Chapter 3 - In Case of Emergency, the Toilets are Here, Here and Here
PLEASE NOTE YOUTUBE VIDEO COMING SOON AS I’VE NEEDED TO MAKE A LAST MINUTE EDIT
So that’s enough scene setting. Let’s get to the good stuff.
I’m the ultimate project manager (which drives Marco nuts sometimes), so after recovering from his baby bombshell in early 2017, I did what I do best – I made a plan. If we were doing this, we were doing it right.
Research led me to Houri Alvari, an acupuncturist specialising in fertility. Around the same time, I discovered the book “It Begins with the Egg,” which completely changed my perspective. The premise made total sense: egg health matters more than egg quantity. You could have an abundance of eggs, but if they’re not healthy, you’re going to struggle to get pregnant. Conversely, even with low egg reserves, good egg health gives you a fighting chance.
Armed with this knowledge, I dove deep into research. I started taking Fertility Smart, Fertiligreens, Maca Powder, and Ashwagandha – all targeted at optimising egg health. Getting Fertiligreens was an adventure since they were only available in the US with ridiculous shipping costs. Thank god for a family willing to play middleman.
This was just the beginning of the changes I’d make to stack the odds in my favour.
The plan comes together
Early 2018 brought the official baby talk. After eight weeks of waiting (and giving Marco a nudge or two), we had our plan: Marco would move in with me in August, and we’d start trying for a baby in Autumn.
We made the most of our pre-baby freedom. Amsterdam for city exploring, Sicily for his cousin’s wedding, where we arrived later than the bride (apparently Sicilians eat at weddings like we British drink). For my 40th birthday in September, we hit a drum and bass festival in a Roman fort in Pula, Croatia, followed by romantic days in Venice. The perfect juxtaposition – ancient history meets modern beats.
We were having fun, laughing, creating amazing memories before things got serious.
Meanwhile, I was optimising everything. We went fully organic. I stripped all toxins from our beauty products, toiletries, and household cleaners. I was preparing my body like an athlete preparing for the Olympics.
By October, I was fighting fit, healthy, and buzzing with readiness. At my IBD nurse appointment at Royal Sussex County, I reported that everything was perfect. My bowels were regular as clockwork. Life was good.
I was far too happy, far too soon.
So it begins (again)
The mild proctitis decided it was done being mild.
I spent a month playing flamingo – head buried firmly in the sand, hoping it would magically disappear. Spoiler alert: that’s rarely the best strategy.
I finally called the IBD team a week before Christmas. They were closed for the holidays. My GP, clearly out of her depth, prescribed steroid suppositories. They didn’t work.
In January 2019, the IBD team prescribed Mesalazine suppositories. They didn’t work either. Here’s a fun fact I’d discover over the coming years: I’ve never been given IBD medication that actually worked. It either did nothing or landed me in the hospital. But that story comes later.
Then the unthinkable happened: my menstrual cycle went into cardiac arrest.
Please tell me that didn't happen
Running became a high-stakes game at the beginning of 2019.
Here’s some hard-won advice: if you feel any urgency while running, walk. Don’t run. Running to the toilet just accelerates everything, and before you know it, you’re standing in a grim public toilet at 7:30 am, sorting yourself out and throwing your knickers in the bin.
Yeah. That happened.
It wasn’t like that funny scene from The Inbetweeners. Nearly seven years on, I still don’t look back and laugh about it.
That incident marked the beginning of my intimate knowledge of local public toilet locations, their opening times, and which cafes had friendly staff who’d let you use their facilities. I started habitually carrying toilet paper because you couldn’t rely on it being there.
The constant fear became part of my morning routine. Would I make it? Should I even leave the house yet? The anxiety was exhausting.
Food glorious food (or not)
When the medication proved useless, Mum recommended an Allergy, Nutrition and Biochemistry Screening Clinic.
I arrived at her office at the end of January, unsure what to expect. There was this machine covered in wires. She clipped them to my fingers while I tried not to look sceptical.
Then she casually mentioned I didn’t have any tonsils.
Wait, what? How did she know that? She’d also successfully treated my Dad for a condition specialists said he’d have to live with forever. Okay, you have my attention.
For an hour, she swapped tiny vials of food in and out of the machine, taking readings. She checked my bowels and reassured me about my colon.
The verdict? I was allergic to cow’s milk and needed to eliminate white sugar and everything from the Nightshade family for a minimum of 12 weeks.
No potatoes. What do you mean, no potatoes?! And how was I supposed to live with a Sicilian without eating tomatoes, peppers, and aubergines?
The magic number
Three months. That became the magic number haunting my life.
Diet changes? Three months before you see improvement.
Fertility supplements? Three months before they take effect.
Egg quality improvement? Minimum three months.
Everything required three bloody months.
Making these changes was brutal. Sugar and milk hide in absolutely everything. I became intimately familiar with ingredient labels – my new light reading. This was just the first of many, many diet iterations. Eating became a chore. Restaurant menus filled me with dread.
A silver lining
During this chaos, Chatty Sicilian was born. It was our idea to create a pop-up restaurant promoting social dining. We wanted to encourage people to trade eating dinner from their laps while watching TV in silence for proper Sicilian-style dining – at a table, engaged in actual conversation.
We were building websites, scouting locations, and planning menus. It was going to be incredible.
Two months later, I returned to Lin. All my readings had improved. Even better – I’d had my first menstrual cycle in three months.
I left full of hope. I was making these changes, following the plan, and everything would work out.
All that changed a month later, after a holiday to the US and my first decision that, had I chosen differently, could have altered the entire trajectory of my journey.
But that’s a story for the next chapter.