After a breakup, I reached a bold decision to make a lifelong dream come true. By Rebecca Bell, 26
I sat in the waiting room, nervously twiddling my thumbs. Then my name was called.
I stood up and followed a doctor into a small room.
There, I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the results of earlier tests.
‘Your egg reserves are exceptionally low for someone your age,’ the doctor said.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
‘It means you could fall pregnant naturally in the next three years, but the chances are low,’ she replied. ‘After that, you will probably be infertile.’
Tears sprang to my eyes.
Years earlier, when I was 16, I’d been diagnosed with endometriosis.
I was aware it could cause fertility issues, so I’d decided to visit a fertility clinic to have a check-up on my reproductive health.
But the results were more alarming than I’d imagined.
I’d always wanted to become a mum. But now I was being told that time was ticking.
And to make matters worse, I’d recently split up with my boyfriend of one year.
I thought: How am I going to meet the man of my dreams and have a baby within three years?
After leaving the clinic, I phoned my mum Jane, in tears.
She tried to reassure me.
‘Becky, you’re going to have a family no matter what,’ she said.
In time, I visited another fertility specialist.
She explained that IVF would be my best option.
‘The sooner you do it, the better your chances of conceiving,’ the doctor said.
I explained that I was single.
‘It might be ages before I meet someone,’ I said.
But she told me: ‘That’s not a problem. Lots of women are using sperm donors these days.’
There was the option of freezing my eggs in case I met someone down the line, but my chances of conceiving in this way were reduced.
Back home, I thought about my options long and hard.
I was aged 26.
But fertility specialists had warned me that time was running out.
If I wanted to become a mum, I had to act fast.
Years earlier, I’d received more than £25,000 in an insurance pay-out, following a car accident.
So, I made a decision.
When I told friends and family that I planned to spend the money on IVF using donor sperm, they were supportive.
In time, I sat down with my mum and sisters and looked through the profiles of 32 sperm donors.
They helped me to whittle the pile down to 11 donors, before I eventually selected one.
I knew that he had brown hair, brown eyes, and worked as a psychologist. But I would never know his identity.
I had to undergo counselling before I was allowed to proceed with IVF, to discuss how I’d explain the situation to my child when they were older and how I’d help them understand how our family was different.
I started keeping a journal to record every step of my journey to becoming a mum.
After the counselling, I began taking hormone injections.
In time, I returned to the clinic and four of my eggs were retrieved. Three were fertilised.
But then one of the embryos died. So, I had two remaining.
In time, the day of the embryo transfer arrived, and I felt a bundle of nerves. I went shopping with Mum to distract myself before my appointment.
Then I received a phone call from my doctor and felt devastated to learn that another of the embryos had died.
After hanging up, I cried in Mum’s arms.
‘Maybe I’m not supposed to be a mum,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘Of course you are.’
All my hopes rested on the single surviving embryo.
We travelled to the clinic.
There, a nurse led me into a room.
She said: ‘Even though you’ve only got one embryo, it has developed really well and is as healthy as can be.’
After the embryo was transferred into my uterus, I returned home and hoped for the best.
I was supposed to wait a couple of weeks before returning to the clinic for a blood test to determine whether or not I was pregnant.
But four days after the transfer, my friend Alicia stayed the night.
Next morning, as we ate breakfast, she said: ‘I think you should do a test.’
The suspense was killing me, so I agreed.
But after taking the test, only one line appeared.
I tossed it in the bin and tried to convince myself I’d taken the test too soon.
But hours later, I returned to the bathroom, and as I dropped a tissue into the bin, the discarded pregnancy test caught my eye. I lifted it out and gasped.
Then I ran down the stairs to Alicia.
She saw the little white stick in my hand and her eyes widened.
‘Show me!’ she said.
We both stared in disbelief at the second line that had appeared.
The following week, a test at the clinic confirmed it.
‘I’m pleased to tell you it’s been a success,’ the doctor said. ‘You’re pregnant.’
Alicia was there and wrapped her arms around me.
I told the doctor: ‘Thank you.’
Then, I rang Mum.
She was thrilled when I told her I was pregnant.
‘I’m going to be a grandmother!’ she shouted.
In the days that followed, I celebrated by going shopping for bottles and babygros.
Now, I’m 19 weeks pregnant. The only person who knows whether I’m having a boy or a girl is my sister Chloe. She’s organising a gender-reveal party.
But I’ll be thrilled whether it’s blue or pink confetti that comes shooting from the cannon.
I’m not sure if my ex knows about my pregnancy, as we don’t speak these days.
I never imagined that aged 26, I’d pay thousands of pounds to become a single mum.
But it was a dream I felt determined to make come true — and infertility and a breakup weren’t going to stand in my way.
