A priceless love
Aged 39, I was with the man of my dreams – but was it too late to be a mummy?
Tom and I both knew that time wasn’t on my side
The table was laden with poppadoms and lager.
Me and my partner Tom Legg, 24, were out with neighbours at an Indian restaurant. We all lived on houseboats.
There’d been celebrations, as one of the women was pregnant.
‘Hey,’ Tom whispered in my ear. ‘I know you want children. I think we should start trying.’
‘What?’ I giggled. ‘Is that the beer talking?’
‘No, I love you and want a baby with you,’ he smiled.
We’d not been together long, but we both knew time wasn’t on my side. I was 39, Tom was 15 years younger.
Having a baby was something I’d wanted forever. That precious bond, the indescribable love.
Sadly, my first marriage had ended after a few years, then I’d had to call time on an eight-year relationship, as he’d not wanted kids.
Then I’d met Tom, a retail manager, at a quiz in February 2007. We’d got together a year later and now he was living with me. I didn’t think I could be happier. Well, until now!
‘You’ll make a great dad,’ I giggled, kissing him.
So after 20 years, I came off the Pill.
A month passed and nothing happened.
My mum had me when she was 37, and I’d always had regular periods, so
I wasn’t worried about being too old. But that first month turned to two, then three… Each time, my heart sank further. I tried not to show it to Tom. Stress wouldn’t help.
But, if I heard a friend was pregnant, saw a new baby in the street, it felt as if my heart was being ripped apart.
‘We have to face reality,’ I said to Tom after a year of disappointment. ‘I’m 40 now.’
‘We won’t give up,’ he said.
So, in early 2010, I went to my GP, but I wasn’t eligible for IVF on the NHS. The cut-off age was 39 – I’d missed it.
Determined, we saved hard – and, in 2011, paid £6,000 for a round of IVF.
It’s got to work, I prayed. It didn’t.
‘Hey, keep strong,’ Tom told me.
I wanted to. But, at my job as a training manager for the London Underground,
I broke down to a colleague.
‘Tom’s so much younger,’
I sobbed. ‘Maybe
I should let him find someone else who can give him a baby.’
‘He loves you!’ she insisted.
Tom said the same when I told him.
‘We’ll keep trying,’ he said to me.
So I took out a loan for more IVF. That failed, too.
‘Your eggs are declining fast,’ the doctor told us afterwards. ‘We’d strongly suggest using an egg donor.’
‘But then the baby wouldn’t have any of my DNA,’ I said.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘Because you’d carry the baby, up to 8 per cent of your DNA would get into the baby.’
So we agreed to do that. It meant throwing thousands more on the credit card, but we didn’t care.
In August 2012, Tom and I married, a celebration amid the pain. It took the fifth round of IVF, using egg donation, before we finally got that magical positive sign.
I gave the test to Tom in bed – he’d just woken up. ‘What am I looking for?’ he mumbled, sleepily.
‘Two lines!’ I said.
His eyes widened. ‘We’re having a baby?!’ he gasped.
I burst into tears. ‘Finally,’ I sobbed.
For a few weeks, we were both floating on air. But, at a six-week scan…
‘I’m afraid there’s no heartbeat,’ the doctor said. ‘Why?’ I howled. ‘We’ve waited years for this.’ ‘At least we know you can get pregnant,’ Tom whispered.
I was mid-40s now. ‘Yes, but 50 is when I say no more. I don’t want to be so old I can’t run around with my child.’ Then someone suggested we used the Instituto Bernabeu Clinic in Spain. It was much cheaper, and the wait for an egg donor wasn’t as long.
With nothing to lose, we went over and had a donor within four weeks. I had the eggs implanted and fell
pregnant. But, tragically, I miscarried at six weeks again.
Desperate, I started using Chinese medicine and having weekly acupuncture. It was costing hundreds each week.
We had loans, credit cards, but still no baby. Then, in 2017, we decided to add to our debts, with another go at the clinic in Spain. We still had eggs to use.
This time, they realised my ‘killer cells’ – immune cells which fight infection – were overactive, causing the miscarriages.
Given different medication, to our utter joy, it worked.
But we couldn’t get excited until the six-week scan. Lying there, I was shaking. But then I saw it – the flicker of a heartbeat on the screen.
‘Is that..?’ I gasped.
The doctor nodded and I burst into tears. Tom was crying and laughing. It was the longest I’d carried a baby.
A few days later, Tom came home with a purple dinosaur called Huggosaurus. Purple was my favourite colour.
‘It’s for you and the baby,’ he grinned. Adorable.
But I was scared celebrating would tempt fate, was terrified at our 12-week scan – but it passed fine.
So did our 20-week scan. Dare we hope? Then, at 29-weeks, I started bleeding. My ankles were swollen, too.
‘No, please!’ I wept as Tom rushed me to St Peter’s Hospital, Chertsey, where I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia.
‘Your baby needs to come now,’ the doctor said.
There was no time to think as I was rushed to theatre.
Minutes later, a tiny squawk filled the room.
‘It’s a boy,’ the doctor said. Tom and I sobbed. He only weighed 3lb 3oz. I caught a glimpse of him as he was rushed to Special Care. ‘He’s amazing!’ I wept.
He was small, needed to be in an incubator, but the next day, at 4pm, he was well enough for me to have my first cuddle. At 47, I finally felt complete. Unprepared for our baby’s early arrival, we didn’t have a name. But, after two weeks, we finally did – Marshall.
We’d spent £55,000 to get him. We’d be paying it off forever. But Marshall was worth it all.
He came home after 51 days, wearing a cute penguin baby suit.
‘Well, we did it,’ Tom smiled.
Marshall is now 18-monthsold. He’s a bright, happy little boy. He’s just started walking, and still amazes me.
When he’s older, I’ll tell him the struggles we went through to get him. But I’ll tell him he was worth all the debt, all the dashed hopes.
I’ll make sure our precious son knows that, for a miracle like him, we’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
I saw the flicker of a heartbeat on the screen…