Unimaginable agony of my IVF treatment

Sarah would’ve done anything to make her dream of being mum come true but she never expected to end up in intensive care, crying out in pain.

Sarah was told the risks associated with IVF treatment were so low that they weren’t worth thinking about.

I opened my eyes to my name being called and three paramedics in my bathroom.

Heart monitors were being fitted to my chest, a look of panic on my husband’s face.

I could remember an anaesthetic being administered only hours before.

I remembered my husband bringing me home.

So how was I on the floor of our bathroom, having collapsed after what should have been a routine egg collection procedure?

I’m that young woman in her thirties who desperately wants to have a baby.

I’m that one in six who struggles with infertility.

I’m that woman referred to a fertility clinic in the hope of realising the dream of parenthood.

I am also that woman told the risks associated with IVF treatment were so low that they were skipped over without a second thought.

I was told about ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (OHSS), but I was also told that it very rarely happens.

I entered the process as a Dr Google enthusiast.

I did my research and I thought I knew exactly what it would entail: injections, hormones, a tough ride.

What I didn’t realise was that as soon as we paid our deposit for our first round of treatment I became a patient of the clinic, that it would be managing my body and ultimately my health.

I was no longer under the direct care of my trusted specialist.

I knew there would be lows throughout the IVF process. But I could not have imagined the agony and danger of severe OHSS.

I will never forget the pain that crept across my body as I vomited over and over: the culmination of repeated cycles of self-injecting and increasing medication.

Or the headaches that felt like a sledgehammer being pounded across my skull, the hot sweats, the inability to sit up in bed each morning.

Or the fainting spells, including the day I collapsed in the shower and woke with the taste of blood in my mouth.

I would repeatedly call my assigned nurse to inform them how ill I was feeling.

Sarah found herself whisked to hospital as a result of severe ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome.

My calls were often met with voice message recordings and not returned until after 4pm, if at all.

I would be reassured the sickness was normal, an acceptable consequence for women undergoing an IVF drugs regimen.

And I convinced myself this had to happen for me to have a baby and it would be worth it.

But despite undergoing blood tests and ultrasounds every two days, I was never seen by a doctor.

And the specialist who prescribed these potent drugs wasn’t being notified that his patient was dangerously ill.

By the time of egg collection surgery, I was hideously sick.

Twenty-eight eggs were collected that day, while it was identified that I could have hyperstimulation. I was then sent home to “self-monitor”. Hours later I was in an ambulance.

Three litres of fluid pooled in my abdomen as my heart and lungs struggled to cope with the load.

Back in hospital, I don’t remember much of that time other than the pain.

Twice a day, I was taken up to radiology to be scanned for somewhere that they could insert a tap to try to drain the fluid. But my ovaries were too swollen to do so without fear of nicking an organ and my heart was not strong enough to withstand an anaesthetic should that have happened.

As medics tried to lay me flat to scan me, the fluid would rush up across my chest.

I would scream as it felt like a bucket of water was being poured down my throat and I was drowning. Only morphine injections would settle me.

I remember dreading those times of the day and staring up at the ceiling as they wheeled me through the hospital corridor, trying to hold back the tears.

I’m told I was crying in pain endlessly as I was pumped full of painkillers as countless specialists struggled to work out how to treat me.

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In the end, it was decided I would simply have to wait it out and allow my body to slowly process the fluid.

Even now, a year later, I still feel emotional writing about what I endured.

I feel trepidation knowing that I am at high risk of experiencing OHSS again if I go back for further treatment.

And I will go back, because I still desperately want to have a baby and I hope, one day, it will all be worth it.