So many times I had stood in this exact theatre room, all scrubbed up, ready to receive a baby. And now here I was…….the patient on the table.

“Ok,” I thought, “I’ve either just broken my waters or I’ve peed myself – and I have NEVER peed myself.”

"I can't breathe," I gasped as I rocked back and forth trying to find a comfortable position. Sharp, unbearable pain radiated through my chest.

“Why me?” The complicated question that strangely embodies both sadness and happiness.

Having active strategies to help us cope emotionally, communicate better and support each through our infertility would have made a profound difference on our journey.

“DON’T COME IN HERE!” I screamed at my husband through the closed bathroom door. I stared in despair at the disasterous scene before me.

My heart was racing. I felt breathless with the tiniest amount of exertion. I felt intense anxiety for, what I felt like, no good reason. I felt like I was having panic attacks – ALL the time.

After seeing the dietician, I became extremely interested – or rather, obsessed – in learning about vitamin supplementation in pregnancy.

“How are you feeling?” she asked in genuine concern. “Depleted,” I said flatly, “like death warmed up.”

“I can’t do this,” I would moan to my husband, “this is going to kill me. I won’t survive.”

My hands were shaking so violently that I almost spilled my ginger beer as I waited for the train. I was convinced it was all going to kill me.

When I saw that I had missed the phone call from the fertility clinic I could hardly breathe. My hands were shaking so violently that I couldn’t hold the phone.

Despair was consuming me, and yet the tiniest tinge of relief was starting to seep through the cracks of my broken heart; I was desperate for this torture to end.

“I am so sorry hun, your pregnancy test was negative.” I gulped. I wanted to vomit, and yet I had expected it.

“I’m only doing this for closure,” I’d staunchly say to myself, as if articulating the words out loud would convince my little fragile, hopeful heart.

When I woke up in recovery I had the number “16” written on my hand and I nearly burst into tears. As we drove home we allowed ourselves to relish the sensation of hope again…

I was a little bit hotter, a little bit angrier and a little bit less tolerant every day. Fighting invigorated me – Confrontation felt so GOOD.

So many women are afraid to change doctors as they don’t want to “offend” their current doctor, but for me, this was a decision of life or death – the life or death of my future children.

If I were to be completely honest – painfully transparent in fact – my struggle with people was nothing compared to my struggle with God.

Life or death – that is EXACTLY how I viewed it. I wanted to be taken seriously; this “casual” approach was making me furious.