IVF is not a miracle cure. 82% remain childless after treatment, but Marya Burgess and her partner were desperate to try

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.

IVF was suggested

The NHS waiting list at our hospital was three years; I was 37 and couldn’t afford to wait. But neither could we afford £3,000. We were lucky. My husband’s mother was desperate for a grandchild and offered to pay.

Until then, I’d thought the mission to conceive had occupied most of my time, but now it turned into a full-time job. Fortunately, I was freelance and could be flexible. I had to be available at all times; a blood test might mean, ‘everything on hold for another two days’ or it could mean, ‘all systems go’. Work, social engagements, all were liable to last-minute cancellations. I exercised my imagination to the limits when creating excuses. Only my closest friends were in on the secret.

The emotional strain was enormous, and it showed on the face of every person in that waiting room

We all avoided eye contact. It was an experience we didn’t want to share. Each of us was locked in our own struggle to be the one to win this particular lottery. Our clinic had an above 20% success rate – which made it a ‘good’ clinic. Against those odds even the most confirmed gamblers would baulk. Yet here we were, a selection of sober, responsible people, pursuing a goal with a high financial and emotional cost, but a very slim chance of success. It’s not rational. But then the urge to hold your own child isn’t rational; it springs from the gut and it tugs and tugs.

My fertilised eggs were implanted, and my husband drove me carefully home, taking the speed bumps with excessive caution. We had 14 days to wait. It was just before Christmas, and we spent a few days in Oxford, imagining the twins we were hatching, planning their names. I felt nauseous – I felt ecstatic! We were confident that we were the winners in that crowded waiting room. I phoned the clinic for the result of the blood test. ‘I’m sorry…’

Three months later we were ready for another try, and so was the potential grandmother

The quality of my eggs deteriorated the higher the hormone dosage I took, so logically, I knew this meant my chances were even less than 20%, but I was driven. The clinic knew it too – what was driving them?

This time I didn’t feel nauseous, and I didn’t even make it to the phone call; my period arrived early. It felt like the end of the world. And, in a way, it was. We couldn’t continue down this path; the strain on our relationship was telling – our mission to have a child was all-consuming and had taken up seven years of our lives. Enough was enough.

We decided to go away and take stock

We spent five weeks in France, letting go of the life we’d imagined and planning a different route: we’d travel, I’d write my novel. We drove north towards Calais and home; I was weeping as I said goodbye to the brown-eyed baby of my dreams.

We had a follow-up appointment at the clinic to tell the man who’d become so familiar with my insides that we’d decided to call a halt to treatment. We had to interrupt his ‘Right, you’re probably in the early stages of menopause, so this time we’ll….’ speech to say we weren’t going for another try. He seemed to find this incomprehensible and talked about alternative approaches. Was it the loss of £3,000 that upset him or the loss of control over us? Perhaps he sensed our detachment after six months of being in thrall to his every word? We left saying we’d think about it. We didn’t return.

Just before Christmas I felt nauseous. My period was late. He’s nearly six years old now. He has brown eyes and a mop of dark hair; he’s my baby.