Fatherhood.

21 06 2015

This cartoon is one of the best representations of the shock and awe of fatherhood I have seen. Bob Moran, a cartoonist has put together his very personal experiences for the UK’s Telegraph. 

Father's Days

Please click on the image

For me, the experience was somewhat different. Mandy was brought home by a work colleague at around 1600hrs. She’d earlier collapsed in a bank, passing out and hitting the floor because of the pain in her tummy. So, arriving home, she looked very unwell, and my immediate reaction was to phone our obstetrician. Eva was brilliant and decisive, after describing Mandy’s symptoms she just said “get her into maternity now and I’ll see you very soon.”

So, calmly, but inwardly panicking, I drove Mandy to Auckland City. I parked outside and grabbed a wheelchair, as she clutched her stomach. A hospital volunteer told me to “bring the wheelchair back once you’ve finished with it!” I didn’t respond, so she decided to accompany us all the way up to maternity telling us en route “we never get these wheelchairs back, they just go missing you know…” I couldn’t have cared less.

We presumably arrived at floor 9, it’s the maternity wing, and were immediately met by a team of lovely nurses at which point Mandy was admitted and transferred to a single room – the volunteer, pushing her way in past all of the clinical staff to grab the wheelchair, amidst all of the hullabaloo, couldn’t have been a more surreal spectacle. I was in disbelief and so were the nurses.

I felt relieved that Mandy was at last in safe hands. But she was in pain, lots of pain. So they tried to help her by increasing her oxygen intake because her breathing was shallow. Examinations continued, the pain wasn’t abating, Mandy told them she wasn’t getting anything through the line but they didn’t believe her. Increasingly worried, I asked them to check the line and so they changed the face mask. Concerned at the lack of relief still, after 15 minutes I decided I’d had enough and looked at the equipment myself finding that they’d not turned it on!

There was a sudden hush among the nurses as a registrar appeared accompanying Eva, our obstetrician. Initial examinations of Mandy gave cause for concern, not just for Mandy, but for Darcey too. Her condition was inexplicable. I remember them vividly trying to ascertain Darcey’s heart beat, but no-one could find it. Mandy was meanwhile fighting back the pain. Eva continued to examine her and after five minutes – it appeared to last a lifetime – Eva took the decision to ‘get Darcey out, and see what’s going on…’

There must have been a shift changeover because I remember the moment a nurse pressed the red button above Mandy’s bed,  as if by magic with the red lights flashing and the alert sounded, we were suddenly swamped with nurses, they came from everywhere. It was actually quite terrifying, because for me it underlined how serious the situation was, it was a real emergency for us the like of which I’d never been involved with before, with potentially serious and unknown consequences; but for the clinicians this was a ‘normal’, practiced and rehearsed, emergency procedure. They were all calm and focused, each with a role to perform. It was impressive.

Mandy was effectively stripped of everything she was wearing, studs, earings, rings and even in her pain, battled to retain some dignity by holding on to her black nail varnish on at least one finger. However, by now there were swarms of nurses and clinicians around us. Mandy was readied for theatre and I accompanied her as they wheeled her bed along the corridor…we didn’t have a moment to kiss and say ‘goodbye’, but my hand grabbed hers and she was gone. A heavy mancunian accent spoke to me, as a senior nurse put her reassuring arm around me.‘Let’s get you settled chuck with a nice cup of tea’ and I was escorted out into the landing area of the ward. Tea arrived and a reassuring chat with the nurse ensued, but soon she was gone and I was all alone.

Time passed me by and the security doors to the wards were closed. I was now shut out. The hospital had no cafe, the restaurant was closed, there was nothing and I feared leaving in case I missed something. There was no-one to speak to – how was I going to find out about Mandy and Darcey? Who was going to know anything anyway? Mandy was no longer in maternity, technically, or was she? Was it surgical now? I didn’t know anything. Silence.

I paced up and down and several hours went by. I picked up one of the wall phones to speak to the ward and nobody answered. I tried again, the result was the same. Three hours had now passed by, it was 2100hrs, and suddenly Eva arrived with what turned out to be a registrar from general surgery. ‘Has no-one been to see you?’ they asked. ‘No, it’s been a very quiet and anxious time for me’ I said. Apologising, they explained that Darcey had been delivered at 1942hrs and had been rushed up to NICU. Mandy had undergone an internal examination by general surgeons who found that she’d had a cecal volvulus. ‘So. All good. Congratulations. Someone should be along shortly to take you to see Darcey.’

Another hour and a half passed by, this time, I’d managed to get the ward to answer, and they were now ‘searching’ for Mandy. I was on floor nine, the maternity floor, but they thought she might be on floor seven.

Just after 2300hrs, a nurse appeared through the doors and said ‘Mr Page, would you like to come and see your daughter?’ I followed her excitedly. I don’t really know what I was expecting. I was feeling out of sorts, I’d missed her birth (she was my first), she was in NICU and my wife had gone missing. I was tired, hungry and anxious. Turning left into the NICU ward, I saw posters, large wall mountings, each unique, beautiful, colourful and personal describing the journey of other poor little souls who were born early. They had all seemingly graduated and left the care of this fabulous facility, safely and alive, each returning to their homes to live a normal life.

I was now very worried and began wondering what on earth almost 10 weeks of prematurity might look like. Nothing could have prepared me for that moment. The room was softly lit, and there in the furthest left hand corner, under the window, was an incubator. Tubes, cables, wires and straps went in and circled around the plastic box in which Darcey was lying. She was obscured by a quilt which had been placed to keep the environment dark. There were two other little ones in the room too, the pings, bongs, and mechanical sounds resounding through the room made it a very noisy place to be, but beyond that there was a calm and tranquility. I stood there at the end of the incubator, and the nurse removed the quilt, and there was our little darling…

Darcey in NICU, 3 hrs old

Darcey in NICU, 3 hrs old

I was shocked, delighted, tearful, horrified, amazed, left for words. She was so small and wasn’t breathing on her own, with CPAP and its monitor noisily regulating the flow of air into her lungs. All of the tubes looked huge compared to her. She was no bigger than my forearm. It was hard to comprehend. I’d never been to a NICU before and to see this image of Darcey, our little girl looking so poorly, so red skinned, with a concave chest, with tubes and bandages all around her was quite a shock. As far as we knew at this time, she was ‘okay’. Tests would reveal she had a large ASD and was potentially deaf on one side.

I wished Mandy had been there with me, but it would be another hour before we ‘found’ Mandy, and another two days before she was well enough to venture up to floor 9. Her experiences are another story entirely.

The arrival of one’s first born is usually a time of immense happiness, celebration and jubilation. This was and and wasn’t one of those times, although I thanked God for giving me back Mandy and delivering Darcey alive. In addition to the shock of the menace posed by the tubes and devices connecting Darcey to life, here I was standing over her, unable to pick her up, detached from the physical connection of holding my baby, I wasn’t able to touch her even. This was a traumatic time, it was a very lonely time but my dream had finally come true: I had become a father.

I caught up with Mandy in recovery on floor seven. Like Darcey, she had tubes coming out of her nose, her arms and tummy. She looked very unwell, but I was so grateful that she was alive. One of the nurses had provided a photo of Darcey. She shed a tear, squeezed my hand and she closed her eyes. As it turned out, Mandy would recover to full health, but it had been very serious and she had been lucky.

Darcey would spend the next 60 days in the wonderful care of Auckland City’s NICU.

 





The Snip!

23 03 2014

Image

When you’ve personally not had to bear the sadness of infertility (except when you’ve been married to someone who was – and it leaves deep scars) and in your new life, with two successive acts of God, children just seem to appear, it rather begged the question do we want to have any more? By looks of things we could just continue churning them out…I had visions of a platoon of mini-me’s and mini-Mandys, with us sitting out our dottage with hundreds of grandchildren bouncing off our zimmer frames and taking the mobility scooters out for a blast around Auckland! I think the answer we came to was, sadly, ‘no’.

So down to the clinic to have initial discussions about ‘the snip’. I was really surprised by how many times they asked me do you want to do this, are you sure, have you thought about this etc etc. It’s hard to imagine any man casually going into a clinic and asking for his vas deferens to be disconnected. Of course I’d thought about it. I’d pondered and cogitated for years! I am 46 for goodness sake, I wouldn’t have done this lightly, at any time in my life, but come on, seriously, what did they imagine?

So, examinations then took place, a squeeze here, pressure applied there, ‘cough please…and again… once more…’. Then the biggest surprise of all. After all the questions, the prods, pokes and the justifications, the doctor said he couldn’t perform the operation. I had a moment’s thought that this rather friendly, avuncular clinician was having some kind of dilemma, and that morally, he couldn’t do it to me! Sadly, no, it was far more simple. For my sins, I had some how managed to acquire an inguinal hernia on my left side. As if that news wasn’t enough, it was accompanied by the news I had one on my right side too! I’d never been troubled or had any suspicions at all.

Whilst consultants don’t agree that it is necessary to fix the hernia problem before slicing into the other (so to speak), this one believed that dealing to the bilateral inguinal hernias was apparently very important, and that we’d have to fix them up first. What a palaver. However, never one to miss an opportunity, ‘could we do all three at once?’ I asked, ‘three for the price of one?’. So with a laparoscopic procedure, coming in from the top, I would now have a general, a rest-up in bed and be pampered for 24 hours! Marvellous. That was the theory. Major projects at work, back to work the next day (try putting on trousers, jeeze) and then the following week, a trip to the US, UK, Canada, Australia and back to Auckland. It was without doubt, a little, well, painful, at times – brought tears to my eyes, but needs must!

As I work for the health sector, I also thought it would be good to take a look at the service we offer patients in our wonderful elective surgery units. I am delighted to say it is fabulous care – from start to finish. I only wish the post operative sample clinics were under my control too. Turned up with my sample three months later, my daughter in trail, in a relatively full waiting room, to be asked what it was (the label was clear) and then to be told that I needed to go to another lab test centre, twenty minutes away. With a rush of blood to the cheeks, my sample clenched in one hand and my daughter in the other, I melted out of the waiting room in a nano-second. Some things, it would appear don’t change – my embarrassment for one.

It seems I never quite get it right. However, all appears to be working well less a few million of my little friends, much to Mandy’s relief.





It’s never far away…

14 07 2012

Alexander David Archer-Page (26 weeks)

So, here we are, blessed again. This is the first time I’ve had the inclination to sit and write about our good fortune, for that is what it is. Alexander is now 30.3 weeks. He’s in the 95th percentile in terms of weight, placing him in the ‘large’ category and Mandy is feeling it, poor girl. It was exactly at this point, 22 months ago that Darcey came into our lives and is going well but is still small – 8.0kgs. However, she’s lively, bright and quite advanced developmentally, ahead of  her non-adjusted age group, when in fact she should be a couple of months behind, so that’s all good.

This week then had a psychological significance and every day that Mandy and Alex can hold on means that he will be safer, stronger and more resilient, whatever happens, but Mandy’s suffering increases.  We survived this week, but we’re taking each days as it comes, not as a given. Alex could arrive at almost any time over the next 10 weeks, if Mandy were to suddenly become ill, as she did with Darcey. Fingers crossed.

So, tonight, it was with sadness that I learnt that one of our friends has been unlucky – her IVF failed. It’s good that she’s talking about it, and actually we’re very pleased she’s talked to us. I remember that people who were expecting babies were the last on the list of people Jo and I wanted to talk to because they’d simply never understand – and in most cases, that would be true. In our case, it simply opens up the old wounds and makes me reflective of how far we’ve come, how lucky I, personally  have been, but what a painful journey I have ridden. It makes me think of Jo, her mum and dad, and how sad they’ve been not having children and grandchildren in their lives because of some unknown physiological condition. I cannot change that, but I can be very grateful for having been given a gift from God, not once, but twice.

But then there’s another friend of ours, whose IVF journey has been so tortuous for her and her husband. She’s gone off air of late, finding it all too hard. Of course, I totally get that. It’s so utterly devastating. It worries me that they, as a couple are not in the same place about this. It harks back to the advice I would always give which is be careful what you wish for and do not let it become all-consuming. At the very least, you, the couple, need to be strong, united and in one place. Ultimately, if one of you is only luke warm about continuing IVF or trying another procedure or process, you stand to place your whole marriage at risk. The marriage and love for each other came first, that, above all else needs to be protected. I pray for our friends, that they will find reconciliation and inner strength to overcome their differences and unite once more.

So here’s the thing. Soon to be a dad of two children, happily married to boot, but feeling terribly unworthy and guilty, because of  all those who have tried to become parents and failed but keep on trying and trying. Those scars I bear are so deep that I guess they will never disappear. From those scars, however, comes empathy, sympathy and understanding – the only support I can offer to those around us who are sad, feeling desolate and angry.

Whatever went before, it’s never far away.





Infertility: the totally misunderstood disease

25 04 2011

Infertility: a disease by any other name

What is it with these people who believe we’ve brought infertility on ourselves? Why do they think the way they do? Why are their attitudes so lacking in humanity and compassion? Why do others think it’s okay for them to have kids, but adoption is the only route for the rest of us? The answer is ignorance, and sadly it’s all too common.

In her recent article, Cristina Odone attacks the IVF industry for undermining adoption in the UK. She argues that if all those who want IVF on the NHS had to first attempt adoption that it would somehow force necessary changes needed to the adoption process in the UK.

To use infertility sufferers as some sort of battering ram to change adoption policy is obscene. What is she thinking? The truth is, she isn’t thinking at all. When we first discover that we, a loving couple, are infertile – because it really is about two people, whatever the circumstances – we’re devastated, we’re in mourning, we’re grief-stricken and our femininity or masculinity has some how been found wanting. We feel anxious, guilty and worried about the future. Everything we hoped for as a couple, those dreams of creating a new generation, the progeny of our love, all those hopes and aspirations, plans and fantasies all tied up together, are suddenly dashed. Most of us would never think that adoption was the next move. We were put on this earth for a reason and it is our right to try everything we possibly can to become the biological parents of children we wish to bring into this world.

Imagine, you troop up to an adoption counsellor and she asks ‘so why do you want to adopt?’ and you say, ‘…well, actually we don’t, we want to have our own kids, but we’ve been told we can’t until we’ve tried adoption first…’ Would she think you were suitable? You wouldn’t exactly be committed would you? Besides, you’ve just found out you’re infertile, so you’re all over the place psychologically anyway. Under this scenario and you tried to adopt, you would be turned down, so the whole exercise would be self defeating and what a waste of energy, time and money it would all have been. The whole suggestion is an absurd one.

Adoption comes to mind last, after every other possibility that can be afforded has been exhausted: IVF, donor egg or surrogacy then adoption, in that order. If you’re like we were, we had fire in our bellies and a desire to fight infertility every step of the way. We were going to try whatever medical science could offer us first, then we would look at other options. Only when you have no more money to throw at it, or as in our case, when the evidence was so heavily stacked against us, with a 1% chance of success it wasn’t worth it, did we move on, but not to adoption but to donor egg, surrogacy and then adoption.

In reality, adoption rules need changing, they are antiquated and in need of reform. It is though the decline in unwanted babies, the rise of freely available abortion that has impacted the adoption market, not IVF. I cannot verify this with numbers, but I think it’s a pretty good hunch that whereas thirty to forty years ago adoption was still frowned on, it is today far more accepted.

There are many who think somehow, because we’ve chosen to have children later in life, we should be denied the support of the state to conceive. The argument is that we’ve brought it upon ourselves, therefore we should be made to pay or to accept the consequences. ‘Tough’ seems to be the view that’s held. However, in a civilised society ‘tough’ won’t cut it. We’ve paid taxes, we’ve made a different choice to those who had children early, that choice isn’t wrong, it’s just different. We have a right to be supported to become parents, in the same way that it’s your right to a university place at any time of your life. There is simply no adequate argument that gives others the right to judge us, nor to condemn us or remove the support needed.

In the light of all this, I have come up with something that I call my ‘Articles of Faith‘, the truths that I hold dear:

  1. I believe infertility is a disability and like many disabilities whilst there’s no absolute cure it can be treated, with a modicum of success – in this instance, one chance in five (depending on age etc). It should be recognised as a disability and those suffering given protection under new legislation just enacted.
  2. I believe that it is everyone’s natural, God given right to become a parent.
  3. I believe that everyone should be entitled to three free IVF treatments by the NHS.
  4. I believe that  it is everyone’s right to choose when they wish to try to become parents.
  5. I believe that all those who have experienced infertility have a duty to speak up and fight ignorance and bigotry surrounding the issue.
It is really important that we try to remain calm and rational when debating these issues because for some of the protagonists out there, this is a bit of saloon bar sport. There’s this notion somehow, held by many,  that we’re all middle class, bleeding heart, lilly-livered liberals who wear open toe sandals, read the Guardian and vote Green, and that we’ve brought this all upon ourselves and therefore, they don’t see why they should have to pay for our largesse. How wrong they are.
So, let’s stand strong, tall and proud and fight these people who know nothing of our pain and anguish. There are none so blind as they who will not see. It is our job, the one’s who are free of the constraints of infertility, who must make them see and educate them. Who will join me in this crusade?




I am Darcey’s grandfather, apparently.

13 03 2011

Darcey and her 'grandparents'

 

I waited a long time to become a father and only ever fleetingly considered what it would be like to be an older dad, some ten years or so past the average age of paternity.

I have wondered how Darcey would feel taking me to school events as the more athletic dads pummeled me on the race track, how she would feel when her name was called out and there was me, sitting there clapping furiously at speech day, prize giving day, or graduation day… meeting her post-pubescent teachers, shocking them all with my wisened looks, imagining the comment ‘goodness, that’s Darcey’s dad, he’s so old…’

I dismissed the ageist thoughts as irrelevant, totally, completely and utterly. Who cares, I thought, I will never let it get to me.

Well, on Saturday, I was talking to one of the staff members who knows me, at our favourite bar come restaurant, with Darcey bouncing and gurgling in my arms. She was making very polite conversation about babies in general and then she said it, “Is this your first grandchild?”. In the length of a nano second, I died, was resurrected and carried on living, all with a smile, as I laughed out loud proclaiming “…actually, this is my first daughter…” to which a very embarrassed young woman replied, diplomatically, “oh, yes, I am so sorry, how silly of me…”

The problem is, this was not the first time, but I had forgotten that is had occurred before. I was picking up my free iPhone (as you do, courtesy of Vodafone Complaints Resolution Department) from one of their friendly stores in Ponsonby, and proudly, I entered the stored with Darcey for the young guy there to ask me “how old’s your granddaughter?”. He was serious but very quickly became very embarrassed by his faux pas.

So, the questions remain, do I look like a granddad, or are these young people (both in their early 20s) ignorant, unworldly-wise or just plain rude? Well, I must admit, even when I was twenty something, I don’t think I was ever that brazen to make any kind of reference like that in the first place to a customer or someone I didn’t really know. I’d worked in retail for over 10 years and had seen a few odd situations, couples mainly, where you’d wonder if the younger one was a son or daughter rather than a partner… It might just be that times have changed and people think nothing of speaking their minds like this, without fear of causing offence or embarrassment – and, so, there we are, I am showing my age – the generation gap writ large – between these kids and me.

I wonder what it is then about my face, my build, my body, my manner – that when someone sees me with Darcey, with all that evidence amassed they wonder, seriously, if I am her granddad. Okay, I have no hair, I have hardly any wrinkles and no gray strands within the hair on my head that remains, so what is it? Inside, I am laughing to myself that if they think I am indeed Darcey’s granddad, then I’d love them to meet her grandmother, and whilst we’re at it for pure shock value, let’s introduce the great grandparents too, they’d be horrified!

There is something else here though, in their defence, which is the possibility that I remind them of their parents, since their parents could definitely be of the same age as me. It would be inconceivable to them that their parents could ever be capable of having kids, let alone enjoy a healthy sex life at the tender and ripe old age of 43, going on 44!  Hence, in their eyes, the only relationship I could have to Darcey would be as her grandfather, anything else is simply too horrible to consider. How funny. It’s feasible, I don’t really get it, but I guess it makes sense in their eyes.

Whatever the rationale, it’s not so much the age thing as it applies to me, I am really seriously perfectly relaxed about it (please believe me, I am), even if I am not looking as youthful on the outside as I thought I did. Actually, for me it’s the thought of how Darcey will feel. Whilst I am pretty confident that as her mum and dad, we will be more active still than most parents of children Darcey’s age, it does worry me that she will feel a tad embarrassed, for more reasons than those young people are about their parents in general.

One thing is for sure…I won’t be the source of embarrassment to Darcey for trying to look and act younger than I am – I can at least promise her this much, the oldest swinger in town I will never be!





The loneliness of it all

23 02 2011

‘No body understands’ is a phrase I’d utter repeatedly to myself. I had had such visions of me, a dad, running around doing all those fatherly things. How could it be? But then how bad could it be, I wasn’t the infertile one. The guilt I felt was immense, but the sense of being utterly alone was even greater.

When I started looking at the family tree, I don’t know why, I started digging at this time, I could see that the line was a very fertile one. On Dad’s side, my great great grandfather was one of 10, my great grandfather was one of 9 and my grandfather was one of 24 (from two marriages). Dad was one of 10 (6 still born). Mum’s side we knew less about but she was one of four, her father was one of three and his mother was one of 9 or so. I was one of 5 (two marriages). When my father went to have a vasectomy, after two previously failed attempts, they told him he was probably one of the most fertile men for his age in West Sussex. Then of course, the evidence came back that I was ok biologically.

As I’ve said before, all that is no consolation, I might as well have declared myself infertile because actually, the predicament is acutally something that afflicts two people, you the couple – it’s a shared problem. But it’s a tricky business to share because one of you will turn round to the other at some point and say ‘you can’t know how I feel in all this’, and it would be true; but, my advice at that point would be not to argue that point, but to concede. However, my reposte would be that there are two people in this relationship and we both hurt but in different ways. This is what gets missed.

The truth is, you owe it to each other to recognise the different positions you find yourselves in. The focus is so naturally the one who is biologically or biochemically challenged, all the attention is on that half of the relationship, but the other half needs comfort too. The other half in all this is told that they ‘don’t have a problem’, but the reality is they do, and if  you ignore this, then, over time, the real problem will actually become your relationship, not infertility.

How many times have we all privately gone away to weep? How often, by contrast have we wept together? On how many occasions have we made time and stripped down to ‘yours and mine’ where we expose our true, deep feelings about all of this? In all probability, a lot at first, less so as time has moved on. My advice is that it should be ongoing. Make no assumptions, leave no hostages to fortune – the narrow focus on the end game can leave your partner silent, emotionally crushed and unable to express how they really feel. Both of you have a responsibility to monitor the temperature of your feelings and to resolve any issues that do exist before moving on.

The loneliness of deep inner feelings will gnaw into the fabric of your love for each other. It will be expressed in word or deed at some point, but surface it will and the shock could be devastating. So, remember, you are a couple, you’re doing this together, you need to know how the other really feels because the process you’re engaged in needs informed consent of the deepest kind. If it all seems too hard, slow the process right down to relieve the pressure of it all and get yourselves back on an even keel. Only then, when rational thought returns should you continue, along that well trodden path, together, whatever the outcome.





A privilege

11 12 2010

On November 8th, 2010, Mandy fell ill, literally, and was rushed into emergency surgery 30.6 weeks pregnant with Darcey. We did not know what was wrong. However, twenty minutes later, at 1942 Darcey was delivered and was effectively 9 weeks premature and spent the next nine weeks in NICU (the neo-natal unit of Auckland City Hospital). She weighed just 1.5k or 3lbs 5oz, and was immediately placed on breathing and feeding apparatus. As for Mandy, unbeknown to either or us, she was being examined by General Surgeons who found that her bowel had flopped over and twisted into a volvulus. Luckily, there were no signs of necrosis and so they righted the bowel and turned what was going to be a lateral, gentle, bikini line scar into a vertical one 14 inches long.

It was another two hours before I could see Mandy, but I still had no idea what was wrong. Eventually, the surgeons found me, confirmed Darcey’s birth and the fact that Mandy was recovering from bowel surgery.
It seems nothing is ever simple in my life – however, I doubt it’s no different for anyone else who reads this.I am so grateful for Darcey but even more thankful for Mandy’s recovery.

Now that the little cherub has been home some five weeks now, after having been incarcerated in NICU for 60 days, we are both enjoying parenthood, sleepless nights and no social life, but loving every moment of this special time. Each day something new occurs and each day I thank God  for this chance to fulfill my dream of being a Dad.
I have written much about my experience of infertility and the pain that I still carry with such raw memories inside me. But, today, I look down at my daughter in a sling over my arm, sound asleep and still have to pinch myself that after all this time and after everything that I went through, I am now a Dad.

All the way through NICU, I made sure that everyone knew how special this baby was. For many people we met there, none of them had ever experienced the ravages of infertility and were totally unaware of the pain, desolation and despair that infertility inflicts. They are now all a little wiser.

There is one promise that I have made to myself, since before Darcey was born, and it is that I will never forget my journey to parenthood, nor will I betray the memory of those for whom the pain and the misery still continues.