IVF: An Emotional Companion. Brigid Moss

a rare type that nobody at Charing Cross had ever seen it before.

      Because the cancer was so rare, the doctors couldn’t give me a prognosis. Also, the MRI scans had shown abnormalities on my spleen and remaining ovary, and until I’d had the associated lymph nodes taken out and analysed, we wouldn’t know if the cancer had spread. I said to the consultant: ‘Just do what you need to do, but please tell me I’m going to be ok.’ And he said, ‘Unfortunately, nobody knows what the future holds.’ Which was when I realised how ill I was.

      Treatment for the cancer would be the biggest operation of all — this time a hysterectomy, including removal of my pelvic lymph nodes and my appendix, followed by eight weeks of heavy-duty chemotherapy. We were told that the chemotherapy would very likely stop my remaining ovary from working properly and that I’d probably go into menopause.

      My consultant suggested that, during the hysterectomy, a slice of my ovary could be removed and frozen. He explained that although it was experimental technology, the ovarian tissue could be used to help me produce my own eggs later on.

      Having a hysterectomy at 30 is pretty horrendous, as is the thought of an early menopause, but they were minor details considering what I was facing. I was consumed by a horrible fear that I might not survive. At this point, my focus was on getting myself fit and well, and anything else — including having children — slipped into the background. What kept me going was that I had no other option — I knew I had to have the surgery and chemotherapy if I was ever to be well again.

      Sitting in the hospital bed after the operation, I thought, I’ll just have to get myself better now, get my ovary working and prove the doctors wrong. But I was very ill, and looked so awful that I couldn’t even bear for my parents or friends to come and see me. There was some good news though: analysis of my lymph nodes showed that the cancer hadn’t spread.

      I can’t find the words to describe how amazing John was throughout the time I was ill. While I was in Charing Cross, he gave up work for six weeks, and was with me every day. A few months before my diagnosis, determined to be well, I’d signed up for the London marathon, and because John hadn’t wanted me to train on my own, he’d got a place too. While I was ill, he kept running; he said it was the best way to clear his mind.

      Ten days after the operation, I started my cocktail of chemotherapy. The previous chemo was nothing compared to this. One chemo drug combination was given weekly intravenously, and for days afterwards I’d feel unbelievably exhausted. My bones ached, my stomach was upset and I’d long for the days to pass. The other had to be given overnight in hospital, and would knock me out. The first time, I woke up in the early hours of the morning feeling terrible, as if I was being melted from the inside. I begged the medical team to stop the treatment; I cried and cried until I could bear for them to continue again.

      Once, the chemotherapy leaked from the drip on to my arm and burned my skin, so a plastic surgeon had to cut my arm open and flush through the burned tissue with saline to prevent any permanent tissue damage. With the cuts bandaged, it looked as if I’d slit my wrist.

      As I couldn’t use my hands, John even washed my hair for me. That was until my hair started to fall out. That made me feel so unfeminine, and reminded me of my illness every time I looked in the mirror. When I had to shave my head, because it looked so patchy and horrible, John shaved his in support. We looked like a pair of hooligans — like the Mitchell brothers from EastEnders!

      One of the hardest things for me was for friends and family to know how poorly I was. It was difficult knowing that they’d be sad for me. So I kept it all to myself, even though John said I should talk about how I was feeling more.

      On the days when I felt well enough to go out, John would take me to see friends or we’d pop to the pub. For a few months, I didn’t feel strong or well enough to go anywhere without him. There was a point, he told me afterwards, when he worried that he’d always be my carer — and that’s not what you want at 30.

      After the chemotherapy, my scans and blood tests showed no sign of the cancer. As far as the doctors were concerned, my treatment was over, though I’d still need regular checkups, and wouldn’t get the final all-clear for five years.

      It was just a few months later, at one of my check-ups, that we discovered my ovary had started working again, against all odds, and that my ovarian function was absolutely normal for my age, 31. So you can understand why John and I celebrated!

      I was nervous about the idea of IVF, being pumped full of hormones; and the doctors all said that I’d have to do at least three cycles to expect a result. They told us to wait six months, until my body was ready and, I assume, until I was mentally strong enough too.

      We booked to go to a conference on surrogacy, to find out more about it. But on the morning of the conference, John’s sister, Sally, texted me to ask what we were up to that weekend, and I told her. That was the first time I’d ever let anybody (apart from my parents) know that surrogacy might be an option. She texted back, saying, ‘You know you don’t need to go because I’d love to help you.’ Sally explained that she’d been thinking about offering earlier, but didn’t want to bring it up as I’d been so private. She had finished her own family — two gorgeous boys aged eight and nine — and seeing me with them, she knew how much I loved kids, and could tell how sad we were, and how desperate to have a family.

      One night a few weeks later, Sally came over, and I told her everything that had happened. We cried together and discussed how she’d feel if the baby was a girl or if there was something wrong with it. She assured me that she would consider herself simply as the oven, cooking our baby for us.

      Before we could have IVF, John had to have his sperm frozen for six months as, in the eyes of the law, he’d be a sperm donor. Then, finally, I could start IVF. I couldn’t face another general anaesthetic, so I asked to be awake for egg collection. Although I was sedated, it was very painful. The doctor took out three eggs. All three fertilised, but by the transfer day, only two embryos were of good enough quality to use. Sally said, ‘We’re only going to do this once, so put them both in.’ We were disappointed that we had none to freeze, but hopeful.

      When Sally called on the morning of the pregnancy test, to say it was positive, I was so excited that I ran around the hall screaming. I had to force myself to calm down, to remember it was still early days.

      Sally had a lot of nausea, which she hadn’t had in her two previous pregnancies, and I worried it might be a molar pregnancy. It was hard enough letting someone else carry the baby, let alone worrying that I might have made her ill too. The clinic reassured me that they only transfer normal-looking, healthy embryos, but it wasn’t until the three of us went to the first scan, at nine weeks, and we saw a heartbeat, that I relaxed.

      All through the pregnancy Sally made sure we were involved in all the scans and appointments. Later on, the only thing I couldn’t bear to do was to feel the baby kick. A kick was too much of a wrench, a reminder that the baby should have been inside me.

      I’d assumed I’d be able to take the baby home straight after the birth, but the hospital said that wouldn’t be possible because the birth mother, Sally, would, at that point, be the legal mother. So the baby would have to stay with her in hospital until they were both discharged. But, they said, I wouldn’t be able to stay in hospital too.

      As we couldn’t become the legal parents until we got a parental order — which we couldn’t even apply for until six weeks after the birth — we were stuck. I asked, ‘So who’s going to look after the baby, because Sally certainly doesn’t want to.’ Sally backed me up, and that’s when we spoke to Natalie Gamble, a solicitor who specialises in fertility. Legally, the hospital’s decision was right, but Natalie said there was usually a pragmatic way to sort these things out without breaking the law. After some negotiation, it was agreed that I could pay for a room in the hospital for me and the baby until Sally and the baby were discharged. After that, the hospital would no longer have any say and I’d be able to take the baby home.

      I was incredibly anxious leading up to the birth. How would we all feel once the long-awaited baby finally arrived? How would Sally feel when the baby came to