HAVING CHILDREN HAS always been one of my goals in life. I grew up in a close-knit family – I’m the youngest of three – and strong morals and good manners were ingrained in us by our parents. I was brought up to respect the idea of family, and I always knew that eventually I would want one of my own.
Izzy and I first met in 2005, in a church in Bristol where McFly were rehearsing for our Wonderland tour. I noticed Izzy immediately, not just because I thought she was really pretty but because she has a kind face. I walked over to her while my bandmates and I were introducing ourselves to the members of the orchestra, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m Harry,’ I said, and we smiled at each other.
It wasn’t until the end of the tour that we got together as a couple, and I was certain straight away that it was something serious. Our first week together was a whirlwind; intense and exciting. I knew very quickly – within a few weeks – that Izzy was the person I wanted to be with, although I think it took her a little longer to be convinced! I remember clearly the exact moment when I told her how I felt. It was in the kitchen of our band house and I said, ‘Izzy, you don’t understand, I’m going to marry you one day.’ I was only nineteen years old! After that, we were both quick to say ‘I love you’ – there was no messing around.
Izzy is such a genuine person, and I guess that’s what I realized I was looking for. At that age, in the music scene, you end up meeting a lot of people who are into drinking and partying – it can be pretty superficial. I’d joined in for a couple of years but by the time I met Izzy, I was starting to get tired of it. Although I’d met some great people along the way, I hadn’t felt a proper connection with anyone for ages, so I was ready for a real relationship. And with Izzy, it just felt right.
In general, there’s a really good balance in our relationship. Neither of us wears the trousers – we share that role. It’s important to have that kind of equality – if one person dominates, it can squash the other. A friend of mine once said of me and Izzy, ‘You both need each other as much as the other’, which is to say we both have vulnerability and strength.
The only thing that’s ever caused any real friction in our relationship is Izzy’s anxiety, but we found a way, together, to live with it, and we overcame the challenges it presented. Maybe having had to deal with those earlier difficulties helped when we came up against the challenges of fertility, because we’d already been through a lot together. We’d learned patience and kindness.
Our fertility struggles changed the dynamic between us, too. Previously, I’d been the one who was busy with the band and doing lots of other things, and Izzy was the one propping me up. Once we started IVF, though, I became a support to Izzy. It was my turn to be the one who was patient and calm.
When Izzy first missed her period, we were both certain that it was good news. We were in our old house at the time, and Izzy told me that she’d been feeling a bit odd – she’d been googling early signs of pregnancy because she thought she might be pregnant. I remember feeling so excited and emotional, and thinking about how amazing it was that we were going to be parents. How totally naive that seems now.
When we visited my parents around that time, I had a long chat with my mum about kids. I almost told her that Izzy was pregnant, even though Izzy hadn’t taken the test yet. Izzy just looked so well – she was glowing, plus her cycle had always been like clockwork and she’d now missed her period. There couldn’t be any other explanation.
The day we did the pregnancy test, we were so sure it was going to be positive that I was ready to capture the moment with my camera. I was convinced that it would be something we would show our child on their twenty-first birthday or some equally significant celebration. So when the test was negative, we were both really confused.
Izzy always maintained that she wasn’t going to be one of those women who obsesses over ovulation and pees on sticks, that she’d be really chilled about the whole thing. I was happy too to just go with the flow and be relaxed, whether it took six months or even a year. Instead, what happened? Izzy peed on the stick, got a negative result and immediately – panic. Call the doctor. We went from nought to one hundred instantly, and stayed at one hundred.
Although I wanted Izzy to calm down, I understood her concern. Why had her period not come when it had always been so regular? She’s an anxious person, so I knew she needed to find out – and that was the start of it. Sometimes I look back and think, ‘If only we’d just fallen pregnant that first month, and had never known any of this – the ups and downs, the endless trips and scans and doctor’s appointments. The tears, anxiety, feeling low, the disappointment …’
As the months passed and Izzy took all the medication she did, and went for endless scans, I felt my role was to support her. But I also wanted to try to take her mind off everything that was happening, to give her a different focus if possible. I tried to give rational advice and if I could see that she was trying to justify leaping into more interventions, I’d encourage her to try to look at things more objectively.
At the time, Izzy had just left her profession – from the age of four, she’d trained to be a violinist, and now she’d stepped away from it. She’d set up her own business, Izzy’s Attic, but her mind wasn’t really on that as she was so focused on wanting to start a family. Because of this, there was an urgency in her that I’d never seen before – she wanted to do whatever it took to get pregnant. When it didn’t happen, she’d ask why and what could she do to fix it, be it injections, pills, whatever. We tried all kinds of different things but none of them worked. And of course, this all started shortly after our wedding. It should have been a happy time but getting pregnant completely took over her whole existence.
The medication Izzy took affected her both emotionally and physically. She totally lost her confidence and her dynamism, and she didn’t feel like herself. Nothing I could do or say helped. If I was invited to a party, she no longer wanted to come with me and if she did come, she didn’t really want to be there. She’d travel with us on tour because she didn’t want to be at home on her own, but in reality there was a large part of her that just wanted to hide away. She’d sit at the front of the tour bus, away from all the guys, hidden away under a hoodie, and I realized that everyone must be wondering what was up with her. It was hard but I always really tried to keep her spirits up.
As time went on there was frustration on both our parts. Izzy was angry that she’d been taking the fertility drugs for months and months and they didn’t seem to be having any effect – she still wasn’t ovulating. She resented the fact that she was pumping herself full of stuff that just wasn’t doing anything for her. Of course, I felt sorry for how she was feeling, but I was frustrated too because I just wanted her to be happy – and I also really wanted my old Izzy back. I’d even sometimes say to close friends, ‘We haven’t even had a baby yet and already I’m over it.’ To me, it didn’t matter whether we had a baby right then or in a few years’ time, but because I wanted to support Izzy I didn’t share those feelings with her.
After a pretty miserable year, Izzy decided to stop all medical intervention. Instead, she embarked on a mission to be super healthy, and that’s when I saw a real change in her. It was amazing. She went from being miserable, low, depressed and feeling sorry for herself to having a completely different attitude. She found the strength of character to pick herself up, and got going with incredible focus and determination. She ate like a goddess, exercised and meditated to get her mind in check.
Even though she was amazing in her ability to stick to her plan, doing all these things to be healthy and calm and positive, we still didn’t get the result we wanted – a positive pregnancy test never materialized. That’s when we began to talk about IVF seriously. Izzy really wanted to do it but I was unsure at first. I didn’t feel there was any hurry to rush into more fertility treatment, and the headspace Izzy had been in since her detox was such a good one that I didn’t want her to risk slipping back into a dark place. The truth is, I worried that if IVF didn’t work, we’d have nowhere else to turn, and I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Izzy in that situation.
IVF meant that Izzy had to pump herself with more medication, but she remained positive every step of the way. She kept saying, ‘This will happen. We will get there in the end.’ Every time she injected herself with the drugs, she’d say, ‘This is bringing us one step closer to meeting our baby.’ I found her attitude amazing, considering she didn’t really know – couldn’t know – that ‘this’ would happen. She stuck with it, though, and that part of the experience became an exciting one, when it could easily have been miserable and negative.
So what was my role in the IVF process? First and foremost there was sperm collection and, yes, it’s a little bit odd, but I was shown into a room and I just had to get on with it! I was, of course, mindful of how much Izzy was going through. I was so proud of the way she was dealing with it, especially considering she was terrified of lots of things – particularly egg collection because it involved being heavily sedated, and the idea of being out cold made her very anxious. I just felt that we were lucky that science could help us and that I only had to do my part to help.
Once we had a fertilized embryo ready and waiting we went to the transfer, which was incredible. Watching life being placed inside Izzy was amazing. Everybody wonders about the moment a baby is conceived. We were able to see that moment. You’d think it would be really sterile and clinical, but in a way it’s romantic. You’re there together, you can hold hands. They show you what’s happening on a monitor, and that’s your moment to just imagine what might be; to have your dream. You look at the screen and think, ‘Is that our baby? It’s OK if it’s not, but there’s hope, and we’re lucky to have that.’
The night before Izzy was due to take the pregnancy test I rang my mum. I was so nervous that I started crying. It was the first time I’d cried about things but I really wanted the test to be positive, almost for Izzy’s sake alone. I felt so sorry for her at this point, as did my mum – we both wanted it so badly for her.
When Izzy did the test and it was positive, I just never believed the result somehow; I never connected with the idea. Maybe I didn’t dare? The line on the pregnancy test was really faint, and I know that means nothing – faint or strong, same thing – but I was worried. I couldn’t get as excited as Izzy was.
As the days went by, though, I gradually started to let myself believe. It was my birthday, our wedding anniversary and Christmas all in the same week, and I was beginning to feel more positive about things. We allowed ourselves to build up the excitement slowly – we told both our families and I told a couple of my closest mates.
Then, in the early hours of Boxing Day, Izzy woke up and called out to me, saying, ‘Harry, Harry, there’s blood.’ On the inside I was panicking but I had to hide that from her and do everything I could to reassure and support her. Because of the blood, I feared the worst – that she was miscarrying – but Izzy’s doctor gave us many explanations as to why this might be happening, so we relaxed a little bit.
A few days later, though, we were driving back to London when Izzy said she wasn’t feeling right. She didn’t have to say much but I knew that things weren’t as they should be. When we got home, I made her soup and toast, and I put the fire and the telly on. Izzy seemed quite calm – we can both be worriers but at no point did either of us actually say, ‘Do you think it’s a miscarriage?’ We never vocalized it, and instead just tried to stay hopeful.
The next morning we were due to have our first scan. It was still dark when my alarm went off at 6.30 a.m. I shot out of bed and went downstairs to make Izzy some tea. Then, from the kitchen, I heard her say in a voice filled with adrenaline and panic, ‘Harry, we’ve lost it.’ The fact that she said ‘it’ rather than ‘our baby’ stayed with me.
‘Don’t worry, it’s OK,’ I told her, because I just didn’t know what else to say. I was trying to be strong for both of us but we were both in shock and so tired. It was cold and dark, and still so early in the morning that I half wondered if I was dreaming. In a way, I found it hard to be the man in that situation – mine was a secondary loss; I wasn’t able to physically connect with it. Izzy, on the other hand, had to cope with the real sensation of the baby passing.
Later that morning we saw our doctor, Ram, who is such a sweet man. He scanned Izzy and I could see on the screen that there was nothing there, just an empty space. We’d spent the previous few weeks talking and thinking about our baby, bringing it to life, asking each other about possible boys’ and girls’ names. We’d made it real by talking about it, giving it a future. We’d leapt ahead, to the due date, to us as a family, to when the baby was growing up and whether it would look like Izzy or me. Suddenly, all of that was gone. It was devastating. A moment of such emptiness.
I soon found out how common miscarriages are, and I felt stupid for having spent those weeks fantasizing about what would be. I’d got carried away and felt an internal embarrassment at having let my imagination run away with me.
After the scan, Izzy went to the loo. While she was out of the room I asked Ram, ‘What do I do with the …?’ I didn’t even know what to call it – the foetus? The baby? ‘It’s still there, in the loo. Do I take it out? Do I flush it?’ I really didn’t know. I didn’t want Izzy to have to deal with it. I realized that I had to face it, that this was my job.
Ram was great. ‘You can take it out, if you want,’ he said. ‘Some people like to bury it in the garden. Other people like to flush. There is no right answer – it’s up to you and how you feel.’
So I was left with two options. Do I make a thing of this? Do I physically take it out of the loo – in paper, in a plastic bag? Are we ready to go through a burial? To have a funeral, on the day, and forever look at that corner of the garden and know what’s there? Or do I do something that seems horribly nonchalant and flush the loo? Is that too disrespectful to that soul?
I couldn’t ask Izzy. I knew I had to take responsibility and make a decision. As soon as we got home, I went straight upstairs. I didn’t even look, I just flushed the loo and came back down. It was my decision and I thought, ‘I’m not going to be either symbolic or cynical about this. I’m just going to do what I feel is right, at this time.’
Izzy was sweet and kept asking me if I was OK. I called my parents and spoke to my mum. You know when you hear your mother’s voice, how emotional that can make you feel? Especially when you’ve been trying to be strong and brave and hold yourself together? She knew we’d had the scan that morning, and as soon as I said, ‘Hi, Mum,’ she could tell instantly that something was wrong. She asked if everything was OK and I told her the news. I could hear that she was trying to be strong for me, just as I was trying to be strong for Izzy.
I could hear my dad in the background and my mum passed the phone to him. When he heard what had happened, he broke down in tears. It was only the third time I had ever heard my dad cry. The first time was when I was eight years old and I was about to go off to boarding school. My brother was crying, I was crying, my mum was crying. Then my dad started crying and I thought he was joking, teasing us, trying to make us feel better. I started laughing and said, ‘Dad, shut up,’ before realizing that his tears were for real.
The only other time was when he came to watch me doing Strictly. It was Week Nine and we’d done a quickstep, and won the Swingathon. The next morning when I rang my parents, Dad said, ‘That was the most fantastic night, last night. You were just brilliant,’ and started to cry. That was the first time I’d known him to shed a tear in eighteen years.
That morning after the miscarriage, he and I sobbed on the phone to each other. I really let it out and I think that was a good thing. I felt like all I wanted to do was cry, and so I did. It only happened once more, when we were at the airport on our way to Antigua. Izzy had a headache, and before the plane took off I said she should take some painkillers. She looked at the instructions on the back of the packet. ‘Do not take if pregnant,’ she read aloud, and we just looked at each other and broke down.
After the scan, I had to keep myself busy so I spent the afternoon gardening. I was up on the roof, sweeping leaves, cleaning gutters. That’s how I tried to cope with the sadness of what had happened. All Izzy wanted was to be pregnant, and she had finally had those few weeks to feel what it was like to carry life inside her. She’d been able to believe that all the horrible things she’d been through were over, and that we just might be allowed to get on with our lives and be a family. But then it had all been snatched away from her. It was a testing time for both of us – we were upset, angry and worried. We knew that we’d have to go through the whole process again and were now painfully aware of everything that could entail.
Within a week or so, I switched into thinking practically whereas Izzy needed a bit more time to process what had happened. I became focused on what we were going to do next, how we were going to move on. I realized that you can’t dwell too much on what might have been, and came to understand that miscarriage was nature’s way of saying ‘not this time’.
The second time Izzy got pregnant, we told our families and friends straight away, so that they could support us, if we needed them to. I didn’t want us to be scared and on tenterhooks all on our own.
Everything felt different that second time. I remember being at the transfer and thinking that the embryo looked like a girl, which seems silly, but it was nice for us to have those conversations. ‘Good luck, little one,’ I said, as we watched the transfer on screen.
When it was time to go back to the clinic a week later, to do the blood test to find out if the embryo had successfully implanted, we were unbearably nervous. We were told we’d have to wait thirty minutes for the results, so Izzy suggested we go for a walk to pass the time. We were outside for what felt like half an hour, then went back into the clinic only to find we’d been gone for just five minutes! The nurse called us in finally, and told us that we had a positive result. I couldn’t quite believe it so I had to ask her again.
Even when the good news was confirmed, we told ourselves that it was only step one and that it was too early to celebrate. We were cautious, only thinking ahead to the next milestone, the first scan. Something felt better this time around, though. I began counting down the days, the hours, the minutes and seconds, and hoped that getting to the magical twelve-week mark would eliminate the worry. It didn’t, not fully, but it helped. The nerves settled a little bit, but it wasn’t until we got to about thirty weeks that I started to feel more confident that everything would be OK. It was then that I finally allowed myself to relax more. It was the longest nine months of my life – I was so excited, and so impatient.
I was over the moon at Izzy’s joy as the pregnancy progressed. She’d fantasized about walking around with a bump for such a long time. She’d been locked out of that world – seeing pregnant women everywhere she looked, baby shops, people pushing buggies. To see her bump growing and her buying maternity clothes, to hear her talk about the nursery – it was wonderful.
When the time came and Izzy went into labour, I felt really excited. It lasted a long time, but Izzy was remarkable and seemed to know exactly what to do. Some guys talk about their partner giving birth and say stuff like, ‘It’s like watching your favourite pub burn down.’ I think that’s such bullshit. Watching Izzy give birth was an incredible and beautiful thing.
When Lola was finally born, Izzy and I were both in floods of tears with the wonder of it all. Izzy thought Lola was a boy at first because she saw the umbilical cord. I’d always thought I wanted to have a boy but when Izzy was nine months pregnant we visited some friends who have a little girl, and she was just the sweetest thing. At that point I began to think it would be quite nice to have a daughter. And then, there she was – our girl.
When I saw Lola for the first time, I was on cloud nine – it was a euphoric moment. Some people say that it’s the best moment of your life, while others say they didn’t really bond with the baby for a few months, so you wonder how you’ll react. I was so lucky. From the moment I saw Lola, I was hit with the full whack of love.
When she cries now, it takes me right back to the moment she first cried when I held her as a tiny newborn. I can visualize her first moments as clear as day. Izzy’s quite envious because she can’t really remember any of it, she was so tired. As I also cried, my tears of joy, I told Lola not to worry, that we would always look after her.
I feel love for Lola like I’ve never felt. I worry, too, because I absolutely worship her. In a way I’m grateful for what Izzy and I went through to have her – maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Could it have been this good if all those things hadn’t happened? I’m not saying that those who conceive easily don’t appreciate their children, but there is, to me, something very special about how long we waited.
I wanted Izzy to tell this story because she’s at her best when she’s helping others. While she’s a brilliant musician and performer, she is most fully herself when she’s caring for someone else – a husband, a baby, her brother Rupert. I encouraged her to write this book, to share what she’s been through and what she’s learned along the way, because I knew she’d want to help others by doing so.
When she first spoke openly about having had IVF, the number of people – family, school friends, friends of friends, followers on social media – who contacted her to ask how she did it, how she stayed sane throughout, was phenomenal. Izzy would reply to them all, spending hours on the phone or online, telling them what she did and how she managed the different challenges. She never holds back, she gives so much of herself.
Often, those who are about to have IVF have only heard negative things about it. Whereas Izzy, while she admits it’s tough, also lets people know that there’s another way to look at it, that it can be amazing and magical. She does a great job of shining a positive light on it for others.
It’s wonderful for me to see that Izzy has found herself again. She’s got her family and she’s got her confidence back. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a dynamic shift in a relationship when a baby arrives, and never in the man’s favour, but I don’t mind because we share our love for our daughter. In fact, I think sometimes Izzy thinks that Lola gets more cuddles from me than she does. But you have to work together on things – you have to support each other, and some of your old habits have to die, and die fast, because now you have a baby.
I don’t think I ever felt I needed support myself during the process, not massively, but if I did, it came from open and honest conversations with Izzy, my mum and close friends. I talked to Tom, my bandmate, and he was able to sympathize and understand. Izzy and I both gained a lot of comfort from talking, and getting a dose of sympathy from close friends and family. How you deal with it all is an individual choice, but I think it’s important to have someone you can open up to other than your partner.
If I was to give advice to a man about to embark on a journey such as ours – and I’ve done this a couple of times now with friends – I’d say that you just have to be very patient and really supportive. It’s not going to be easy. Hormones are going to be messed with and it’s going to be a very emotional time. Physically, the procedures are invasive, and yes, sex does become something different when you’re trying for a baby – more mechanical – but that all goes back to normal afterwards, and the romance returns.
This time in our lives has been a test for our relationship, there’s no doubt about it, and there have been a number of definite shifts – when it comes to Lola Izzy’s in charge and I’m vice-captain, a supporting role. There’s just something about a mother’s instinct that means she’s the one to naturally take charge.
We’ll have more challenges in our lives and in our marriage, I’m sure. During the difficult times you have to remember your vows: ‘For better, for worse … in sickness and in health.’ Our struggle was one of the worse times, but we just had to get through it. And we did.
Since Izzy has had Lola, and known the fulfilment of being a mother – the only thing she ever wanted – she’s back to herself, and better than ever. I’m just as, if not more, attracted to her because of the way she’s handled what she went through. I have a whole new level of respect for her and what she’s done.
I’m so proud of her, and of our beautiful daughter.
