The Journey – Part 2

The day of transfer is etched in my memory.

I wore the same socks I’d worn to every appointment, my bracelet and necklace that held so much meaning. A small superstition maybe, but it made me feel held.

Because of Covid, Mark wasn’t allowed into the transfer room, so I walked into the room with a nurse - nerves and hope sitting heavy in my chest.

The Care Bath team were wonderful. Gentle, calm, and endlessly kind. They talked me through every step, making sure i was prepared (as possible). Their caution and professionalism staggering, repeating my name and date of birth each time to ensure everything was exactly right.

Then it was time, the container was passed through the small window. It felt surreal, watching this grain of hope move from one world to another.

As she begain teh process the embryologist showed me our little embryo positioned at the top of its tube-like container - too small to see but there, a beautiful hatching blastocyst.

The transfer itself was quick. Not painful, more the discomfort of a smear test. I held my breath as they placed our embryo into its new home, willing my body to welcome it.

Afterwards I felt oddly fragile, convinced that if I sneezed or stood up too fast it might somehow move. Of course that doesn’t happen, but no one prepares you for how irrational and protective you feel from that very moment.

When it was over, Mark and I drove to our café. We just sat holding hands, quiet and dazed. A monumental shift had just taken place in our lives, yet the world outside carried on as normal.

The next days were slow, stretched out with anxiety. Each phone call brought updates. From nine eggs, we ended with three high-quality embryos, two frozen alongside the one now tucked safely inside me.

That felt like hope. A lifeline.

The two week wait was an ache of time. I tried not to analyse every twinge or wave of tiredness, but it was impossible.

Before test day I woke with a feeling deep in my bones, the same knowing I’d had with Jack. I told Mark I would test, but I already knew. Within seconds the second line appeared, bold and unmissable.

We were pregnant.

After so long and after so much. But joy quickly folded into fear. Living in the haze of a positive test meant slipping into “what if” territory. What if it happened again? What if my body let us down?

Four days later, at 3am, I woke to blood trickling down my leg.

I sat on the kitchen floor frozen. I phoned Dorchester maternity, who were so kind, and they booked me in for a scan first thing. But in those long hours, all I could think was that my body had failed again. I didn’t wake Mark. I didn’t want to crush him, so I sobbed silently and stayed put. Twenty-five years of survival mode telling me to carry it alone.

When Mark woke and I finally told him, he was upset that I hadn’t woken him sooner. I don’t need to be strong on my own anymore, but old habits cling.

The drive to the scan was sickening. We were both petrified, bracing ourselves for bad news. But would you believe it? Our tiny blob was there. Small, fragile, but alive.

Light bleeding is common after transfer, but that doesn’t make it less terrifying. In that moment, though, all that mattered was that our baby was still with us.

That feeling kept us going, kept me going. Through the months, weeks, days, hours, seconds....endless time holding my breath. Through the huge weight of responsibility of being the protector, the one holding our world.

We were held so tightly though by the Dorchester team and wider services. By good humans who dont get enough credit, Lita, Amity, Lisa... so many, too many and I'm ashamed that there many I do not know the names of.

From the midwife who, during an admission for monitoring at 32 weeks, moved us to another room when I realised I was opposite the bed I laboured in (unknown at the time) with Jack.

Women who remembered me from that night, were the steady hand we, I needed.

To the women who surrounded us whilst i laboured (only 45mins start to finish!) listening to Mark as he advocated for me, knowing my wishes and thoughts about labouring on my back - NO NO NO!

The way they silently faded away afterwards, leaving a quiet and calm i have never known before or since. The golden hour. My golden hour finally. Finally i held my baby after birth, after the months, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds of waiting. It was my turn.

It is finally our turn.

Allana x