Wanted: a baby

He had brown eyes and a mop of dark hair. He was my longed-for baby. He was my dream baby. But to me, he was real.

When we got married I thought it would be so easy; it was the reason we’d got married. We’d been together for nine years. We both wanted a child and expected to have one very soon. I had no history of any kind of gynaecological problems; my husband was fit and healthy.

At first it was fun

The notion of procreation gave a renewed buzz to a nine-year-old sex life. But, month by month, my dreams were shattered and an element of the mechanical crept in. Ovulation thermometers and mucous assessment circumscribed my life; I went from a confident refusal to buy tampons (‘I won’t need them this month’) to keeping a superstitious cupboardful. (‘I won’t let them know we’re trying.’ Who? The tampons? The stork delivery network?)

After 18 months, the tests started

A laporoscopy showed clear tubes. My eggs were good quality, so why didn’t I conceive? I might, apparently, be allergic to my husband’s sperm. So, as well as our increasingly mechanical encounters in the bedroom, I began to have encounters at the hospital. His sperm was placed directly into my uterus, to avoid the risk that any of my inhospitable vaginal secretions could attack it before it got the chance to do its job.

Still nothing. They started me on fertility hormones, even though I was producing good quality eggs; perhaps if I produced more, the sperm would have a better chance of scoring a hit?

The years were passing

Friends were reproducing effortlessly. Each new baby was a reminder of our inadequacy, another stab at my dreams. I still couldn’t quite believe this was happening; every month I felt certain this would be it. But it never was.