They say it takes a village to raise a baby. But I was going to need a village just to make one. By Holly Gratner-Tyndall, 47
Striking a match, my friend tossed it into the centre of the bonfire and stood back as the flames crackled into life.
‘Happy birthday, Holly and Mandy,’ everyone called out.
My friend Mandy and I were having a joint beach party to celebrate her 38th birthday and my 40th.
Surrounded by family and friends, we were having the time of our lives.
I was on cloud nine for another reason too.
I’d started seeing a man called Mark and, while it was early days, I had a feeling he could be The One.
Later that evening, we all headed to a club and danced our hearts out to Eighties music.
As I grooved along to Erasure’s Chains of Love,
I reflected on the last two decades.
I had so much to be thankful for.
As well as having the most incredible family and friends, I’d built up a successful career as a sales consultant.
It was a good life.
If I had one regret, though, it was that I hadn’t settled down and started a family.
During my 20s and 30s, I’d watched longingly while friends married and had babies. Some were now grandparents.
It was hard listening to them gush about their grandbabies over coffee while I sat there,
alone and childless, and it made me realise that now was the time to have a conversation with Mark about the future.
But I wasn’t prepared for what happened.
A few weeks later, when
I brought up the subject of babies with him, he shook his head.
‘I already have two children,’ he explained. ‘I don’t want any more.’
And, just like that, all my dreams went up in smoke.
'I don't think this is going to work'
Taking a deep breath to compose myself, I made a decision.
‘I don’t think this is going to work out,’ I said.
Another relationship down the pan, I thought. Will I ever get my happy ending?
But two weeks later, something wonderful happened.
I met Randy.
I’d stumbled across his profile while browsing a dating site.
Randy was 46 and I liked his kind eyes and megawatt smile. There was something about him that drew me in.
On our first date, we sat in a cosy corner of a bar and talked about the future.
Randy already had a son, Rylan, 22, and had had a vasectomy. Nevertheless, he was open to the idea of having another child.
After just a handful of dates, I knew he was the one for me.
When he popped the question over dinner at our favourite restaurant six months later, I didn’t hesitate in saying yes.
As we were older, we knew we’d need help having a
baby so, shortly after the wedding, we went to a fertility clinic.
There we chose egg and sperm donors that shared some of our physical traits, so the baby had a chance of looking a bit like us, and we got the ball rolling.
On embryo transfer day,
I felt full of hope.
A single embryo was fertilised and transplanted. Then all I had to do was wait.
Three days later, my doctor called.
We spoke and, as soon as
I hung up, I turned to Randy.
‘We’re going to have a baby!’ I squealed.
His eyes filled with tears.
‘You’re going to be a mummy,’ he said.
However, our joy was
short-lived.
Three weeks later, I had a miscarriage.
In the blink of an eye, I went from feeling on top of the world to utterly broken.
Randy was devastated too. He wanted our baby as much as I did.
Four months later, I went for a second transfer but the embryo didn’t take.
Needing answers, I had two biopsies on my womb which revealed a build-up of tissue that had probably caused the miscarriage.
Despite this complication,
I was desperate to give it one last shot.
The only snag was the cost.
Randy and I had already spent our savings on IVF.
Randy’s twin sister Jennifer had even set up a GoFundMe to help with our costs, which our loved ones had generously donated to. But that money had been spent as well.
‘I don’t know how we’re going to afford it,’ I confessed to my mum Sherrill. ‘It was almost £40k just to get to this point.’
‘Your dad and I will help,’ she said. ‘We’re going to get you a baby.’
We were so grateful.
With the finances sorted, I went for a final transfer using our very last embryo.
I told myself not to get excited.
I didn’t even take a pregnancy test in case it gave a false reading.
‘I’ll wait for the blood tests to come back,’ I told Randy.
And when the fertility clinic rang three days later,
I expected the worse.
So when the doctor spoke I thought: Is this real?
But he said: ‘It’s good news, Holly. You’re pregnant.’
Despite that, we didn’t dare to get our hopes up. Not after everything that had happened.
Still, I’d been public about my IVF journey from the beginning and had received so much support from family and friends that I couldn’t wait to share the news.
'We're going to get you a baby'
When I told Mum, she burst into tears.
‘I’m so excited for you!’ she cried.
Randy and I already knew we were having a boy. It had been revealed during initial embryo tests.
And, at our six-
week scan, I sent our son a silent message.
Please be OK.
I lay down and the sonographer got to work.
‘Can you hear that?’ they asked as a swooshing sound filled the room. ‘That’s the heartbeat.’
‘He’s really there!’ I blurted.
When we saw him on the screen at the 12-week scan, it made it all the more real.
But my pregnancy wasn’t without complications.
Scans revealed I had large fibroids and I was going to need a Caesarean.
Then at 16 weeks I was hospitalised with a condition called placenta previa, which caused
some bleeding.
Thankfully it seemed to sort itself out. But when I reached 34 weeks, I was hospitalised yet again, this time with pre-eclampsia.
I was monitored for a week before my doctor delivered a stark warning.
‘We need to deliver your baby today,’ I was told. ‘If not, you could die.’
I went into the operating theatre with Randy by my side.
There our little boy Jett was delivered.
His name stood for strength and bravery.
‘I love you, Jett,’ I wept.
Because he was so small at just 5lb 3oz, he was taken to intensive care where he was hooked up to a breathing tube until his tiny lungs were strong enough for him to breathe on his own.
Although still in pain from my Caesarean, I visited daily and, at 33 days, we got the news we were longing for.
‘You can take him home,’ the doctor said.
Walking through our front door with him in my arms was the most wonderful feeling.
At 47, I was finally a mum. It had cost £44,000 and it was worth every penny!
Now Jett is eight months old and his happy, playful personality shines through every day.
At my age, I don’t want to have any more kids. I don’t think I’d have the energy to run around after any more. But there’s no doubt that becoming a mum was the best thing that ever happened to me.
All my life I felt like something was missing. Now I am complete — and it’s all thanks to the generosity of our amazing family and friends.
● Mark’s name has been changed.