I placed the folder back into the drawer and had almost closed it, when another large file grabbed my attention. This time the label was in my handwriting: ‘IVF Docs’. I remembered writing it. I lifted the folder out, coming across a few printouts of correspondence I had had with the fertility clinic in the run up to having IVF. There were some leaflets they had given me about pre- and post-procedure care when I had begun the process; I had dutifully kept them filed away for future reference, although I’d never actually read them again. As I flicked through, my heart began to race. I stroked my bump as I remembered how badly I had wanted this pregnancy. How much time, effort, heartache and money had gone into producing this unborn child.

I noticed the date at the top of an email – almost nine months ago – confirming my appointment for the embryo transfer that week. As I tried to focus on the email, my mind wandered back to that day…

It was a warm day, and as I walked the short distance from the Tube to the IVF clinic, I almost wished I’d worn a dress. I felt clammy and sweaty in all the wrong places; a toxic mixture of nerves and hangover; a bag of jitters. But I didn’t want the physician implanting my little embryo to think I had dressed up for him or her. I wanted to be bland today, just another patient, just another cervix – the whole thing was shameful enough; imagine if they knew what had happened last night? So I wore my staple blue skinny jeans and a thin grey T-shirt. Subconsciously I thought that tight trousers might somehow hug my body and encourage the embryo to stay put and stick. I’d run out of time to shave my legs anyway; it had ended up being a rush just to make myself look and feel presentable, before hurrying across London in time.

After paying for the procedure and completing all the paperwork, signing my name several times against a signature for a representative from the embryology team, the reality hit me as the nurse asked me one final question:

‘Is there any chance you might already be pregnant today?’

‘No,’ I replied, my heart rate speeding up. She barely looked up as she noted down my response and passed me a pee-stick anyway. I went to the toilet and took the test. I noticed my hand was shaking as I tried to aim on the stick. For a moment I wondered if this whole thing was a good idea. My heart pounded in my chest. But as a second line failed to appear on the stick, confirming I was not pregnant, I took a deep breath and returned to the consultant’s room. I had come too far to change my mind now.

I was then asked to remove my underwear and change into a clinical green gown. None of the romance involved with having your knickers pulled down in a moment of passion with the man of your dreams. A flashback swept across my mind.