40 Years of IVF - Exposing myself at work

To celebrate 40 years of IVF I decided to expose myself at work. Not physically, although post IVF egg collection I repeatedly wandered around the office with my trousers undone because, quite frankly, the stubborn blighters refused to button up around my bloat. Instead I exposed myself emotionally, with a post on the work intranet informing the few thousand people I work with that I struggled with infertility and had IVF (you can read what I wrote on my website - link in bio). This morning the intranet opened up to a photo of me from the day of egg collection, wearing my hospital issue wizards outfit. It was a topical piece given IVF's birthday and not at all out of place for the intranet considering that I work for the Department of Health and Social Care. But prior to today's exposure I had told a total of 4 work colleagues about my infertility. Just 4. I knew that there must be others in the office who had been through similar experiences and by the end of the day I'd received half a dozen emails from colleagues who had also struggled to conceive. I knew it! (Slap hand on desk). We, the infertility community, are EVERYWHERE. So here is a copy of my IVF post for my work intranet, suffering slightly from the devastatingly restrictive 500 word count.

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Fertility Treatment: How to Get The Best From The NHS

Fertility testing and treatments are confusing.  Add on top of that an NHS service where you are never quite sure you are getting what you are entitled to and where do you end up? In the swamp of uncertainty.  This post sets out all I have learnt about working the system, knowing what to expect, how to know when to challenge and what to do when things go wrong.

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Cooking the books of infertility

Coping with infertility involves being continuously slapped in the face by reality, which is why it is so great to suspend real life for one reassuring, self-deluded moment.  Someone clever once described the body as the perfect accountant, what goes in comes out and nothing goes unnoticed.  If the body is the perfect accountant then my husband and I are, well, the exact opposite.

In moments of bounding optimism, we egg each other on to cook the books of infertility, and it goes something like this:

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