A man’s intuition

With endometriosis and polycystic ovaries under my belt, my chances of becoming a mother seemed unlikely. When my husband and I made the life-altering decision to try for a baby, I met the task with excitement and fear in equal amounts. Month after month we tried. And month after month we failed. My husband remained optimistic that it would happen but at the back of my mind was the worry that I’d left it too late (I was 30 when our journey began) and that the GP who had diagnosed my polycystic ovaries three years earlier was right. We should’ve started then. This thought continued to haunt me and as the months passed by I began to think I would never have a child. I read endless accounts of women who had been diagnosed with the same conditions as me and who had gone on to defy their odds and carry a child inside them. I researched my chances and pleaded with my GP to send me to a fertility specialist. I had read that women with fertility conditions should not be made to wait a year before referral (common practice for most couples starting out) yet my GP (a woman) would not budge. I didn’t want to wait another year, I’d already waited three and my chances of conceiving naturally were becoming slimmer. Everywhere I looked I saw pregnant women, on the train, in the street, on the covers of magazines. News of friends falling pregnant was bittersweet. I was happy for them but inside I wished it was me. I began to believe that I may never get the chance to call up my friends, or invite them out for a drink (non-alcoholic) to break the news that I too was soon to be a mother. I dreamt about that moment, how I’d feel, what I’d say, but that’s all it was, just a dream.

But then something happened.

During the conversations with my GP we’d discussed a referral to a gynaecologist to review my endometriosis, which had been causing me great pain, despite having had an operation to remove it four years earlier. This was something she was willing to help me out with. What she or I didn’t know, though, was that this gynaecologist would turn out to be one of the leading specialists in endometriosis in the country, but more significantly, the man who helped me to become a mother. No red tape and no questions asked, he prescribed me a pill that would increase my chances of ovulation. A month later I was pregnant. The scan confirmed it. There inside of me, beating hard, was a tiny little bean.

So my road to motherhood was shorter than I’d feared and all thanks to a pill prescribed to me by a man who, unlike my GP, a mother herself, realised the yearning inside of me to have a child. I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I not stumbled across Professor Wright’s path, but then I look at my beautiful baby boy and realise that it was always meant to be.