The isolation I have feared for so long is fading. In the past few weeks a veritable choir of supporters have joined me on stage and drowned out my mournful solo with their rousing power ballads. Suddenly the space around me has been filled with the beating of drums and joyful voices reaching up to the rafters where people unleash bags of glitter onto the audience below. The choir are:

The fertility specialist we met yesterday. As a follow up to DH’s test results, this woman was charged with putting things into perspective for us, and she did just that, rattling through medical background checks, genetic histories and future tests. But most importantly for me, she said some things I had been longing to hear; namely how hard it was for men to really understand how very stressful women find the business of repeatedly not conceiving – how pregnant friends drip-feed the sense that you’re a failure for not having achieved what they have. The specialist’s words were a validation of all that I have been thinking and a reminder to me of how hard that is for others to understand. I wanted to cry hot tears of relief but I held back when my DH asked what he could do to help support that stress. You know what the specialist said? “Well, taking out the bins is always helpful.” Nevermind that DH already deals with the bins in our household, there’s always an occasion where it might fall to me and NOW IT WON’T…. EVER! I was DELIGHTED to say au revoir mon cherie to heaving those wretched plastic sacks out of their thin tube and watching them tear against the metal, leaking all manner of noxious substance over the kitchen floor.

The fertility specialist can join my choir anytime.

Then there are my pregnant and young mother friends who are all calling me, all seeming to have reached their boredom threshold at the same time, wanting news from the normal, non-pregnant world.

Then there is my dear friend-who-never-works who called me this week and asked me to be godmother to her first born. I cried a bit (with surprise, mostly) and joyfully accepted, not only flattered but also delighted to be included in the life of another family.

Then, last but not least, there’s my husband who, I am constantly amazed by. His resolve to the cause of baby making would cow any warrior or campaigner pushing down boundaries to make way for animal rights or whatever. He is being frighteningly focused about the food he eats, the exercise he takes, the caffeine he doesn’t drink and the pints of beer he no longer throws down his, now, entirely organic, gullet. He, with the help of the choir, is now singing by my side and has turned my pathetic solo into a powerful duet.

Music analogy over, suffice to say that I only wish I were strong enough for my own voice to carry me. Until that time, I’ll always be thankful for the choir in my head.