nokids

Before actually starting the treatment, I had to be accepted by the ethics committee of the clinic.

In fact this stage came before the choosing of the sperm donor – but that’s what the passage of time does – it is really true that things do get blurrier and easier to bear, the more distance there is between now and the painful/sad memory.

Fertility law in the UK at the time I was going through all this (late 1990s/early 2000s) required clinics to have regard to the welfare of any child that might be born if the treatment was successful. In other words, I had to be vetted to be sure that I would be a suitable mother! How humiliating is that! The day that the law requires inadequate pregnant baby mothers to have terminations or elderly gigolos to have vasectomys or even any normal healthy person not undergoing fertility treatment to be scrutinised, will be the day that I will willingly be judged on my ability to be a mother.

However, I had no choice. At least at this particular clinic, I was not being ruled out purely because I was single (as did other clinics for this reason.)

I had to attend two counselling sessions by two different counsellors, chosen by the clinic and not by me. And I had to pay for the privilege. As all infertile people know, whatever is required of you by fertility clinics, it always costs. And as a friend said to me at the time, how can it be counselling if you have to go?

The first woman I went to see, who was probably in her 60s, seemed to have very dubious qualifications, but as she was pleasant and seemed to regard the whole counselling requirement as so much of a farce, I soon relaxed. I think luckily for me, she happened to take an instant liking to me, a sort of gut feeling that I was ok and genuine and that no child would come to harm in my care.

We had quite a pleasant chat. It turned out that she used to live in the same city as me, so we had a nice chat about the old place. The interview took place in the living room of her beautiful flat, which was on the first floor of a lovely Victorian building in Holland Park – a very nice part of London. The conversation even moved on to people that she knew that I might know, and the interesting vases and ornaments in the room. I was relieved that this was all so easy.

It was clear to me that I had passed whatever unspoken test she had made of me. On the other hand, I could easily have been telling her a pack of lies, and I had no confidence that this woman would have realised. If vetting is necessary, then surely it should be done by someone who is up to the job.

My second session of counselling was altogether less enjoyable. It took place in a rather mean basement flat. This woman was definitely a professional counsellor, with the dead pan expression (one must not intrude one’s own personality into the session) combined with hard-hitting questions. All my previous resentment returned – why should I provide details of my private life to this little thing, half my age, who barely looked old enough to be capable of bearing children herself? I had already given all the information required to the first counsellor and did not see why I should provide the same information all over again. I clammed up and the counsellor said that she found my attitude worrying. She would not reveal whether or not she was prepared to recommend me to the clinic as suitable for treatment.

I was drained by the time I left this second session. It was clear to me that I had not passed, and I felt tired and resentful.

I was therefore delighted to learn some weeks later that the ethics committee had indeed recommended that I was suitable to be accepted for treatment!

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