nokids

After I had got over the next phase of drizzling misery, I decided it was time to be more proactive. I decided to seek medical help.

I already knew that I was over the age to get free treatment on the NHS for fertility problems, so I approached my local BUPA hospital. Another mistake! The consultant I saw was so smug and superior in her attitude towards me. Granted, she did give me a helpful mini-tutorial on how women’s fertility changes as they age (information which no one had clearly put to me before). However, she then changed tack and took up a moral stance. Not only were my chances of success low in any event, given my age, but she herself did not feel able to treat me, a single woman. The fact that I was a professional with a reasonable salary, my own home and a car, to say nothing of the thought I had given to this venture and my intrinsic maternal abilities, counted for nothing. This rather overweight and obviously fecund female doctor (pictures of her children were on her desk), after a mere 20 minutes or so, had judged me and found me wanting. She managed to imply that my very normal desire to have a child was somehow quite grubby. That interview deflated me for many months.

Not too long after I had recovered from the embarrassment of believing myself to be pregnant when in fact I was not, I really was pregnant! My GP confirmed it and I felt sure that this time, all would be well. I felt this time it was safe to tell a few people, and I had a few nice cards and reactions.

But.

Soon I started bleeding again. I managed to get an appointment with my GP after work that day. He told me to go home immediately and rest. I asked him not to state on the medical certificate that I was pregnant – working in a very small office, I wanted to preserve my privacy. My GP kindly made the certificate out as if I had chest problems – that must have been baffling to my boss, since I never have a cough!

I sat at home, feeling achy and sore, and the achiness and soreness was concentrated around my abdomen, for which the only remedy seemed to be to clutch a very hot water bottle as tightly as I could manage. I continued to bleed, feeling sorry for my self.

After a while, a little bit of tissue came out.

It did not occur to me until many months later, when I was looking at beautiful photographs of the development of the embryo, what that had been. Suddenly, I realised, and my hair stood on end. That had been the end of my pregnancy - 56 days by my calculations.

Within a few months of my attempts to get pregnant with my helpful sperm donor, I got a positive pregnancy test! Of course, I was elated – but not surprised. I had an unconscious belief in my own immortality, permanent good health and life-long fertility. With this frame of mind, the fact that I soon had some bleeding from time to time did not bother me at all. I soon found on the internet all the information I needed to reassure me that early bleeding in pregnancy was common and not a reason for worry at all. Even the fact that repeated pregnancy tests now showed negative did not shake my certainty. I read how false negatives were common.

When by my reckoning, I was about 10 weeks pregnant, I decided it was time to see my GP and start to discuss ante-natal tests etc.

I was a little surprised that my GP would not take my word for the pregnancy, but asked me to take another pregnancy test at the surgery – but quite happy to comply.

It was the heavily pregnant practice nurse who told me that the test was negative and that I was definitely not pregnant. I was puzzled – how could that be?

My own GP must have been swayed by my intense belief – or perhaps he wanted me to see the reality from another source – because he sent me to casualty at the local hospital, for further checking. Ah! I cringe with embarrassment at the memory! I was taking up valuable medical time to check on a phantom pregnancy, when real people with real illnesses and injuries really needed medical attention. “Spoiled middle-class bitch” must have crossed the mind of the junior doctor who gingerly examined my abdomen – but I did need convincing and I had been sent by my GP. It was not that I had insisted myself that I be seen.

So it turned out I was not pregnant after all. And there was only my word that I ever had been.

I sent back the maternity clothes that I had ordered from “Blooming Marvellous”.

Since you know the end of the story anyway – I did not have a child – I’ll jump in here with a bit of now, and tell you a real life example to show why it is so hard to “just move on”.

In the course of the years of trying, nearing the end of the whole process, I sought legal advice looking into other options. The first fancy-shmancy barrister that I went to in London cost me an arm and a leg, so when I needed more legal advice on another issue that had arisen, I went to a local barrister (whose quality I knew well, as I work as a solicitor, and who gave me a reduced price) and another solicitor friend kindly let me send the brief without charge through her firm. (This was necessary for the barrister’s insurance). I got my advice, in conference and in writing, just as if I had been any other client of this barrister. The advice wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but it would probably have been the same from any other barrister, and I tried to come to terms with it, and forget it.

Imagine my shock, when some months later, while attending a legal seminar, and chatting to this barrister with a glass of wine afterwards, she casually, in the full hearing of others, mentioned that she had had some further thoughts about the situation, that I could look into.

Embarrassingly, my reaction was nearly to start crying, and I had to mutter to her that I had no more energy to carry on and was not going to take things any further. I completely lost my cool, and I had to make my excuses and leave, hoping that no one would see the tears in my eyes as I did. I could not believe how unprofessional the barrister had been, mentioning my most private dream in front of a random assortment of legal professionals at a seminar! Hopefully, no one had heard, and people probably thought I was just tired (these seminars do go on a bit, and it was about 7pm by this time.)

For the barrister, it was just an interesting legal problem. For me, it was the end of a dream.

It was at my mother’s funeral, (she died just 6 months after I had qualified as a solicitor, but before I had found a job as one, so disappointing her to the last), that I suddenly realised it was now or never. I was nearly 43. An acquaintance at the funeral, not knowing what my constant thoughts were about, fortuitiously told me about another mutual acquaintance who had decided to have a child on her own, and was very happy. “Well” I thought, “If she can do it, so can I”.

I did some research on the internet. I answered some ads, I placed some other ads. I met some potential sperms donors. I found one. We had a long discussion. I drew up a letter setting out what we had agreed and we both signed it, not for the purposes of legalities, but just so that we were both clear about the situation.

I spent a year trying to get pregnant with him. Yes – you guessed it – we soon abandoned the turkey baster method, and went “au naturel”. Why not? He had kids already and felt sympathy for me, and I did not see why I should not have a little fillip with my donation.

 It dawned on me when I was about 35 that as despite affairs I still had not found THE ONE, I would have to consider having a child on my own. Not being one to rush anything, it took me some years to come to terms with the idea of being a single mother. I was completely ignorant of the limited nature of women’s fertility. I was very fit and healthy. Apart from being aware that old women did not get pregnant, I had no sense at all that I myself was aging in any way – and indeed, I was often taken to be 10 years younger than my true age, even up to and including the age of 40. So in order to improve my financial position and my career prospects, I decided to retrain as a solicitor, and thus put off any practical action towards getting pregnant for a further few years. Ah! With the benefit of hindsight, I think this was the worst decision I could have ever made… and yet, at the time, it was the most logical. Who wants to be poor with a baby? Perhaps also, even though in theory I had committed myself to becoming a single mother, maybe in reality, I was still just teetering on the brink, and not quite ready to do the necessary.

So here it is at last! My very first blog post! Congratulations to me - and thanks to Today.com!

I am one of that invisible multitude - a single woman  in her 50s, and childless. I am not single by choice, and I am not childless by choice. (And before you ask, I am not gay either - although that is not necessarily relevant.) Yes - I am one of those to whom the epithet “ohmigod I forgot to have the children” is apt.

This blog is going to be about why (as far as I can tell) this parlous state of affairs came about, and the effect on me and my life generally.

Maybe writing this blog will amuse me and others, maybe I’ll gain a little insight and detachment, maybe others might empathise and/or have some useful comments. Plus in addition, I’ll earn a $1 a post - and that’s better than a nod and a wink to a blind man!