We did the sensible thing. We waited until we were married, had our own home and good jobs. When I fell pregnant after just one month of trying, we felt elated and naively confident. A month later, I miscarried.

I had a large fibroid in my uterus. What I didn’t know was that the surgery to have it removed would scar my fallopian tubes shut, and that we would need IVF.

I received the news a month after my 40th birthday, past the age when I would have qualified for a free go on the NHS. We decided that we’d never forgive ourselves for not trying, though we knew we would probably have to spend at least £10,000. The first try failed, but we kept going.

The second round produced two top-class blastocysts (five-day-old embryos), one of which implanted. Two weeks later, I bled so much, it was like a scene from a horror film. A month later, scans revealed that I hadn’t miscarried, but that the embryo had attached itself to the scar tissue in my cervix. If left there, I’d die from blood loss. I had to have chemotherapy and emergency surgery. It was the most traumatic experience of my life.

We’ve only confided in a few people. It’s a double-edged sword – some provide great support; others don’t know how to handle our crisis. When there is loss after loss, it becomes a strain keeping everyone up to date. Some suggest adoption. But that feels alien. It wouldn’t be fair on an already traumatised child needing a family for us to treat them as a substitute. We are simply not ready to accept that our child, trying to form in the ether, will not be allowed to materialise.

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