise to the pair of us that the NHS could only take us so far along the path towards babydom. Finally, after nine months, they decided to call it a day. The Consultant and his team were good but no good for us. It was the little things really, such as not seeing the same person twice, not reading notes prior to seeing us and having to be made to explain the whole picture every time we met someone new. We both felt it was time to move on and that was the end of the NHS. There was also the small fact that the NHS had nothing else to give us; I think we jumped before they got ready to push.
Over the entire period we spent with the NHS there is one episode that will stay with me for life. The Consultant, a wonderful eccentric old chap, your typical country gent, complete with red cheeks and comfortable waist was the type of man we should all meet at least once. One of the only times he spoke to me, he turned and, with a twinkle in his eye, offered the following pearl of wisdom:
“Young man, now is the right time to, you know, add the spice of life!”
Beth and I managed to get out of his office before we quietly died laughing!
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