The Pursuit of Motherhood Page 7

  ‘I think he’s in the waiting room,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

  Finally, Peter emerges around the curtain of my cubicle, looking concerned.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Better for seeing you,’ I say. My voice still sounds woozy. ‘I kept asking for you but they wouldn’t get you.’

  ‘I kept asking for you,’ he says. ‘You’ve been gone over four hours. I was going out of my mind with worry.’

  Later that afternoon my surgeon comes to check on me during his rounds.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

  ‘OK, I think.’

  ‘You will probably feel very tired; you were asleep for quite a while.’

  ‘Why was that? Peter said I was gone for four hours.’

  ‘Well, we had quite a bit of difficulty finding the foetus. Usually with ectopic pregnancies it is in one of the fallopian tubes, but in your case it wasn’t in either of them.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘No. It was in your stomach.’

  ‘My stomach? How did it get there?’

  ‘It must have passed from the womb, up through the fallopian tubes and then down into the abdomen. It is highly unusual though.’

  As soon as he’s gone I google ‘ectopic pregnancy’ on my phone. Apparently they most commonly occur when the embryo implants in a fallopian tube on its way down to the uterus, but in rare cases they can implant in all sorts of places. I read about one woman who had an abdominal ectopic and actually carried her baby to term, although it was born very prematurely. I can’t help wishing this had been me but I know that’s stupid. Stupid and dangerous.

  My second and third nights in hospital are not as much fun as the first. I’m walking like an old woman, carrying a bag full of blood that seems to be attached to my stomach (to be honest, I don’t look too closely). Peter stays for as long as he can on the day of the operation, but he has to go to a work event that evening and it’s not something he can easily get out of. I imagine him having to make polite conversation, exchanging the usual pleasantries about the weather. The juxtaposition of public and private is something that has always fascinated me. How we never really know what’s going on in other people’s lives. How most of the time we never ask or say.

  I am on a ward with three other women. I have no idea what each of them is in for, except that this is an antenatal ward and everyone is in for something baby-related. The woman in the bed next to me looks very sick. She sleeps a lot. There are two other women at the end of the ward. They are both pregnant but are experiencing complications and have been admitted for observation. They talk constantly about the intricacies of their pregnancies. It’s hard listening to it. I know there’s always a shortage of hospital beds but surely there must be a better way of managing this?

  On Sunday morning I am discharged. Although I’ve only been in hospital for a few days it suddenly feels quite a wrench to leave. It’s amazing how quickly you become institutionalised.

  My surgeon comes to see me one last time before I go.

  ‘I advise you to take a minimum of two weeks off before you go back to work,’ he says. ‘Shall I write you a sick note?’

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ I say. ‘The only person at work who will deny me any sick leave is myself.’

  He laughs.

  Peter picks me up from the hospital and drives us home. The house feels like it does when you come back from a holiday: strange and unlived-in. I can’t settle. Peter has to go away for work for a few days so I decide to go with him and stay at the hotel where he’s been booked a room. In many ways it’s serendipitous. There’s nothing quite as comforting as the fresh white sheets and daily towel change of a good hotel.

  For three days straight I don’t leave the hotel. But within a week I’m back at work.

  The Infertility Diaries Part IX

  Public holidays are hard. Especially Christmas. I long to experience the excitement of the family going out to buy the tree and decorating it to the sound of cheesy Christmas classics; of baking biscuits and stirring the pudding; of buying stocking presents and opening them together in bed on Christmas morning. This year we’ve decided to go away. Somewhere hot. Somewhere we’re not reminded of the family we haven’t got.

  SOCKS AND STAIRS

  I’ve always admired couples who say they never argue. Peter and I get cross with each other all the time. If there’s a reason to take offence, one of us invariably will. We then begin a game of football, passing the ball of anger back and forth, scoring whenever we can. I know some people say there’s passion in disagreement, that hurt is better out than in. But it would be nice. Not to argue. About even the smallest things.

  These are some of the things that make me cross about Peter:

  When I ask him to do something, he always says later.

  He never says no to a drink. Or two.

  When he puts on a pair of blue socks with a black suit and shoes, he refuses to change them. He says that the colour of your socks is not important in life. I disagree.

  He thinks a fib is not a lie.

  He fills our cupboards with things he never uses and won’t ever let me throw them away. When I ask him how many cables one man needs, he says a lot.

  I say he’s stubborn. He says he’s determined.

  These are some of the things that make Peter cross about me:

  Whenever we go to a restaurant I never want to sit at the first table that’s offered. Sometimes I’m not even happy with the second.

  I often wear the wrong clothes for the weather, which means that when it’s cold I have to borrow his jacket.

  I never carry tissues.

  I pile the sink high with dirty dishes. Peter says this makes more work, as you have to take them out again to do the washing-up. I say it keeps things temporarily tidy.

  I make him climb hills. He hates hills. And stairs.

  He says I’m stubborn. I say I’m determined.

  I sometimes wonder what would happen if we had children. Would we still argue or would there be other things to think about? Maybe it’s because we don’t have children that we argue as much as we do. Maybe we channel our pain through the small things. It’s another aspect of our infertility that is unexplained.

  The Infertility Diaries Part X

  Something’s happened to me. When I was a teenager, I was great with young children. I had a monopoly on babysitting in my neighbourhood and was in high demand. Now, all of a sudden, I feel self-conscious around them. Whenever I visit friends and family with babies I never ask to pick them up and, as if sensing my unease, they never offer. I have this paranoia that they think I might burst into tears or run off with them because I haven’t got one of my own. I don’t want to risk any embarrassment. In fact, I’ve started to notice that everyone is feeling more and more uncomfortable even mentioning babies around me. I know it’s because they don’t want to hurt my feelings but it actually makes things worse. They worry about telling me when someone gets pregnant because it will highlight that I’m not, and they’ve stopped inviting me to things where there will be children because they assume I won’t enjoy it. Of course they’re right. It does hurt. It hurts a lot. But, on balance, that’s probably better than feeling like a leper.

  SHIT HAPPENS

  I am standing naked in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom. It is now several months since my ectopic pregnancy and I still have three scars clearly visible across my tummy. One over my right fallopian tube, where they looked for the foetus first; one over my left tube, where they looked next; and one above my abdomen, where they eventually found it. It’s strange to think that these scars will always be with me. A constant reminder of the journey my body has been on and the pregnancy that was there and then taken away. I can’t help wondering if it’s the closest I will ever get; whether, at the end of my life, these three small scars will be all I have to show that I was a mother.

  My relationship with Peter has become increasingly straine
d over the last few months. We are struggling financially and emotionally to hold everything together. I know he feels that at times I’m pushing him away. Maybe I am.

  We still have two embryos from our last round of IVF in the freezer at the clinic. We’ve been waiting for my body to recuperate fully before putting them back. But the time has come.

  I know from my first frozen cycle that the process is relatively straightforward. It doesn’t involve as many drugs; there’s no operation under general anaesthetic; and to some extent a level of anxiety has been taken away because we already know that we have some embryos to put back. Traditionally a frozen embryo transfer has been considered marginally less likely to be successful than a fresh embryo transfer. However, some doctors now believe that if an embryo survives the thawing process it’s likely to be of good quality and the chances of successful implantation are very high. I have been on the down-regulation drugs and am due at the clinic tomorrow for a blood test and scan to make sure that everything is going to plan and that they can start preparing my body to receive the embryos.

  That night, Peter and I have one of the worst rows of our entire relationship. He has been out all day with some old friends he hasn’t seen for ages and comes home smelling of drink. On any other day I might have made him some tea and toast and insisted on hearing the minutiae of proceedings. But today it is the red rag to the bull that has been lurking in the corner of my life for the last few months. I am furious at him for getting drunk. I am furious at him for spending money that we don’t have. I am furious at him for lying – or so I believe – about how much he’s drunk and how much money he’s spent.

  I start to shout. Then I start to throw things, picking up random objects from around the room and hurling them at him. Peter is sitting on the sofa, his hands over his head, trying to protect himself against the onslaught. I grab a bottle of unopened wine from the kitchen table. I unscrew it and pour it all over his head. He gets up and slips on the wet floorboards. As he lies there, covered in red wine, I start to kick him.

  We sleep in separate rooms. Peter spends the night on the floor in his study in the attic. At five in the morning I go upstairs. He looks terrible. We both look terrible. Our eyes bloodshot with tiredness; our faces swollen from crying.

  ‘I’m not going to go through with it,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How can I contemplate even trying to bring a child into such a volatile relationship?’

  ‘It’s only volatile because of the drugs, the disappointment, everything we’re going through. We love each other.’

  ‘Do we? I don’t know any more. Besides, it won’t work anyway. What’s the point? It never works.’

  We are both silent for a few minutes. I fiddle with the tin of pens on Peter’s desk.

  ‘Listen,’ he says softly. ‘Let me take you to the clinic this morning. It doesn’t mean you have to go through with it. Just keep the process moving for now; buy yourself some more time to think about it.’

  It’s a big thing for me to concede, but I do.

  After we’ve been to the clinic Peter goes away for a few days, leaving me some space to think things over. We’re both shocked by the ferocity of feeling that our row seems to have uncovered. To an outsider the subject of the argument might seem trivial, belying the anger that it invoked, but, as in so many faltering relationships, it’s not always the things you argue about that are important. The truth is neither of us ever imagined we would be on this gruelling treadmill of medical probing, spiralling debt and continuing disappointment. Who would? We just fell in love, turned our own and others’ lives upside down to be together, and then found ourselves on it. Now neither of us knows when or how to get off.

  After a couple of days we speak on the phone.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

  ‘I still feel so angry with you,’ I say.

  ‘But all I did was have a few drinks.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it. Your way. It feels to me like you let me down. After everything we’ve been through, why would you risk jeopardising the process we’re about to go through again by doing anything that would risk upsetting me?’

  ‘You’re making yourself upset. It’s only jeopardised if you let it be.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure I’ve got the ability to be rational about this any more.’

  ‘So what do you want to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It’s terrible timing, but I don’t think I can give up on our embryos.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  There’s a moment’s silence before I continue. ‘Well, there is one thing that I have been thinking about,’ I say. ‘But I’ll only go through with it if you give me your permission.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ he says immediately. And then, as an afterthought: ‘Why? What is it?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe I should go through the transfer without you. On my own. If it’s successful – which it probably won’t be – then we’ll try and work things out.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  ‘Then I think we should separate.’

  Just to be clear, I don’t advocate this as a way of going through fertility treatment. It should be a time of hope and togetherness, not anger and separation. But life happens. Shit happens. Infertility happens.

  There’s another week or so to wait before my embryo transfer. Now that I have down-regulated, I am taking drugs to build up the lining of my womb so that it is at the optimum thickness for the embryos to implant. Peter is staying at his parents’ house in the country while they are away.

  We don’t speak.

  The day before the embryos are due back he sends me a text asking whether I want him to come for the transfer. I am surprised and confused that he knows when my appointment is, as it was only confirmed a couple of days ago. I immediately pick up the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not great.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I just got your text. How do you know the embryos are going back tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘You told me, didn’t you?’ he says. Sheepishly.

  ‘No. I only found out myself a couple of days ago. We haven’t spoken, remember?’

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I rang the clinic.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘They didn’t want to tell me at first. I think they thought it was a bit weird. But I said I’d double booked myself and was trying to sort things out so eventually they relented.’

  I am touched by his deceptive determination.

  ‘So, do you want me to come?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I think I still want do it on my own.’

  ‘OK. But I’ve got to come to Oxford tomorrow morning anyway for a dentist’s appointment. I’ll wait around until lunchtime. If you change your mind, call me.’

  ‘I won’t change my mind.’

  It is easy to see in retrospect how the intractable positions we get ourselves into when we’re angry just end up causing us more pain. At this moment I feel like I am protecting myself. I am ashamed to admit I don’t care what Peter is feeling.

  The following morning I dial Peter’s mobile. It rings. Too many times. When he finally picks up I already know that it’s too late.

  ‘You didn’t come, did you?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I felt so sad after we spoke. I cancelled my appointment.’

  ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘What?’ he says, surprised.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m still upset with you but I was wrong. You should be here. Just in case.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring me before?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll come now,’ he says, hurriedly.

  ‘You’ll never get here in time.’

  ‘I’m on my way. I’ll meet you at the clinic.’

  My appointment is at noon. The clinic is unusually quiet. I
sit in the waiting room, flicking through a magazine. At twelve on the dot a nurse comes through.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she says brightly.

  ‘Would you mind if we wait a few more minutes? My partner is on his way. He’s running late but he’s almost here.’

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘As it’s quiet.’

  Five minutes later she comes back.

  ‘Is he here yet?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But don’t worry, I can’t keep you waiting any longer. Let’s just make a start.’

  ‘Is he in a red car by any chance?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I’ve just seen him swing into the car park at breakneck speed. I wondered whether that might be him.’

  At the same moment the door swings open and Peter rushes in. We look at each other, then he pulls me towards him and kisses me.

  ‘No time for that now,’ the nurse says briskly. ‘Save it until afterwards.’

  If only she knew.

  We are taken through to one of the consultation rooms and as the embryologist and nurse conduct the transfer it is as if nothing has happened. We are our usual laughing, loving selves. But afterwards, back in the car, memories of last week’s events return and the atmosphere is brittle and uncertain. Peter drives me to the station so I can take the train to work. He pulls up on a double yellow line.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you for letting me.’

  ‘So…’ I pause for a moment. As I do, a bus comes up behind us and beeps its horn to move us along.

  ‘So…?’ Peter asks.

  The bus beeps its horn again.

  ‘So…I guess I’ll call you when I know the result,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  And so a pause and the beep of a bus seal it. I get out of the car. Shut the door. And don’t look back.

  Sunday 21 March. The night of the annual Olivier Awards, the British theatre industry’s equivalent of the Oscars. Everyone who is anyone in London theatre will be there, and one of our productions is up for several awards.