The Pursuit of Motherhood Page 4

  The transfer happens in the same room as egg collection. The procedure is relatively painless. It involves inserting a speculum – which looks rather like a classy piece of stainless steel cooking equipment – into my vagina and then using a long straw to transfer the embryos into my uterus. It doesn’t take long and Peter is by my side.

  As soon as the procedure is finished our doctor stands up, shakes our hands, wishes us the best of luck and leaves the room. It feels a bit abrupt, almost as if he’s making a getaway. We look at each other, bemused, not quite sure what happens next. Ten minutes later a nurse comes in and tells us it’s time to get dressed and go home. As we leave the clinic it feels as if we’re newborn kittens: blinking in the sunlight, unsteady on our feet, we’re stepping out alone into the world for the first time. Just us and our two embryos, on our own for the eponymous ‘two-week wait’.

  The ‘two-week wait’ is the name given to the time between your embryo transfer and your pregnancy test. You’re pregnant but you’re not pregnant, and it’s impossible not to read every tiny twinge in your body as a positive sign. And then as a negative sign. I carry on working, as I have throughout my treatment. There are moments when I forget what is or isn’t going on inside me. But there are times when I can’t think of anything else.

  I am due to do a pregnancy test on Tuesday at the clinic. They’ve given us the option of coming into the clinic for a blood test on Day 15 (post egg-collection) or waiting another day and doing it at home using an over-the-counter urine test. We’ve opted not to wait. On Saturday night, I notice I have a bit of light spotting. By Sunday morning the spotting hasn’t gone away and, with Peter’s encouragement, I call the clinic’s out-of-hours emergency number. The nurse who answers the phone tells me, rather brusquely, that it’s perfectly normal and not to worry.

  By Monday morning the spotting has become heavier and redder, and by Tuesday I am bleeding. We make our way to the clinic with heavy hearts. They take some blood and ask us to wait. After half an hour a nurse calls us through to one of the consultation rooms.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say before she can say a word. ‘We’re prepared for the worst.’

  ‘Well, it’s not necessarily the worst,’ she says. ‘The test is inconclusive. We’re going to have to send it off to an outside lab to double check. We’ll be able to call you and let you know this afternoon.’

  ‘How can it be inconclusive?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, the way that we confirm a pregnancy is by the presence of a hormone called HCG,’ she explains. ‘The hormone is released after an embryo has implanted into the lining of the womb, and can be detected either in your blood or in your urine. We can see that you do have some HCG in your blood, but the level looks low and we need to send it away to get a more exact measurement.’ She pauses and looks at me. ‘I understand it’s hard, but everything may be fine. Let’s just wait and see.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’m getting used to waiting. What’s another couple of hours.’

  Peter drives me back to work. My phone is by my side all afternoon. Like a ticking bomb it eventually goes off.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Jessica?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s the clinic here. Can you just confirm your date of birth for me?’

  ‘The twenty-first of the eleventh, 1970.’

  ‘Sorry for the wait. I know you must be anxious.’

  ‘A bit,’ I say. ‘Well, more than a bit.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she says sympathetically. ‘Well, we’ve got the results back but I’m afraid they’re still inconclusive. The HCG level is sixteen, which means that the pregnancy hormone is definitely there, but at this stage we would expect it to be much higher. I’m afraid the only thing we can do is test you again in a couple of days and see whether the level has increased. In the first few weeks of pregnancy HCG generally doubles every forty-eight hours, so we’ll have a much better indication of what’s happening on Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday?’ I can’t hide the despondency in my voice.

  ‘Yes, Thursday. Would you be able to come into the clinic that morning for another test?’

  ‘I guess so,’ I say flatly.

  ‘I know this is difficult, Jessica, but try to stay positive. Everything may be OK.’

  Try to stay positive. Everything may be OK. Two sentences that, in time, I would learn to loathe.

  After two more days of hope and anxiety we head back to the clinic for another test, and another long wait. The phone rings.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Jessica?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s the clinic here. Can you just confirm your date of birth for me?’

  ‘The twenty-first of the eleventh, 1970.’

  ‘I’ve got your results and I’m really sorry to have to say this but they’re still inconclusive.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Well, the HCG level has gone up. In fact it’s doubled. It’s now 36.7, but that’s still much lower than we would expect at this stage.’

  ‘I see,’ I say. Not that I do. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘I’m afraid the only thing we can do is wait and keep monitoring it. It’s clear that at least one of the embryos has implanted, but I’m afraid that it’s unlikely, although not impossible, that the pregnancy is viable. We’d like you to come back in a week to test again.’

  I put the phone down. I know it’s no one’s fault but I can’t help feeling cheated. I was always aware of the risk that it might not work, but I had naively thought that, whatever happened, it would be a straightforward ‘pregnant’ or ‘not pregnant’. I wasn’t prepared for a situation where I seemed to be both ‘pregnant’ and ‘not pregnant’. All the positivity we had felt at the beginning of the process becomes eclipsed by this uncertainty. Whilst there is still hope it feels too soon to be disappointed, but there doesn’t seem much to be hopeful about either.

  A week later we are back at the clinic. My HCG level still indicates that I am pregnant but it has dropped to 31.7. After another two weeks and another test it has dropped to below zero and, finally, it is officially confirmed that I am no longer pregnant. In medical terms, what has happened to me is known as a biochemical pregnancy. In layman’s terms it’s a very early miscarriage. If I had conceived naturally, I would probably never have known it had happened.

  Your first round of failed IVF is an important milestone. It’s the time when you become aware that, even with all the assistance medical science has to offer, this thing is not necessarily going to be easy to achieve. For me, it is also the first step in realising that all my paranoia about human fallibility is kind of irrelevant if the treatment doesn’t actually work.

  But there are also positive things to take from failure. You learn how your body reacts to treatment, and a good doctor will use this information next time. In our case, my body reacted well to the process. I had a good number of eggs, the majority of which fertilised. I had two high quality embryos put back on Day 3, and another four which were frozen. And at least one of my embryos implanted, resulting in the biochemical pregnancy. Our doctor assures us that these are all very good signs and a strong indication that, next time, things will work out well.

  The Infertility Diaries Part IV

  I feel a bit like I’m about to betray a secret in saying this, but your first round of IVF is the best – regardless of whether or not it gets you pregnant. It is a blissful time, when you are uninitiated in what will all too soon become emotionally draining obsessions. But that comes later. This is our first time and for now, at least, we are still innocent as cherubs.

  TOP GIRLS

  You have probably gathered by now that I work in a theatre. I’m not an actress, director or playwright. I oversee all the other stuff that goes into running a theatre: from looking after the money to making sure the loos are cleaned each morning.

  I love my job and, if I’m honest, one of the things I love most about it is that whenever I’m at party a
nd someone asks me what I do, they always say, ‘What a great job!’ It makes me feel proud and helps me to brace myself for the next question, which is usually: ‘Do you have children?’

  People often ask me how I got into working in the theatre. Like many people I started acting at school. I followed in the footsteps of Emma Thompson, who had acted on my school stage before me, but I was clever enough to realise that there wasn’t an Oscar out there with my name on it. I was, however, very good at organising things and people (my friends would say bossy). I guess somewhere amongst all that is how it started.

  I used to go to the theatre I run now on school trips as a child. I sometimes think of myself as a teenager all those years ago, sitting at the back of the upper circle, with no idea how important the building would become in my future.

  I would never say that I’m good at my job, but I do work hard and try to be the best at it I can be. I think things are still difficult for women in senior roles. In my experience, even now, most people feel much more comfortable with a man in charge, and men are much more comfortable being in charge themselves (even those who are not very good at it).

  When I first got my job, I remember an old boss of mine saying, ‘Jessica, you’re about to learn that it’s tough at the top.’ Sadly, the cliché is true. You quickly get used to the fact that part of your role is to be an organisational punch bag, and however hard you try, you can never please everyone all of the time. Power is undoubtedly seductive but it can also be lonely. Everybody looks to you to solve their problems but seldom ask if you have any of your own.

  It is for this reason that I sidestep questions at work about whether I want children and haven’t told anyone about our struggle with infertility. I go to great lengths to organise doctors’ appointments at times when I can slip away unnoticed, and haven’t taken any time off during our treatment. Even when I had my eggs collected under general anaesthetic in the morning, I was back at my desk by lunch. I tell myself that my strength and secrecy is another professional achievement but I am starting to wonder whether it is.

  The Infertility Diaries Part V

  The other day I jumped into a taxi and got chatting to the driver. I asked him the question I ask all (friendly) cabbies: which famous people have you picked up? He told me excitedly that last week he had picked up Emma Forbes – the one-time Saturday children’s TV presenter and daughter of the actress Nanette Newman.

  ‘She was my childhood crush,’ he confided. ‘It was very exciting.’

  I smiled then said, ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Well, one time, I picked up this guy…’ he said. ‘I asked him what he did for a living and he told me he was in a band. We liked a lot of the same stuff and had a long chat about music. Then, just before I dropped him off, I asked whether I’d have heard of the band he was in…’

  ‘And had you?’

  ‘You could say that…it was the Rolling Stones.’

  I laughed.

  ‘That’s a brilliant story,’ I said. ‘Which one was it?’

  ‘The drummer, Charlie Watts.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry, nobody recognises drummers.’

  He laughed back.

  ‘That’s what must be great about being a cab driver,’ I continued. ‘Meeting all sorts of people. Having conversations you would never otherwise have.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘People tell me all sorts of things. I had one woman the other day who told me all about going through IVF treatment. At the end of it she said, “I can’t believe I told you all that.”’

  ‘I can,’ I said. ‘Sometimes there’s no one else you can tell.’

  THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE SPRING ROLL IN THE NIGHT-TIME

  I pride myself on never being ill. In fifteen years of working I’ve never had a day off sick. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I did once have a half-day when I had such bad tonsillitis I couldn’t speak, but it was only a half-day, so I figure it doesn’t count. Peter says it’s not true that I don’t get sick – it’s just that when I do I go into denial. I admit that I do see sickness as a weakness, but I also seem to have been blessed with an invincible immune system. I’m just lucky (on that particular front), I guess.

  It was therefore rather disheartening, not to mention embarrassing, when I started to suffer from regular attacks of indigestion. I know. Indigestion. Hardly the most street-cred condition. But, believe me, this was the sort of indigestion that laughed in the face of a packet of Rennie. It would come on at night, last for hours, and occasionally cause multiple bouts of vomiting. Nice.

  Oddly, the first time I experienced these symptoms was whilst undergoing my initial round of IVF. Midway through my two-week wait I woke up in the middle of the night with a piercing pain in my chest that lasted several hours. Thereafter, these night-time visitations started to occur sporadically. There wasn’t any obvious pattern. I could go for weeks without one and then three would come at once. I went to my GP, who sent me to the hospital for some tests. They couldn’t find anything. It was a mystery.

  At our follow-up appointment at the fertility clinic, we ask our doctor whether he knows of any link between IVF and indigestion. He doesn’t. In fact, he assures us that the two things are completely unrelated and recommends we undertake a cycle of IVF using our frozen embryos in a couple of months’ time. ‘Do you think your indigestion could be stress-related?’ Peter says as we’re walking back to the car.

  ‘I don’t feel stressed,’ I say.

  ‘What does stress feel like?’

  I glare at him. ‘Stress is not an illness. It’s a mindset.’

  ‘In that case I’m glad I don’t have your mind.’

  We get in the car and Peter starts the engine.

  ‘Don’t you think you should talk to someone about what we’re going through?’ he says. ‘It might help.’

  ‘I talk to you, don’t I?’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be good to get another perspective? I’m sure it can’t be helping holding it all inside. Maybe it’s the tension that’s giving you indigestion.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I don’t know if I’m not convinced or just reluctant to admit the possibility that I might not be coping.

  ‘I understand why you don’t feel you can tell anyone at work’ Peter continues. ‘And I know you don’t want your mum to worry about you. But you’re not talking about it to any of your friends either. I thought that’s what girls do. Talk about stuff.’

  ‘They do, but this is different.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Most of my friends are having babies. Infertility is a kind of conversation show-stopper.’

  Over the next few days I think about what Peter has said. Maybe I should talk to someone. Maybe I could talk to Beth. It is now well over a year since our evening out at the Railway Tavern when she announced that she and Thomas were about to start trying for a baby. Unlike so many of our other school friends, she still hasn’t got pregnant either. It’s not something we’ve talked about much, but whenever we see each other I know there’s a silent acknowledgement that we’re both still baby-less.

  A few days later I decide to give her a call and arrange to meet up.

  ‘So can I ask how the baby-making’s going?’ I say as we settle into the coffee-shop sofas with two cups of peppermint tea. We’re both displaying the universal symbol of women trying to conceive: withdrawal from caffeine.

  ‘It’s not,’ she says. ‘My period started this morning.’

  ‘Ovulation predictor kit failed again?’

  ‘Yup. Every time.’

  ‘I recently read somewhere that sex never gets back to normal after the tyranny of the ovulation predictor kit.’

  ‘God, that’s a deeply depressing thought.’

  ‘So have you been to see a doctor?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes – we’ve had the tests but they haven’t thrown anything up. We’re due to start this thing called IUI next month.’

  ‘I’ve had that.’

  ‘You have?’r />
  ‘It’s a long story, but suffice to say it was a disaster.’ I take a sip of tea. ‘You’d better tell Thomas to prepare himself for the horror of the “producing room”.’

  ‘It’s OK. We’ve got that one covered,’ she says. ‘They’ve said we can bring the sample with us as long as we get there within thirty minutes and keep it warm.’

  ‘That’s a result.’

  ‘They’ve suggested I put it between my breasts.’

  ‘I suspect Freud would have something to say about that.’

  She laughs.

  ‘And how are things going for you and Peter?’

  ‘We’ve just done our first round of IVF. It didn’t work.’

  ‘Oh Jess, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘To be honest, no one does. Telling people just felt like an added pressure.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Especially as everyone else seems to find it so easy.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  We look at each other. A moment of shared understanding that doesn’t need any other words.

  ‘So how’s Peter feeling about it all?’

  ‘We avoid talking about it most of the time, but I think he’s probably worried.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About me; about what happens if it doesn’t work; about how much it’s costing; about the possibility that he’ll never be able to have another drink again without me looking at him disapprovingly…’

  ‘As if relationships weren’t hard enough already.’

  We are both silent for a moment.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Beth,’ I say.