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by Bridgette Burton
Mid 2014, my husband and I decided that we weren't going to keep trying to have a baby. We had been trying for two years, and it had turned our sex life from something fun and organic into a goal-driven marathon.
We had wanted another child. We had always pictured another child, someone to balance out the intense energy of our first boy and to be a playmate and co-conspirator. Then eight years passed. In that time we separated for three years and then, improbably, came back together, happy to have found a way to live with each other.
We kept trying for a baby, but no baby came. I was ageing, heading into the inevitable “low percentage” years of conception. During this time, anyone that knows you are trying for a baby tells you stories about 60 year old women who “just conceived naturally”.
“How many 60 year old women?” I would ask.
“Well, one” they would reply.
Exactly.
Slowly, naturally, the conversation turned to fostering a child, or children. We even signed up for information nights to understand what it was about. We hadn’t officially given up. But then, somehow, we had.
It was at this time, when we had come to an almost understanding between us, a semi sense of peace with the decision, that my Dad offered to pay for IVF. It was not an isolated incident. A dear friend, herself desperate for another child, implored us to try something else.
