14 hours ago
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Some things are easy to talk about; infertility is not one of them. I speak from experience – of miscarriage and unsuccessful rounds of IVF – and I’ve heard some clangers along the way. I forgive you all. Well, most of you.
But I also come at it as the presenter of BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour. Three decades into live talk radio, I listen for a living. I’m adept at noticing micro-expressions, the pauses, the shifts in tone, the feelings that sit between the words on and off air. And I keep wondering: why are we so bad at talking about infertility? This is even something that, until now, I haven’t spoken publicly about.
Perhaps it’s because we still live in a society in which motherhood is, for many, the expected norm. When something is assumed to be inevitable, its absence can make people uncomfortable. That discomfort can spill into language that isn’t appropriate, helpful or even fit for purpose. Or maybe people don’t know how to broach a subject so complex.
Whatever the reason, according to the NHS, about one in seven couples could experience fertility problems. That’s a lot of people who would benefit from better conversations.
When I was going through it, I wanted to be open. But rather quickly, I changed tack. The appetite other people had for the specifics I found exhausting and, at times, invasive. How many weeks when you miscarried? How many rounds of IVF? As though there were some hierarchy of effort, some scoreboard of grief.
Their timing could also be way off. Once, as we stood at a buffet, an acquaintance filling his plate said: “Sorry about your miscarriage, I’m sure it’ll happen.” I was caught completely off-guard. To be fair, the sentiment was well-intentioned, but the setting was less than ideal.
Moreover, at that early stage, I had told so few people. If he knew, it suggested others had also been discussing it. Human nature, perhaps. But miscarriage is a lonely place. Being discussed in absentia made it feel even lonelier.
He was far from the only person to say “I’m sure it will happen”. I know it comes from a place of hope, but it felt like a minimisation of pain – not only of what I was experiencing, but also of what, potentially, was in store for me. “I’m sorry” is a complete sentence. That would have been enough.
Yet I really can understand why it’s difficult to know what to say. I was often torn myself. On the one hand, I craved sentiments based in reality. On the other, I longed for discernment – for people to choose their words with my tender heart in mind.
After an embryo transfer, a friend casually reminded me: “You know those cells don’t mean anything. They may amount to nothing.” As it turned out, she was right. The embryo didn’t stick. But I remember the words landing like a physical blow after months of injections, appointments and emotional endurance. To me, they meant everything.
I knew she was trying to temper my expectations. According to the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA), the average IVF birthrate using fresh embryo transfers is 25%. That means 75% don’t result in a baby. That’s the truth. But that particular night, I wasn’t ready for it.
As time passed without a successful pregnancy, there came the familiar “maybe it’s just not meant to be”. Now, I can accept that. Then, it felt like a cold, unwelcome verdict.
So how could it have gone better? For me: fewer platitudes, less certainty, more listening, greater empathy. I felt all that from one couple who chose a quiet moment, face to face, to tell me they were expecting. They said they understood their happy news might hurt. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sombre. It was thoughtful. Their act of consideration felt like love.
And I must give a special mention to the receptionist in the IVF clinic, when we had come to the end of that particular road. She said: “I’ve watched you two together in and out of here over the years. I see how you are with one another … you are enough without a baby.” Her words made me smile, so soothing on a difficult day.
Everything I’ve recounted might well have landed completely differently with someone else. That’s another thing that makes it a minefield. We are not mind-readers.
Infertility is common. Finding the right words, at the right time, is much less so. I’m hoping that by sharing and exploring these complicated feelings and the language around them, I can help get us to a better place. A place where we can show up for one another and find what helps, and what doesn’t, when a baby isn’t a given.
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Nuala McGovern presents Woman’s Hour Monday, the Woman’s Hour Guide to Life, and SEND in the Spotlight podcasts on BBC Sounds. On Sunday 22 March’s episode of The Woman’s Hour Guide to Life, Nuala and her guests discuss navigating conversations around infertility.
