After reading the article on in vitro fertilization (IVF) reimbursement, I feel compelled to share my own experience – one that profoundly altered the course of my life and remains painful even years later.
In 2016, after several years of unsuccessful attempts to conceive, my partner and I decided to pursue IVF treatment. At that time, reimbursement required the existence of a formally recognised “pathology.” My request for prior authorisation was refused because no such pathology had been established.
On paper, this was a simple administrative decision. In reality, it marked the beginning of a long and distressing period. Infertility is rarely a black-and-white medical condition. Every diagnosis leaves room for interpretation and professional judgement. Yet in my case, the rules were applied rigidly, without regard for medical nuance or human reality. I was not asking for special treatment – only for dialogue, clarification, and guidance.
Instead, I encountered procedural replies, distance, and what felt like indifference. I repeatedly contacted the relevant services, hoping someone would look beyond the formal criteria and help me navigate a deep personal crisis. I found no real engagement and no meaningful support. Because my case did not fit neatly into a predefined category, it didn’t seem to exist. In search of help, I turned to the HR psychological support service. At a particularly vulnerable moment, I hoped for empathy. The exchanges felt formal and detached, and I left feeling even more alone.
The accumulated stress eventually led to a diagnosis of depression. Only with the intervention of the Mediation Service was I granted authorisation for a single IVF attempt. By then, however, the psychological and physical toll had been significant, and the treatment was unsuccessful.
A few years later, the rules were revised. Infertility no longer required proof of a specific pathology, and IVF attempts became eligible for reimbursement under updated criteria. This change was necessary and welcome. But for me, it came too late. In matters of fertility, time is not an administrative parameter. It is biological, finite, and irreversible. While procedures were being applied and interpreted narrowly, my chances were diminishing.
The European institutions stand for fundamental rights, equality, and human dignity. However, my experience has shown me that rigid administrative logic, when applied without enough consideration for human factors, can cause irreversible harm. This is not about blaming individuals. It is about recognising that administrative consistency must never come at the expense of empathy. Medical and family-related situations require sensitivity, responsibility, and the courage to look beyond formal categories.
I am grateful to Generation 2004 for giving visibility to cases like mine. Without such engagement, the human cost of administrative decisions too often remains unseen. Speaking publicly is not easy. But silence protects systems, not people. If this testimony helps encourage a more humane and responsive approach in the future, then sharing it is worthwhile.