The Longest Trimester

I  haven’t blogged in bloody forever. Even my husband commented that I’d stopped writing – and he’s never even read my blog! Truth be told, I have no idea what to write about now.  

Okay, that’s a bit of an overstatement. I still have things to say, I'm just wary that it’ll just be moaning about random stuff now! You see, I’m completely exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. We’ve been through – and are still going through – the biggest rollercoaster that life has thrown at us so far, and I feel like some days it’s just all too-consuming again.  

So, let’s go back a bit.  

Last you heard, we had our positive test. We’d had our viability scan. All was well with Baby B. All IS well with Baby B, I assure you. I just wish I could assure myself. With everything that IVF and infertility has done to us, I can’t shake this niggling feeling that something is going to go wrong. Expectant parents worry through pregnancy, and that’s normal. I just feel like my anxiety is even more heightened because the cargo I’m carrying is so extra-precious (and yes, I will toot that horn – IVF babies are fucking miracles!).  

After our viability scan, my nausea really kicked in hard. And secretly, a few of us at work were all going through the same thing! We kept an eye on each other, raiding each other’s snack piles whenever we felt peckish, and checking up when we knew one another was looking a bit peaky. That’s the bitch about “morning” sickness – it's all day, every day. It would usually take a few dry biscuits to help ease the sickness, but of course when you’re poorly the last thing you want to do is cram a few Rich Teas down! I struggled a lot, but tried not to moan because we were finally in the position we wanted to be in... This was all part-and-parcel of the pregnancy package! I found sea-sickness bands to be helpful at times, but hard to cover up in work unless I was wearing long sleeves – not easy in June! My first lot of blood tests also showed I was slightly anaemic, so was put on iron tablets. Not nice. Do not google side effects.  

Cat naps - taken weeks apart - but the tiredness continues! 

I also had two bouts of feeling really, really poorly – and not pregnancy-related! I got the worst cold ever and had to take time off work because I physically could not breathe out of my nose. Then I had a funny turn and got such bad D&V (soz, TMI) that I couldn’t even get the energy up to get out of bed for two days. You know what they say – the baby is fine while you feel like shit, as they’re sucking all the goodness out of you. I felt so bad for having taken so much time off work already, now I was taking sick days for actually being sick! And of course, you can’t take anything to help. No ibuprofen. No caffeine. Not even a decongestant for my poor nose! 

When I was 8 ½ weeks gone, my mum and I travelled from Plymouth to London to see our all-time favourite band, Bon Jovi. We had such a fab time for the first couple of days – cramming in as much as we could in such a short time frame! We revisited the same restaurant we went to at my Hen Do (Sticky Fingers), sampled delicate cakes at Peggy Porschen, and walked miles trawling up and down the shops. I even shot up one of my progesterone injections in the toilets in Harrod’s - classy! But let me tell you, visiting one of the busiest cities on Earth in the heat of the Summer whilst you’re in the early stages of pregnancy is no easy ride. The stench is unbearable – cigarettes, traffic fumes, food stalls – my god it was HORRENDOUS. Our hotel was next to a Middle-Eastern restaurant that had shisha pipes on every table outside, and I would have to run past it, holding my breath when we returned to our hotel for my frequent daytime naps! I fully took advantage of my bloated belly and nabbed the “Reserved for Pregnant Ladies” seats on the Tube, even though I knew full well it was just puffy from all the food I was consuming. Any chance to nap was golden, and a carriage full of sweaty commuters wouldn’t stop me from catching 40 winks at any given opportunity. 

Baby's First Concert - Bon Jovi, of course!

On the morning of our last day, whilst out shopping in Westfield, we received unexpected news that my grandad Alf – mum's dad – was poorly and had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. We were told to come home as soon as possible as it didn’t look good. We raced across London as fast as the Tube and a taxi would allow us, back to the hotel to grab our bags and check out, and then across to Paddington to catch the next train back to Devon. We made the 14:02 train at 13:58, got back into Plymouth at 17:30, and grandad sadly passed away at around 18:30. I was devastated for my mum, and the guilt at knowing that she didn’t get more time with him has been eating me up. I know we should be lucky that we made that train and she got to see him before he went, but I’ve since heard that the reason we weren’t told sooner was because they didn’t want to cause me any stress that could harm the baby. I’m stuck in a vicious circle of feeling guilty for my mum, but relief for my baby – and yes, of course I know what my mum would say, but it doesn’t stop my mind from thinking it.

The weeks that followed were bittersweet and sad. I was still battling constant nausea, fatigue and anxiety – all while going through the motions of grief for my grandad. We had our dating scan a little too early at 11 weeks, and then had another at 12 weeks to check the nuchal translucency (this checks for signs of Down’s, Edward’s and Patau’s Syndromes). This was the day before grandad’s funeral, so our ‘announcement’ to the family ended up being at his wake (even though most people knew at this stage, the cat was just officially “out of the bag” at this point!). 

Top: 11 weeks

Bottom: 12 weeks

Baby grows so fast - what a difference a week makes!

My anxiety still played heavily on my mind, and isn’t much better even now if truth be told. Although the doctors told me that the chances of our baby having any of the above syndromes were very low, I held onto the part that said there was a “1 in 1,500” chance of it being there. That seemed a high chance to me still, and I didn’t like the odds of those statistics. When I voiced these concerns to some people I got laughed at, and I felt completely belittled for that reaction. After everything we’d been through, why was it so hard to understand that I would of course think that something bad would happen to us? We’d already fallen victim to infertility. We’d already fallen victim to a miscarriage. We seemed to be that “1 in...” statistic so far for other huge things – perhaps it would be this, too? I felt like my worries had no validation and I was mocked for it.  

You may be reading this thinking “for god’s sake woman, just ENJOY BEING PREGNANT!” And that would have probably been me saying that not too long ago. But I’m this side of the water now, and things aren’t all rosy just because it seems we’re getting our happy ending. A sentence I keep repeating to others to explain my thought process is that “I am under no illusion that come January, I will be holding my healthy, happy baby in my arms.” I follow a fellow IVF warrior on Instagram who tragically lost her twins at 21 weeks. One of my friend’s cousin went through hell after her baby died mere days before her due date. My old manager experienced a stillbirth in the eighth month of her pregnancy. I am fully aware that these are extreme circumstances, and I am fully aware that it could happen to anyone. Including me. Including you. Including anyone! 

But the overriding message that I want to get across is that my feelings are valid. I should not be mocked for the way I feel. I’m aware that, of course, my mind is going to the worst-case scenario for a lot of things, and that I should be trying to enjoy my pregnancy after all the heartache we’ve been through. But take a step in my shoes. Tell me you wouldn’t feel the same way? 

My emotions were validated just after our 12-week scan when I experienced two bleeds within four days of each other. Because I'd already had my scan, I wasn't allowed another one, and after frantic ringing-around to my GP, midwife, and an NHS helpline, all they could suggest was a fetal heartbeat check via my GP surgery (which they detected quite quickly, and thankfully baby's heartbeat was nice and strong). I was gutted to learn that between weeks 12-20, there's essentially not much they can do. A rather heartless locum explained what I would go through if it was indeed a miscarriage, and I stopped her mid-conversation to tell her I would know what it felt like as I'd already experienced one. Of course, if it was the worst - there's nothing they can do to stop it. They found no reason for the bleeding, and it stopped within a few hours. But seeing fresh, bright red blood is not something that should be normal in ANY pregnancy - so always get it checked out! We decided to pay for a private scan a few weeks later, just to ease the anxiety. 8 weeks is a long time to go without a scan!

My 12-week bump - a huge milestone for us to reach!

I really hope the second trimester is a happier time for J and I. I deserve to enjoy this pregnancy – being able to carry my own baby was the reason we decided to pursue IVF before adoption – and I fully intend to get my shit together. I’m already taking steps to better my mental health, such as going back to acupuncture and starting Pilates for Pregnancy. And writing should get me in a better frame of mind, too – so stay tuned - I will write more soon!  

Thanks for staying with me so far, I know you’re probably thinking I’ve got a few screws loose now. God help this child! 

KEB x

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

So, the news is out. You know where we’re at... My Instagram and my blog have finally married up (see what I did there? Seeing as this blog was supposed to be all about weddings?!) and if you’ve been keeping up with me like the Kardashians then you know every single detail about me, my husband, our wedding, and our sex life. Lucky you! 

I ‘came out’ about our infertility around Easter 2019. And it was so completely, unashamedly liberating. But one of the many questions I’ve been asked is: “Why now?” And do you know what? Why the hell not?! Why didn’t I do it sooner? Why was I so ashamed about our diagnosis that I felt like I had to walk around for three years with this black cloud of despair and depression hanging over us?! Because ultimately, that’s what infertility is... it's a recognised illness by the World Health Organisation which affects – and I will say this until I’m blue in the face – ONE IN EIGHT OF US!! 

Think about that the next time you’re sitting down to lunch with your work colleagues, or at the cinema, or just paying for milk in the supermarket. Take a look around you, and think – it could be them. You may not realise it, but asking someone “when” they’re going to have kids is one of the most insensitive things you can do. Even asking someone who’s already had kids when the second one is going to come along – secondary infertility is a real thing, too. Joking about a pregnancy on April Fool’s Day is NOT a joke. It’s probably hurting someone that you know without even realising it. 

I never once asked my auntie (the only one in the family who doesn’t have children) why she didn’t have them, I think subconsciously I just knew there was something more to it. And she only recently told me that not only did she not want them herself, but she realised that there are so many people in the world who do, so in 2000 she selflessly donated her eggs so that someone else could become a mother. She went through all the same shit I did – the injections, the counselling, the egg retrieval – even the wait of finding out if her eggs had made it and if her recipient had given birth to a healthy baby! This just goes to show, that even 19 years later, she was only ready to open up about her experience just to prove that we weren’t alone in this ride, albeit hers was of the route of a donor. 

And this is the part that got me – the stories that flood in as soon as you open up. How many of my friends have experienced miscarriages? Too many to count. That statistic is a heart-breaking ONE IN FOUR of us, remember (and think about that the next time you start poking around someone else’s baby business – you don’t know what wounds you’re opening up). You start to hear about people who have offered to become surrogates for their sisters, or donated sperm to a struggling brother. You hear about the awful stories of the people who have been through 7 years of infertility, 10 rounds of IVF, thousands of pounds worth of debt... And still no baby. Yet people still don’t talk about it enough.  

Yeah I did it. An unashamed, post baby-making selfie - legs up, of course! J always made sure I had a book or my phone handy afterwards while we waited for his swimmers to "do their thing". Who said love is dead?!

So yes, why did I finally open up? To tell you the truth, I was tired. I was tired of lying, of plastering on a fake smile and telling people that we were happy just practising for now. But my god, it was terrifying. Here I am, literally telling the world that my husband and I were screwing at every opportunity possible just on the off-chance that I could fall pregnant, and it wasn’t fucking working! Quite frankly, most of my circle knew what was going on by now, and work colleagues were starting to cotton on to how much sick time I’d had off – I couldn’t keep track of who knew what – so, I thought if I started this blog then everyone would be on the same page and I would be able to let people know what was going on with my uterus on my terms, at my pace.  

IVF gets such a bad rep from some people, who say we shouldn’t be meddling in ‘God’s Plan’ or that ‘everything happens for a reason’. Yes, mine and my husband’s bodies have failed us – that’s the reason. Our basic human instinct to procreate is buggered because of an illness that is completely out of our hands. Just like the fact that J has diabetes – it's not his fault, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows his body has a slight flaw, but that doesn’t stop him from going about his day to day life. And infertility shouldn’t either.  

There was a time (and some days there still is) when I let it consume me to the point of depression. But infertility does not define me. It made up 10% of my life, but it does not define me. It does not define my blog, or my Instagram feed. Let me be clear – I am not an IVF blogger – I blog about IVF, among other things in my life that I feel passionate about. I don’t know if this will become a “mummy blog” when Baby B does make his or her grand entrance, but for now I’m enjoying writing about my experiences and giving my head a healthy distraction from the anxieties that the first trimester has given me (see next week’s post!) At the end of the day, I just like to write, and I think I’m fairly good at it. I’ve finally found a hobby that doesn’t leave me out of pocket or crying on the kitchen floor – hurrah! (And if any book publishers out there think that my content is half decent, then please hit me up.) 

I count my lucky stars Every. Single. Day that we’re finally pregnant. I don’t know if it’s because of the fertility makeover I gave myself before this round of IVF. I don’t know if it’s because the grandparents we lost whilst going through treatment were cheering us on from beyond. I don’t know if it’s because I demanded extra progesterone support, because I read that there was a slight chance it could reduce miscarriage rates. I don’t know if it’s because I practised mindfulness every night before I went to sleep, or because I cut toxic drama out of my life. What I do know though, is that the support we have gotten through going public with our journey has been overwhelming, and I truly believe that your words of encouragement have most definitely helped us through the hardest time. 

Thank you for staying with me, so far. This ride is far from over! 

KEB x