At 45; for the first time ever, I had enough economic stability to not be kept up nightly by the thought of how I would pay rent if I lost my job. I had finally reached a level at which I believed my job was reliable, in a company that could see me through until retirement age. Now was finally the time to consider all the things that had been unthinkable when I was doing a daily balance sheet to see whether I could afford to go for a beer after work or buy the good meat at the supermarket. I bought myself the car I had wanted for many years, and it was satisfying. I loved the freedom and comfort of that car with all its frufy luxurious extras.

A few months later a report ran on the news about the rise in numbers of women using Cryos to circumvent the NHS artificial insemination restrictions. It was an interesting conundrum. The report was clearly conveying that foreign sperm were not desirable for the UK public because it eluded controls, but; the UK national sperm bank after two years of existence had only seven (yes 7) donors. Also, the few donors there were in the UK had apparently each fathered hundreds of kids. Danish sperm seemed a better option just on that basis. However; I would never have been considered at my age and suddenly it seemed like there was a loophole that I hadn’t been aware of. I could do it myself at home following instructions (something I am very good at) and for a third of the cost of using a clinic. On the website you can choose from an extensive catalogue same as when you customise shoes or configure a car: you choose height, eye colour, educational background, hair colour, etc. I suppose this isn’t surprising to someone of a younger generation that might be used to doing that on dating apps, but; for me it was like choosing candy from a shop that had all the variants on display behind the counter. I settled my mind on a John Taylor looking type that purported to have a PHD.

I made some calls; explained my circumstances and was given a green light to go ahead. I tried timing the optimum week of the month. Selections made and paid; a week later I received a dry ice container by express courier from a delivery guy that looked at me like I was a drug dealer or maybe terminally ill. Despite having lived alone for over 20 years I felt the need to draw the curtains and close the doors in the house as I hid in the bedroom to take the syringe out. Outside it was a sunny warm day. Opening the container that released a small cloud of vapour reminded me of high school science experiments where roses were shattered. The sensation of inserting the payload was a bit surreal but rolling into an inverted position was what made me feel a genuine idiot. Upside down on my bed feeling movement inside me I had the sense of covert shame that comes from transgressing the expected. Who was I to think I might make this work? But why not me? Loads of people with no education or prospects – or decidedly less desirable genes, -had children they mistreated or couldn’t properly care for, so why shouldn’t I have a chance? Not predictably for me; as I genuinely had my hopes up and thought I should have good chances given all the articles I consumed about women in menopause getting pregnant accidentally and fifty-year-old celebrities having babies, I did not get pregnant. I returned the dry ice container with remorse for having been so naïve as to hope I might achieve it on my own in a one off.

Then came the Create clinic. I did my research and found the ostensibly best private clinic (the one reporting the highest success rate). I made many trips to this clinic in the lead up to putting myself in hock to credit card debts that I rationalised could be paid off over a year. Coincidentally the clinic was near St Pauls, so I also made many trips to the cathedral to light candles and contemplate before or after visits to the clinic. The first doctor I spoke with; a Greek expatriate, made me feel cozy about his competence and that he actually cared about my case. I explained I could afford to do this once only and he advised me to put myself in his hands, so I did. I understood that their success rate was substantially due to them not advising to proceed if the prospects of success were not good. I was made to do a psych evaluation with a person who didn’t really listen to my answers but charged for rubber stamping my green light. Then came weeks of injections, an extraction, the declaration that I had quality and prospects that were good, an embryo an implantation and a failure. An upsetting and disappointing failure.

Incidentally, the Greek doctor that convinced me it was a good idea didn’t appear again after the initial visits; or after the failure. Who I did get after the failure expressed to me that I should not have expected anything given my age; it had been a longshot, and I needed to get on with life. She seemed to think spending 3,700 GBP was an exercise to purge or release feelings rather than actually because I had thought I might get pregnant out of it. I couldn’t reconcile the earlier message that my prospects were good with the later message that I was a sucker for having spent money on this process. I was angry and frustrated but mostly miserable. Looking back, I know I was taken advantage of. Not by Cryos; that sell a product same as a mail order for any purchasable good, but by the clinic in the heart of London. I suppose the desperation of women pushed past their viable breeding age by economic constraint or other circumstance is simply a cash cow to a lot of interested professionals. I wonder how many of the other private clinics operate by the same profit driven rules. But mostly I curse an economic model that punishes women for seeking economic independence; where women have to work 20 to 30% of the year for free compared to their male counterparts and / or work hours so long for such an extended period of their lives that when they come up for air their chances for certain things in life are long gone (even if the people selling them services wont own up to that).