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weren’t prepared to run any risks, no matter how small, and I took every possible precaution. I completely avoided alcohol, exercise and sex. I had showers rather than baths, as if it were somehow possible for the embryos to float off into the bath water. I lived my life wrapped in enough cotton wool to fill an aircraft hangar.
    I remember going into the hospital after two weeks for a pregnancy test, very calm on the outside, but very excited. An even more vivid memory is the physical pain of the blow that followed. The test was negative. I simply couldn’t believe it. Back then I couldn’t imagine there could be any pain worse than this. To this day, I cannot understand how I allowed myself to be so certain, especially as I knew, not only as a would-be mother but also as a doctor, how emotionally devastating the peaks and troughs associated with IVF can be. My baseless optimism only made the crash to earth that much harder. I cried and cried and cried.
    After breaking the news to Gerry, who was almost as crushed as I was, and my mum, I went for a hard, fast run to try to expel some of my distress, pain and anger. It helped a little. A day or two later, I was back on the bus, as Auntie Norah would say, in control and geared up for the wait until we could try again.
    Two months later we were ready for a second shot, using two of the embryos we’d had frozen. This time all I needed to do was to go into the hospital at the right time of the month and have the embryos transferred into my uterus. I was at work when I took the call I’d been expecting from the hospital. But instead of being asked to come in there and then, as I was anticipating, I was told, in very matter-of-fact tones, that unfortunately the defrosted embryos hadn’t survived and we therefore couldn’t go ahead with the procedure. And that, it seemed, was that. Another pallet of bricks dropped on my chest. That night, after the inevitable deluge of tears, Gerry and I went out for a consoling curry and a few beers. At least we had each other, we said. Then we picked ourselves up and prepared to start all over again.
    Although the IVF team’s plan was for us to return in six weeks to discuss the next step, after thinking it through, I could see no reason why, provided the facilities were available, we couldn’t start a new cycle at the end of that week. The timing was right and I hadn’t been taking any fertility medication which could potentially interfere with the procedure. It’s baffling to anyone undergoing fertility treatment how casually everybody else can talk about weeks and months, as if you can just go away, forget about it and concentrate on something else. A month is a lifetime to a woman who has already spent years trying to get pregnant. Once you’re on the bus, the last thing you want to do is get off.
    We were so pleased when the IVF team agreed. But then a practical obstacle arose: we discovered that at the point when Gerry would need to produce his sperm sample for fertilization he was due to be in Berlin. He had been invited to the biggest cardiology conference in Europe to give a presentation about his research. It was an important stepping-stone in his career, and he was thrilled. My heart sank. It would mean more months of waiting, but how could he miss this conference? That evening, as I was cooking dinner, Gerry came into the kitchen, gave me a hug and told me he’d decided not to go to Berlin. The IVF, he told me, was far more important. I was very relieved and very grateful to him.
    This time the cycle didn’t go quite as smoothly. Once again I responded well to the drugs – maybe a little too well, because my ovaries became over-stimulated. I’d swear they were the size of melons. At any rate, I was very uncomfortable. It was agreed with the team that we would go for a day-three embryo transfer. On day two, however, we received an urgent call from the embryologist, who told us the embryos weren’t looking as good as