The Pursuit of Motherhood Page 8

  I have booked into a hotel for the night so I don’t have to commute back to Oxford. When I arrive I’m told that I’ve been upgraded to a suite. I can’t help wishing Peter were with me so that we could jump on the bed with excitement. But we haven’t seen or spoken to each other for two weeks. I open my case and take out my dress and shoes. Then I take out a small paper bag containing the pregnancy test I have been given by the clinic. I lay it carefully next to the sink in the bathroom (which is bigger than our bedroom back home). Tomorrow is OTD. Official Test Day.

  I go back into the bedroom, get dressed and then call a black cab to the Grosvenor Hotel. It’s a good night: our production wins three awards. Everyone is ecstatic, especially as we are not expecting it. But at the end of the ceremony, as bottles of champagne are being lined up along the bar, I slip away from the celebrations. There’s nothing as tedious as watching other people getting really drunk when you have to stay sober. I’ve started to get used to this over the last few years and, sadly, it’s never been for a good reason. Maybe today will be different.

  Back at the hotel, I get into bed. I feel strangely calm. Something does seem different this time. Usually I would be spotting by now. Perhaps even bleeding. But so far there has been nothing. I sleep deeply, wake up refreshed, and pad into the bathroom to take the test. The result is faint at first but slowly two lines start to appear, indicating that it’s positive…POSITIVE!!!

  Alone in the luxurious surroundings of my penthouse suite, it is almost as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s glamorous life. I imagine I’m a movie star, thinking back on an awards ceremony where I had that one-night stand with the older, married director of my latest film. Now I’ve found out I’m pregnant by him. This can’t actually be happening. Not to me. It’s not how my life is.

  But it is me, it is my life, and although I know this should be a joyous moment all I can think of is that I’m here alone, without Peter. I pick up the phone and call him. I feel lighter just hearing his voice, and his excitement when I tell him the news. Then I ring the clinic. It sounds strange listening to myself saying that I’ve done my pregnancy test and that it’s positive, and then to hear their congratulations. They tell me that the next step is to come in for a scan in a few weeks’ time. Apparently this is the earliest they will be able to see anything.

  Over the next few days Peter and I talk on the phone a lot. He’s still at his parents’ house and we’re both still tentative about the pregnancy and our relationship. Given all that has happened we both agree that it would be wrong to rush into things, so we decide that Peter will come down for my scan and we’ll take it from there.

  The following weekend I have arranged to meet up with Beth. I know she will be overjoyed for me and I have decided to save the news until I see her. We have a lovely girly lunch at the restaurant in the basement of Tate Britain and then visit the new Henry Moore exhibition. When I tell her the news she is so happy and excited, as I knew she would be. But over lunch I also have to tell her that earlier that same morning, nearly a week after my positive test, there has been a worrying sign. A smidgen of salmon pink. And we both know that a sign is a sign even when it’s a smidgen.

  The Infertility Diaries Part XI

  Apparently you’re supposed to focus on your womb: think positive thoughts; imagine everything is progressing well. That’s what Zita West, the UK’s holistic baby-making guru, says. Trouble is, I don’t trust my tummy. I can’t believe there’s any woman who has lived with infertility that does.

  THE FOOL

  A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend. She’s one of the cleverest people I know (a double first from Oxford kind of clever). Over pudding she confided to me that she had recently been to see a psychic tarot-card reader who had been utterly amazing (her words). At the time I couldn’t stop laughing and teasing her about when she was going to meet that tall dark handsome stranger. A few weeks later, I pick up the phone and book myself an appointment. Every rational bone in my body is screaming WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? But I still do it. Suddenly it isn’t such a mad idea after all. In fact it might be my only hope of sanity.

  I guess the moral of that story is: Be Careful What You Laugh At.

  The tarot reader practises at a little shop in Covent Garden which is an Aladdin’s cave of new age paraphernalia. As well as tarot they also offer reiki, psychic healing and aura readings. I take a seat in the waiting area upstairs, expecting a gothic Mystic Meg-type figure with staring eyes. It is quite a surprise when a big bubbly black woman named Barbara comes through and calls my name.

  ‘Hello, my love,’ she says. ‘Have I read your cards before?’

  ‘No. No one has.’

  ‘All right then, let’s see what we’ve got for you today.’

  She asks me to cut the pack and lays several of them out on the table between us.

  ‘Now here we have the Fool,’ she says. ‘That indicates a time of change.’ She looks at me. ‘Would that be right, my love?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘And next to that is the Lovers. I’m feeling that you might be on the cusp of a new relationship. Is that right?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘All right, so let’s see then,’ she says. ‘Well, we also have the Tower, which is associated with decision. And alongside that is the Emperor, which is associated with power. Maybe you’re considering a change of career? Or some other sort of life change?’

  ‘Erm, maybe.’

  She carries on in this vein for a while, with me giving monosyllabic answers to each of her questions. I am determined not to give too much away so that I can be certain I’m not influencing anything she says. So far there has been nothing decisive.

  Eventually she stops looking at the cards and turns towards me.

  ‘Listen, my love, you’re going to have give me more to work with here. Is there something specific you want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘I don’t want to say. I want you to tell me.’

  ‘It doesn’t really work like that, my love. Maybe if you could give me an indication then we can see what the cards say.’

  ‘OK,’ I say a little reluctantly. ‘I want to know about my pregnancy.’

  ‘Your pregnancy? Why? Are you pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right,’ she says slowly. ‘So what do you want to know exactly?’

  ‘I want to know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘What’s going to happen? I’m not sure I understand.’

  This isn’t how I envisaged things would go but I’ve started now so I might as well explain.

  ‘I’ve been trying to conceive for a long time,’ I say. ‘I’ve been through a lot of fertility treatment. I want to know whether this time it’s finally going to work.’

  ‘Ah, I see, you want to know whether you’re going to have a miscarriage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Throughout this exchange she has been looking at the cards, tapping each of them with her long fingernails. The moment I answer in the affirmative she puts down the pack and looks at me.

  ‘And why do you think you might have a miscarriage?’

  ‘I don’t know; just my luck, I guess. I suppose I’ve come here because I want to know whether it’s finally going to change.’

  ‘You’re not spotting, are you?’ she asks (a little flippantly).

  ‘Actually, yes.’

  ‘Now listen to me, my love, spotting doesn’t mean anything. Lots of women spot and have perfectly normal pregnancies. Stop worrying. I’m sure things will be fine.’

  I look at her and don’t reply. It’s all very well, I think, but I’m not lots of women.

  Then she turns to the cards again and finishes the reading. She focuses on the ones that herald positive change, which seem to be most of them in some way or another. I leave the shop none the wiser.

  I never told anyone about that afternoon. Not my friend who recommended
her. Not even Peter. Sometimes you want to believe that someone somewhere can tell you what the future holds. The truth is nobody can. Although I guess you could say the Fool card was right – I definitely felt one.

  The Infertility Diaries Part XII

  I went into Waterstone’s today and allowed myself to look at baby books for the first time. I even decided to buy one. It’s got fabulous pictures showing how your foetus is developing on a day-by-day basis. But as I stood at the counter, book in hand, I couldn’t help feeling like a fraud. What if I’m wasting my money? What if I never get past the first few pages? What if the book ends up gathering dust on the shelf, waiting for me to take it to Oxfam for someone who can really use it?

  MINI-MOLLY

  A few days later I wake up in the middle of the night. There is a slow, dull ache across my lower back and I can feel blood between my legs. I know that if I ring the clinic they will tell me the usual: don’t worry, it might not mean the worst. But I am thinking the worst, so as soon as it’s morning I call a taxi to take me to the clinic.

  The receptionist looks at me with shocked surprise when I tell her that I haven’t got an appointment but I think I’m miscarrying and want to see someone. She calls a nurse, who looks at me with shocked disapproval.

  ‘You shouldn’t just come into the clinic like this,’ she scolds. ‘You should have called us first.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I lie. I’m not sorry. I know what would have happened if I’d rung. Right now, I need more than that.

  ‘OK, as you’re here I’ll give you a scan,’ the nurse says reluctantly. ‘But I have to tell you, it’s very unlikely we’ll be able to see anything. It’s far too early.’

  She takes me into a consultation room and tells me to get undressed.

  ‘Well, I can see a pregnancy sac, which is a good sign,’ she says within a few minutes. ‘It’s possible that both embryos implanted and you’ve lost one, which has caused this bleeding. The good news is there is definitely still one sac, but it really is too early to see anything else. You will need to come back on your official scan day.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say gratefully as I climb off the trolley and put my trousers back on.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she replies. ‘But don’t come in like that again. Ring us next time.’

  As I leave the clinic I don’t know whether to feel happy that I still seem to be pregnant or sad that I might have just lost a twin. Mostly I feel happy.

  As soon as I get into work, I switch on my computer and email Peter:

  Come home.

  A minute later his reply pops into my inbox:

  Are you sure?

  I email back:

  Never been surer.

  When I get off the train that evening, he’s waiting for me outside the station. He wraps his arms around me.

  ‘I’ve brought the car,’ he says. ‘I’m going to make sure you take things easy from now on.’

  ‘Easy? I’m not sure I know the meaning of that word.’

  ‘Well you might as well make the most of it, because if our baby is anything like you, as soon as it’s born you’re never going to have it easy again.’

  ‘And if it’s anything like you, it will be asking for rum in its milk by the time it’s six months.’

  ‘The kid’s got taste!’ he says.

  We both laugh.

  The week-and-a-half wait until the day of my official scan is agony. When it finally arrives I give the nurse a hurried explanation of the events since my positive test. Just so that she knows I am not assuming everything is going to be fine. Just to make it easier for her if it isn’t.

  As I lie on the trolley she stares at the screen intently, doing something that makes a repetitive clicking sound. After forever she turns towards us.

  ‘I’m sorry for the wait,’ she says. ‘I wanted to be sure.’

  We look at her uncertainly.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘the good news is that I can confirm you are pregnant and I can see a strong foetal heartbeat, which is a very encouraging sign.’

  ‘And the bad news?’ I ask immediately, convinced that there’s never one without the other these days.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there is something that’s not quite so good,’ she replies. ‘The foetus seems to be about half the size it should be by this stage.’

  The clicking sound had been her measuring it. She turns the screen towards us so we can see for ourselves. Peter and I look at each other and then at the tiny fluttering spot, fighting for its life.

  ‘So what happens next?’ I ask.

  ‘We will need to book you in for another scan in a couple of weeks’ time. We will know more then. In the meantime, if you get any more heavy bleeding I suggest you go straight to the Early Pregnancy Unit at the John Radcliffe.’

  Over the next few days Peter does a lot of talking to my tummy. For years now we have dreamt of having a little girl called Molly. It’s the only name we both agree on. So we name her ‘Mini-Molly’, and with all our hope we will for her to keep growing. But the bleeding continues and within a few days is pretty heavy, so we decide to go to the hospital.

  After years of experiencing the weirdness of infertility clinics, it now feels even weirder to be in a place where regular pregnant people go. We are surrounded by other parents-to-be, waiting for their first three-month scan. As we don’t have an appointment we have to wait to be seen as an emergency. After three nerve-wracking hours we are finally called into the scanning room, where there are two nurses – one who scans, the other who enters the details into a computer. I am immediately struck by how bright and breezy they both seem. They’re not like infertility nurses, hardened by disappointment. These nurses are clearly used to the joy of showing a couple the new life they have created on screen for the first time.

  They ask me my name, address, how many weeks pregnant I am. I feel like saying that they are wasting their time going through the usual rigmarole. They might as well do the scan, confirm the worst, and save the space on the database. But I go with it; we’re only minutes away anyhow.

  The scanning nurse conducts the ultrasound through my stomach. I’ve never experienced this before, but I’ve seen it so many times on film and TV that it feels familiar. I allow myself to dream for a moment that I’m a normal person attending a routine antenatal appointment. The nurse massages the cold gel into my stomach as she moves the probe around, trying to get a good view of my uterus.

  ‘There it is,’ she says suddenly.

  ‘Pardon?’ I reply.

  ‘Your little jelly bean – strong foetal heartbeat, now let’s just measure it.’

  ‘What? Really?’ I say, confused.

  ‘Yes, really,’ she says. ‘Everything seems absolutely fine.’

  She calls out the measurements to the other nurse sitting at the computer. Not only is Mini-Molly’s heartbeat still strong, but she has grown to 9 millimetres and has almost doubled in size since our first scan. I steal a glance at Peter, seeing the relief and happiness on his face.

  We leave the hospital elated. They even give us a photo. One of those grainy black and white images with a little dot which means nothing to anyone except its mum and dad. All that talking to my tummy worked. Things are going be fine.

  Another week passes and eventually the day for our follow-up scan at the clinic arrives. As we sit in the waiting room, I notice Peter tearing off a scrap of paper from his notebook and writing something on it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he says cryptically.

  Generally I wouldn’t (couldn’t) leave that hanging, but today I have bigger things on my mind. I am nervous about the scan. Although I’m nearly eight weeks pregnant, I know there is a long way to go before we’re through and out the other side.

  The same nurse who scanned us the first time collects us from the waiting area.

  ‘How are you both doing?’ she asks.

  ‘OK,’ I reply. ‘I’ve still been b
leeding on and off. We took your advice and went to the Early Pregnancy Unit. They did a scan and said everything was looking fine but I’m still anxious.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I understand.’

  She stares at the screen intently, making those clicking noises again. She’s measuring it. That must be a good sign. None of us speaks until she finally stops and turns.

  ‘Jessica, Peter, I’m afraid there’s no easy way of saying this but the foetal heartbeat seems to have stopped.’

  ‘But how?’ I demand. ‘At the hospital they told us the heartbeat was really strong. They said the foetus had doubled in size.’

  ‘Yes, it has grown since I last saw you but I definitely can’t see a heartbeat. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘What does that mean? What can we do?’

  ‘Sadly there isn’t anything. I’m afraid it means that you’re going to miscarry.’

  I look away and take a deep breath to try and compose myself. Then I turn back to her.

  ‘So when will it happen?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s difficult to be sure exactly. A week. Maybe two. We could do what is called a D & C and remove the embryo under general anaesthetic, but we much prefer to let things happen naturally. I’m so sorry, I know this must be hard for you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m used to hard.’

  On the way home in the car our silence is heavy. Then I remember the slip of paper. Peter admits that he had been so sure everything would be fine that he’d written down that he thought Mini-Molly would be 16 millimetres today, so he could impress me with his mathematical prowess later. I love him so much for his optimism, in spite of its futility.

  We get home and sit down on the sofa in the front room. The thought of spending the next few weeks with our baby dead inside me is heartbreaking. Neither of us knows what to say. Eventually Peter gets up.

  ‘Shall I make a cup of tea?’ he asks.