When our son Zac was born on Christmas Eve 2007, not only was he the perfect Christmas present, he was also the answer to all my prayers.  After three years trying to conceive, six months of Metformin and four months of Clomid; we were blessed with our precious baby.

That was until he was around two and the feelings of wanting to expand the family and give Zac a sibling started. Having previously being diagnosed with polycystic ovaries, just turned 36 and already trying naturally for six months, we revisited the fertility clinic which had helped us conceive Zac.

Clomid worked before, surely it would work again? After twelve months, still no joy.  Living our lives fortnight by fortnight began to get wearing. Build up for ovulation, testing for a smiley face, the deed, day 21 blood tests, build up to my period and crying when it arrived. It was a cycle we repeated over and over and as time went on it got harder and harder. As the last of the course of Clomid drew closer I started to panic. IVF had always seemed like my ‘great white knight’, the final dice to throw when all else had failed and a dice that I was too fearful to through in case it didn’t work. As long as it was in my locker I felt I had hope.

To then be told that IVF would be our best option was utterly terrifying. I panicked. I wasn’t ready to play that card and the control freak in me hadn’t researched enough.  Thankfully, our professor gave us three more months of Clomid, which gave me time to calm down and read all about what the procedure entailed.

Three months came and went and still no positive.

I would watch Zac play on his own and wish he had a playmate. I’d cry after trying to explain why he didn’t have a baby to play with like his friend did, and I’d die inside when he’d ask me if there was a baby in my tummy.

Collecting the first bag of drugs was both terrifying but exciting. We were asked to perform the first injection before we left the clinic. I was so desperate to start but it took more than 20 minutes to actually get that needle into my tummy! I’m terrified of needles but it was more the alien feeling of apparently self-harming that prevented me from pushing it in. Hundreds of needles later I found it was a piece of cake.

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