This is as far away from God’s waiting room as you can possibly get. The other end of the scale. I’m told God wouldn’t approve of this particular waiting room anyway. If you listen to the Catholic Church, this is a gift, not an entitlement.
But actually, I think the kindly God that I believe in, would approve.
I sit and wait for my answer. I’m waiting to hear if my son, returned to me just two weeks ago, can stay.
I’m about to hear if he’s here for the long haul. Where he belongs. Or if he’s already left. Without me even knowing he’s gone.
To come so far, and leave with nothing scares me. But for now, silent pleas fill my head. Let this be right and let him stay.
They call my name.
BINGO. He can stay. The rest is up to me. The clinic will sign me over to my GP.
Eight months later, his name sits on the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority database. A live IVF birth. One of more than 4 million children.
My views on IVF were laughably different five years ago. Of course we shouldn’t meddle with life. Where will it end?
Last year, one of the co-founders of IVF techniques died. My mother drew my attention to a reader’s letter in The Guardian. Given the joy he gave to so many, shouldn’t Sir Robert Edwards be awarded the pomp of a ceremonial funeral? I agreed. He should. I would have stood and given thanks. For he gave me my son.
Just like any other baby. He smiles, he climbs, he hurtles around the house and the garden at a rate of knots. Oh, and he has a spot on the back of his neck perfect for kissing. It makes him giggle. And before I know it, he’ll be going to school.
I wonder how I went through IVF without going completely mad.
I didn’t realise how infertility changed me.