The Pursuit of Motherhood Page 6

  This time around our two-week wait is during August, coinciding with the Edinburgh Festival which Peter and I both attend every year for work. The familiar smell of hops that fills the city hits me as we get out of the taxi on George Street. It feels good to be back in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, never better than during festival time (although a fair few Scots might disagree). I think about our embryos, snuggling down inside me, protected from the biting Scottish summer. I am looking forward to the day when we’ll be here together as a family and I’ll have a proper excuse for us to spend hours watching street theatre – something Peter never allows me to do now.

  I persuade our hotel receptionist to give us a room on one of the highest floors (always my first choice for hotel rooms on account of the views). We hit the jackpot with one that overlooks Edinburgh Castle – here’s hoping we’re on to a lucky streak. Over the next few days I hare round the city seeing shows. I love festival theatregoing. For someone who regularly falls asleep in the theatre at the end of a long day, there’s nothing better than a play in the morning with a coffee and a croissant. It is also a great way of taking my mind off the two-week wait. That is, until the now all-too-familiar curse of pre-test spotting begins. After each show I make a beeline for the ladies’ loo to check on the situation. At first it’s a very light pink and almost ignorable. But within forty-eight hours it gets darker and redder. I’m practically bleeding and there’s no mistaking it.

  Peter persuades me to the ring the clinic. I hardly see the point but eventually comply.

  ‘I’m on my two-week wait and have started spotting,’ I say. ‘I don’t know why I’m ringing, really. I know there’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘When are you due to test?’

  (At our new clinic they give you a urine test to do at home and don’t give you the option of an early blood test.)

  ‘In a few days’ time.’

  ‘It’s important that you do the test. Spotting is common…’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘You’re going to tell me that I should try to stay positive. Everything might be OK.’

  ‘That’s exactly right,’ the nurse says encouragingly.

  ‘Except I know it isn’t OK. I know it hasn’t worked.’

  ‘You may feel that, but it is still really important that you take the test and ring us with the result.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll take the test, but why don’t you just write on my notes now that it’s negative and save me the call. If by any miracle it’s positive, I’ll let you know.’ I sound cross but I don’t care.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. You need to ring us with the result when you’ve taken the test.’ She is starting to sound irritated too.

  ‘Well that’s stupid,’ I say. ‘And unnecessarily painful.’

  I hang up the phone. It isn’t one of my finest conversations.

  I spend most of the next few days sitting by the window of our hotel room, looking out at the castle. There are a growing number of uncollected tickets waiting for me at box offices across the city. I venture out cautiously for the shows I have to go to for work, crossing the street whenever I see someone I know to avoid conversation.

  On the final night of the festival, as I sit in our room, fireworks exploding over the castle, flooding Edinburgh in multicoloured light, I decide to do the test to prove what I already know.

  I’m right: it’s negative. I ring the clinic the next morning to tell them.

  OUT DAMNED SPOT

  For the first few days there’s nothing.

  You don’t look.

  You don’t even think about looking.

  Then, suddenly, a sign.

  Faint at first.

  Almost unnoticeable. Almost a surprise.

  After that you start to look.

  Dabbing for a few seconds longer than you need.

  Peering intently.

  In the beginning it’s a light salmon pink.

  Such a pretty, unoffending colour.

  You google ‘implantation bleeding’.

  Persuade yourself that this is it.

  A few hours pass. A day perhaps.

  The pink continues.

  Sometimes very visible. Sometimes less so.

  And then something dark brown.

  Small, solid, string-like.

  You google ‘implantation bleeding’ again.

  Persuade yourself that this is it.

  Now you dab a little harder.

  Really push around.

  The pink is darker than it was, tinged with rust.

  Then nothing.

  No sign at all.

  For a whole afternoon. A night, even.

  Now you wipe more softly. Almost imperceptibly.

  Just to prove that you’re right.

  That it’s gone.

  You start to feel positive.

  You re-check the absence frequently.

  Then leave it a little longer.

  But then the salmon pink is back.

  And suddenly, a streak of carmine red.

  You google ‘bleeding in early pregnancy’.

  Read that it is relatively common.

  Then another streak of red. And another.

  Unavoidable. Undeniable.

  You know nothing can survive it. That the end of hope is near.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I’m told:

  Stay positive. Everything may be OK.

  I don’t believe it.

  I am Lady Macbeth. Guilty as charged.

  The Infertility Diaries Part VIII

  I’m mentoring a teenager at work who is participating in one of our theatre projects for disadvantaged young people. She’s seventeen and has spent most of her life in care. As we sit and chat I can’t help noticing that she’s got scars on the inside of her arms where she’s cut herself. I know I should feel sorry for her; I know how privileged I am. But all I feel is jealousy. She’s seventeen. And pregnant.

  WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

  It is six weeks since our first round of IVF at the clinic in Oxford. Our running total now stands at one frozen and four full cycles, with nothing to show for any of them. We are due to attend the clinic in a couple of days for a debrief and to work out what to do next.

  For some reason I haven’t had another period since our last round of treatment. I’m not unduly worried, as it is relatively common with IVF for your menstrual cycle to take a while to get back to normal. However, this never happened on my previous cycles so it’s been playing on my mind. I keep thinking about it, then pushing it away, but that night, on my way to dinner with a friend, I walk past Boots and suddenly find myself at the counter buying a pregnancy test.

  Getting your sex life back to normal after a round of failed fertility treatment is never easy. It’s one of the last things you feel like doing and you start to wonder what the point is anyway. Thinking back over the last six weeks, I recall that Peter and I have made love once, but only once. I know it’s mad to think that I might be pregnant but, as I am staying over with my parents in London, I tell myself that I can do the test without telling him. Then, when it’s negative, I can stop thinking about it and get on with deciding what we’re going to do next.

  The following morning I wake up early and reach for the test in my bag. I feel stupid doing this, but keep assuring myself that nobody needs to know. I tear off the cellophane around the box with my teeth and take out the instructions. Read them carefully. Read them again. Then I get up and go quietly into the bathroom to pee on the stick.

  Back in bed, I hold the test out in front of me. There is a clear vertical red line in the circular control box on the right, showing that the test has worked. There is another vertical red line in the square box on the left and, within just a few minutes, it is bisected by a horizontal red line. I look at the instructions again. Pregnant? Me? For a few minutes I sit there, incredulous. After years of having sex to schedule and five failed attempts at IVF, could I really have got pregnant from one night
when I wasn’t even trying?

  I reach for my phone, hold it out in front of the stick, and take a photograph. Even on camera the red cross is clearly visible. Then I call Peter. He answers within a couple of rings.

  ‘Peter, are you lying down?

  ‘Sleeping actually. It’s 6 a.m. What else do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Good, because this is going to come as a shock. I think I’m pregnant.’

  ‘What?’ He suddenly sounds awake.

  ‘My period should have started by now and it hasn’t. I just thought I’d do a test to make sure before we see the doctor tomorrow. And it’s positive.’

  ‘Why haven’t you said anything before?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to think I was getting my hopes up for nothing. I was just so sure it would be negative. But it’s not. Hang up the phone; I’ll send you the photograph to prove it.’

  The rest of the day passes in a haze. I am in my office, working as normal, and then suddenly remember and snatch a look at the stick in my bag. The cross is starting to fade but it is definitely there. Every time I look at it I feel a rush of excited gratitude.

  On the way home that evening I buy another test. We’ve agreed to do it in the morning before going to the clinic. Just to make sure. It’s like the night before Christmas. I can hardly sleep.

  At 4.30 a.m. I nudge Peter.

  ‘Can I do it now?’

  ‘OK. Put the light on,’ he says.

  It is clear that he hasn’t been able to sleep either. I reach over for the test, which I placed carefully on my bedside table last night, get up and go into the bathroom. I purposefully avoid looking at the stick when I’ve peed on it but come back to bed and hand it straight to Peter.

  ‘You decide,’ I say.

  ‘How long does it take?’

  ‘Up to three minutes.’

  ‘And what am I looking for?’

  ‘A red cross in the box on the left.’

  ‘Done deal,’ he says. ‘I can see it already.’

  Our appointment at the clinic is at 2 p.m. Unusually, I have a work meeting in Oxford that morning. I’m late and dash out of the house without having had any breakfast – not very sensible for a newly pregnant woman, I know, but some habits are hard to break. Especially double ones – in my case being late and skipping breakfast.

  Towards the end of my meeting I start feeling a bit faint, so, as soon as it finishes, I decide to head over to the café in the church beside the magnificent Radcliffe Camera for something to eat. It is one of those beautiful sunny autumn days which always makes me think of Oxford as England’s Florence. As I make my way through the cobbled streets I start to feel dizzy and am relieved to arrive at the café and sit down. I call Peter to explain where I am and he offers to pick me up in the car. He’s cross with me for not eating and, for once, I accept that I may need to start thinking for two and, at the very least, eating for one.

  When I finish my sandwich I pop to the loo before heading out to meet him. I don’t give it a moment’s thought so it comes as a bit of a shock to see a smear of light pink on the toilet tissue. I’ve had no sign of a period for weeks. Then a positive pregnancy test. Now I’m spotting. I knew it was too good to be true.

  Peter is waiting for me in the car outside the King’s Arms, just across the square. He takes the news quietly.

  ‘Please don’t tell me to stay positive and that it might be fine,’ I say. ‘Spotting is not a good sign. It’s never a good sign.’

  ‘OK, I won’t,’ he says. ‘But let’s wait and see what the doctor has to say.’

  We drive to the clinic in silence. They have recently moved premises to a new building in the middle of a business park on the edge of town. It seems such an odd place to have a fertility clinic. The new building has had a lot of money spent on it. It has clearly been interior-designed. The colours are all oranges and lime greens. It looks as if the team from one of those TV makeover shows has come in.

  Our doctor takes us through to one of the consultation rooms. The wallpaper is a contemporary version of William Morris: metallic with a floral swirl. The room is empty apart from a table, three chairs and a contemporary standard lamp.

  ‘So, Jessica…Peter…I’m really sorry about the outcome,’ he starts, ‘but I have to say that in IVF terms this was a really positive cycle. Seven eggs fertilised. Four achieved really nice blastocysts –’

  ‘Sorry…’ I say, ‘I mean I’m sorry to interrupt, but before you go any further we need to let you know something that has happened over the last few days.’

  He stops. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, the cycle was definitely negative. I started bleeding before the test date but I still did a test and it was negative. But I haven’t had another period since and it’s now nearly six weeks. So yesterday, just to rule out the possibility that we might have got pregnant naturally this month, I did a test, and it was positive. We did another one today. It was positive again. Then an hour ago I started spotting so…’ I pause to draw breath, ‘before you go any further, I’m hoping you can tell us what’s going on, because something definitely is.’

  I stop to breathe again.

  ‘Well,’ he says calmly. ‘We’d better do a scan and find out.’

  He shows us into a room across the hallway and leaves me to get undressed. After a few minutes there is a soft knock at the door. Peter squeezes my hand. Then the doctor comes in and turns the lights out. He stares at the screen intently as he moves the scanning probe around inside me.

  ‘Does this hurt?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt at all?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘OK. Get dressed and go back into the consulta-tion room. I’ll meet you in there.’

  And with that he gets up and leaves the room.

  Peter and I wait in tense silence for him to return. At least ten minutes pass.

  ‘Why is he taking so long?’ I whisper.

  Then the door clicks. He comes in and sits down. He looks how I imagine doctors look when they have to give bad news.

  ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he says slowly. ‘You are pregnant. But I believe the pregnancy is ectopic, which means that the embryo has implanted outside the womb. You’re going to have to have an operation to remove it. I’ve already called the hospital; they’re expecting you. You need to go there straight away.’

  It is difficult to take it all in. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but it certainly wasn’t this. My mind immediately turns to work.

  ‘An operation? That means I’ll have to have time off work. How much time?’

  ‘It’s difficult to tell at this stage, but at least two weeks, maybe more.’

  ‘Two weeks,’ I exclaim. ‘I’ve never had two weeks off work.’ And then, more quietly: ‘I can’t believe after everything we’ve been through that I get pregnant naturally and this happens.’

  ‘I very much doubt it has happened this month,’ he says. ‘It is much more likely that this pregnancy is the result of the IVF.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘The test was negative. More to the point, that would mean I’m nearly three months pregnant.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Which is why you have to go to the hospital right away. This is potentially a very dangerous situation.’

  It’s funny how you can go for years hiding the truth about something and then in an unexpected second it all starts to unravel.

  I call work on the way to the hospital. I open my mouth to explain but all I can get out is: ‘I’m not going to make it into work today…I’m on my way to the hospital…I’m sorry…’ my voice starts to shake uncontrollably. ‘I think I’m going to have to pass you over to Peter now…’

  I hand over the phone. His voice is clear and calm. It’s as if he’s talking
about someone else. I feel like I’m outside my body, looking down on us both. I can’t believe this is happening.

  Then he rings my mum. I can hear her shocked concern at the end of the line. I know she’s been longing for me to give her a grandchild but neither of us has officially broached the subject, not wanting to put pressure on the other. Of course, not saying anything hasn’t taken the pressure away.

  When we arrive at the gynaecological wing of the hospital there is the inevitable wait. After a while I am called through for a blood test to confirm the pregnancy and see what level my hormones are. This is followed by another long wait. The results come back positive. The HCG pregnancy hormone is in the several thousands. I think back to my biochemical pregnancies, when I spent days willing it to increase beyond double figures. The irony is painful. The nurse informs us that they will operate early tomorrow.

  It is the first time I’ve spent the night in a hospital and, despite being in shock, I also find it a bit exciting. I am given a bed with my own personal TV; a green NHS gown; and I’m rather touched by the care they take in checking my blood pressure every few hours right the way through the night. But it is also a profoundly sad experience, and not just because I am there to terminate a pregnancy that I have longed for. It highlights how isolated I have become by telling so few people about what I am going through, and by moving to Oxford where we don’t know anyone and it’s difficult for friends and family just to drop by. Peter is my main source of support and my only visitor.

  The following morning I am taken in for surgery. The anaesthetist asks me to count down from ten to one and, the next thing I know, I am coming round in the recovery room. There’s no tea, biscuits or Peter, and although I keep asking the nurses if I can see him, he doesn’t appear. Eventually they take me back to the ward. He isn’t there either.

  ‘Do you know where my partner is?’ I ask one of the nurses.