There was no single cause found. Unexplained — which is a real category and which about one in four couples get, and which is, if I am honest, harder than a reason, because there is nothing to treat and nothing to blame.
Five cycles. Two that did not reach transfer. One that ended at nine weeks in the March of 2019.
And at no point in six years, in any letter, in any clinic appointment, in any conversation with any professional, was it ever said that the problem was mine.
He said it. From about 2018, steadily, at home — that it was obviously me, that his body was fine, that I was too old and had left it too late for my career.
I was thirty-two in 2018.
And in the complaint, in the May of 2023, he wrote that I had been “receiving treatment for mental health difficulties associated with infertility”, which is a sentence constructed to be almost true: I saw a counsellor at that clinic eleven times in 2019, as they recommend, as most people do, and I declared precisely nothing because there is nothing to declare.
