Written by Annabel Gammack. Reviewed by Jessica Hobbis. 

This blog is part of the Stories from the OVUM Community series, which explores the lived realities of fertility through four lenses. Biology, Beliefs, Boundaries and Belonging. Each piece shares a different, personal perspective from our community. 

The following story is from Annabel Gammack. Annabel is a podcaster and content creator focussing on her real-life experiences of IVF and infertility. Since receiving a diagnosis of male factor subfertility, she and her husband have gone on to have five IVF treatments and continue to hope for success. In the meantime, they live in Essex with their two cats and dog, and Annabel documents their TTC journey online and how to find pockets of joy along the way.

Biology

I remember when we received our diagnosis of male subfertility. It gave us a sense of relief; a solid answer rather than the painful limbo of “unexplained infertility”, but it also confirmed that things weren’t going to be easy for us and we would likely need IVF. Something I had, up until that point, kept at a distance as a vague hypothetical scenario. It wasn’t until we drove to the clinic for the first time and the building appeared from behind the gates that the magnitude of it all hit me. This was actually happening. 

The curious trepidation of starting treatment turned into something much more daunting. What if it didn’t work? What then? 

We had spent so long waiting for our NHS funding to be granted. In our area, we could access one egg collection and one fresh embryo transfer, but only if there had been no miscarriages or pregnancies within the past three years. I had a very early loss at 6 weeks a couple of years prior, which meant it took longer to qualify for funding. 

Receiving the go-ahead felt like the answer to all our problems. We need IVF to have a baby. We are now having IVF. That means we will get a baby, right? Unfortunately, no. Despite our consultant’s assurance that we needn’t discuss the potential outcome of a cancelled round (“You’re young and healthy, you’ll be fine”, she said), our hopes for a cute, picture-perfect pregnancy announcement in 12 weeks’ time were soon dashed. 

During my first tracking scan, the nurse was unable to locate one of my ovaries. She explained it was an indication that it wasn’t responding to stims yet, but it was nothing to worry about. However, as a fully fledged member of the worry club, I immediately got into my car and cried. But it was my first cycle, and I had no idea what to expect. She told me it was fine, so we carried on. 

Then came the egg collection, and my niggling fear that something wasn’t quite right came true. We had significantly fewer eggs than expected and, as the nurses cooed and congratulated a woman in the bed opposite me for producing over 20 eggs, I was left alone, waiting to be told I could leave and see my husband. I cried so much that night, but Matt - ever the practical optimist - remained hopeful: “all we need is one”. The next day in the office, I received the phone call confirming that neither mature egg had fertilised and our treatment was over. 

Belief

At that point, all our hope and naive excitement were stolen from us. I’d failed, and as a result, we lost access to any NHS funding for a future embryo transfer. From now on, we were on our own, and the reality of IVF hit us in a very new, very brutal way. 

I realised that it didn’t matter how much I wanted it, how early I showed up to appointments or how meticulously I followed my medication schedule; it didn’t guarantee it would work. It’s not like a job where if you perform well, you can hope for a pay rise or promotion. IVF does not discriminate, and I was not getting promoted to parenthood. 

When we left the clinic following that first egg collection, I noticed a couple lighting a cigarette each as they walked to their car. I remember saying to Matt, “I bet their treatment works. They’re smoking right outside their IVF clinic, and they’ll probably have a baby in nine months.” Of course, I have no idea if that was true, and really, it’s none of my business. But in that moment, I felt like I’d done everything right and still lost, so why bother trying? 

A few years on, we’re still on the IVF train, now at a different clinic. I continue to believe that IVF is nondiscriminatory; that it doesn't matter how “good” you are or how much of your life you dedicate to trying for a baby, you cannot guarantee an outcome. But now, I appreciate that. The ambiguity and uncertainty are hard, of course. It would be so nice to receive a conclusive reason as to why a transfer has failed, so you know what to fix for next time, but there’s a sense of freedom knowing there’s only so much you can do. 

I love speaking to people whose IVF worked when they didn’t have weekly acupuncture, who still used plastic tupperware and supermarket cleaning products, because when you go down the rabbit hole of “reasons you aren’t pregnant”, it can quickly become all-consuming. Admittedly, I’m not smoking as I’m walking out the clinic door, but I’ve found a balance that works for me. 

Boundaries

I’ve learned how not to feel like I’m sacrificing my entire self while in treatment. During our first conversation with our new consultant, I was told “Once you begin treatment, your body is no longer yours; it’s ours.” To some, that might sound awful. To me, it creates a sense of safety. My body is in my clinic’s hands, and I trust their expertise.

However, while my body may not be mine, my mind still is, and I protect it by finding pockets of joy wherever I can. That might look like having dessert alongside a fertility-friendly diet, or stopping by my favourite shop on the way home from a scan for a post-appointment treat. These things, I can control - as is how I speak about our fertility issues. 

It was a very intentional decision to start sharing our story online. I found it suffocating that we were expected to just carry on as normal, despite what was going on behind closed doors. And so, with Matt’s agreement, I started talking.

I’ve never regretted my decision, but I also never anticipated the criticism that would come from strangers. Over the years, I’ve been told the reason I’m not pregnant is that I’m too negative and my baby doesn’t want to meet me, that my bellybutton piercing is interfering with my reproductive system, or that I need to practice more gratitude (to name just a few). While I respect other people’s beliefs, none of these reasons have ever been mentioned to me by a doctor. As a result, I’ve learned to stay focused on what my clinic advises and what feels right for me. Someone, somewhere, will always disagree with you. It’s up to you whether or not you listen.   

Belonging

I’m not sure I will ever feel lucky for our infertility, but I am grateful for some of what it’s given me. I look back over our eight years of trying to conceive and see things we never would have experienced had we had children immediately. It led me to meeting one of my best friends, with whom I now host a podcast called ‘Am I Ovary Acting?’. I’ve recently signed up to do the Three Peaks Challenge this summer in aid of the charity Fertility Action. None of these things would have happened had it not been for our difficulty conceiving. 

Infertility is hard. It’s isolating and scary and something that’s difficult to comprehend if you haven’t been through it. But it has changed me, I believe for the better, and I hope that one day I’ll be a better parent because of it. 

Beyond the Blog: Annabel’s Resources

• I find it helpful to read about other routes to parenthood - even if it’s not something we’re considering right now - to keep me open-minded about alternative paths. For example, I recently read Inconceivable by Rebecca Coxon. It’s a memoir about when she discovered she was conceived via a sperm donor. 

• Since being exposed to so much information about my body during IVF, I’ve been much more aware and interested in it. I’ve therefore found it useful to use the OURA ring and Natural Cycles app to learn more. An element I’ve enjoyed is the automatic basal body temperature tracking, which helps me identify where I am in my cycle, with much less effort. 

• Last but absolutely not least, I’ve found such support from my friends. Whether it’s for offloading when things get hard or a reminder that joy, fun and laughter can coexist with infertility, a good catch-up with friends is probably my number one resource.