Jo and I sit side by side on a small twin bed in a London university dorm and listen to the familiar Skype tune starting up.

We’re in uni halls because they’re cheap accommodation in London in summer, and considering our Bourn Hall clinic visit has already cost us so much, we’re travelling low-budget here.

It’s early in the morning, and neither of us is particularly in the mood for this. But there’s not a lot of choice, if we want to use a sperm donor in a UK clinic, then we need therapy. Or well, an hour through Skype will do the trick apparently.

Jo clicks the little icon, we connect to the Skype chat, and there is the face of the therapist.

“Hi!” We both smile and pretend to be enthusiastic for yet another round of proving ourselves.

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We’re on the train, slowly moving out of London.

The more green I see speeding past the train window, the more nervous I get. Historically I do not do well with hospitals. Or with small towns. Or with quaint little railway stations like this one.

All of this is pushing a multitude of buttons for me, and I try not to judge even before we walk into the clinic, but it’s difficult not to. I’m still wary after our previous hospital visit in Belgium, and while I am eager to note any differences being in a private clinic the UK will make, I don’t feel overly confident.

But we make it there.

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In my research of London clinics and their treatments, I run into ‘egg sharing IVF’. It’s a lot cheaper than the regular kind of IVF, which is what catches my eye at first. But then when I read more… well, it sounds intriguing.

How it works is that in return for a discount, you donate half of your eggs collected in an IVF cycle to someone who cannot get pregnant with their own eggs. Often these are older women, or someone who has had cancer, or someone with other genetic or fertility issues. Egg sharing is giving someone out there a chance at a deeply wanted baby.

I‘m interested. Especially when I read on and see that the waiting lists in the UK can be years for donor eggs. Someone who has been waiting that long for this could be helped by me. And it would give us access to something that otherwise we would struggle to afford, so it seems like a win-win. Plus I already know I have a lot of eggs in reserve, and I have the right age and BMI for it, so I’m an excellent candidate.

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Even though it’s been twenty years by now, I can still distinctly remember my very first period. I HATED the feeling of those plasticy, sweaty pads stuck to my underwear. I was desperate to try something else even then. My mother tried to scare me with stories of TSS and irremovable tampons, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to be comfortable.

Later, I switched to cups, and then… reusable pads. I had no idea that they would feel that much better than the disposable kind, but they absolutely do. Seriously – believe the myth. I tried one, and then ordered a dozen. I have been using the same brand for around eight years now, so I’m definitely a convert. And after one too many dashes through the rain to find Jo some pads, I was determined to make her into one as well this summer.

Cue my welcome-to-Ghent-here-are-some-menstrual-products-darling gift, cute prints, and some mild persuasion…

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We settled on finding a clinic in London, and we now know my egg supply is excellent. I feel so pleased it’s actually going somewhere and we have a plan!

After reading through tons of information, reviews, and clicking on so many price lists my eyes go funny, I narrow it down to three possible clinics in London we want go visit so we can compare. I email all three of them, excited that this is actually coming together for us.

They don’t immediately reply, so I use the contact form on their website instead, thinking maybe they didn’t receive it.

They don’t reply again, so I Google various email addresses of the clinics, and email all of those.

They still don’t reply, so I go onto a fertility forum and, mildly worried, ask the other people there for help. I am reassured it’s normal, and to wait longer. Apparently some clinics take weeks or even months to email back.

I run out of patience much sooner than that though, and I task Jo with calling them (I am terrible at phone calls, especially the important ones). I sit anxiously next to her with a huge list of questions to ask them up on the computer screen.

No reply. OF COURSE. Dammit people!

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