The Pursuit of Motherhood Read online

  ‘OK,’ I reply.

  Sometimes there is nothing more you can say. Or do.

  The Infertility Diaries Part XIII

  Molly will be fair and long-limbed. There’s nothing you can do about genetics. I have this image of us as a family holidaying in the South of France. She is about eight. We watch as she runs fearlessly towards the hotel swimming pool, dives in and swims like a fish to the other end. Hopping out of the pool she wraps herself in a big towel and curls up on a sun-lounger with a book. She reads voraciously, disdaining her tablet for words on a page. That’s our girl. I can’t helping thinking that the nurse might have made a mistake. Maybe Mini-Molly’s heart is still beating and she just didn’t see it. Maybe the miscarriage will never come. It has happened. Google it and you’ll see.

  JERUSALEM

  I have this theory – not statistically proven, I hasten to add – that every theatre creates one production each decade that defines it. For the Donmar Warehouse in the 1990s it was The Blue Room with Nicole Kidman and Iain Glen. For the National Theatre in the 2000s it would have to be War Horse. I’d lay money on it being Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem for the Royal Court in the 2010s (even though we haven’t got to the end of them yet).

  I missed the show when it first opened – this was less to do with not being able to get a ticket, and more to do with the fact that I couldn’t face the thought of sitting through three hours of theatre. Believe me, there isn’t anyone who works in theatre who doesn’t ask what the running time is when walking into an auditorium, then breathe a silent sigh of relief when they’re told that it’s going to be one and a half hours straight through without an interval. You don’t choose to go to a three-hour play unless you have to, or it’s unmissable. It soon became clear that Jerusalem, and particularly Mark Rylance’s tour de force performance as Rooster, was the latter.

  After its run at the Royal Court the show transferred to the West End, and I managed to get a couple of tickets for the final Saturday matinee. It was a sunny day and the atmosphere outside the theatre was more like a rock concert than a theatre performance. There were touts offering tickets at ludicrous prices, and I overheard an American woman saying how delighted she was to have won hers in a bidding war on eBay. It always astonishes and delights me when a theatre production generates this much interest. Perhaps that’s the reaction of someone who knows only too well how difficult it can be to give away tickets for nothing when you’ve made a show that no one wants to come and see.

  I was seeing the play with an old friend of mine from university called Ella who was running late. She was coming direct from an Internet-instigated blind date, which she often does on weekend lunchtimes because she says there’s less pressure and you can always find a good excuse to get away quickly if you need to. They were ringing the one-minute call bell when she arrived and we hurried to our seats in the stalls. The sense of anticipation in the auditorium was palpable. There was no time to catch up before the lights went down and the play began.

  In the interval there was the customary queue for the ladies’ toilets – proof if ever it were needed that all Victorian theatre architects were men. My tactic (which I offer as an insider’s recommendation to everyone) is to hang on until just a few minutes before the show is about to restart. Invariably the queue is down to only two or three by then and you’ve always got more time than the front of house staff want you to think you have.

  I closed the cubicle door, undid my trousers, and as I bent down there was a massive rush of blood.

  Nothing can prepare you for the shock of a miscarriage – even when you’re expecting it. It’s often said that they are extremely common, and some women who miscarry don’t even know that they have conceived as it can be little more than a heavy period. But I have been having periods for twenty-five years and this felt nothing like it. Apart from the enormous amount of blood, it was thick and globular. Even a Tampax Super Plus wouldn’t have stood a chance for more than a couple of minutes. But I should be so lucky. I didn’t have anything with me at all, which you can read as either stupidity or denial.

  I realise that most people in this situation would probably have left the theatre. This would probably be the sensible thing to do. But my friend Ella was in the auditorium and I could hear the furious ringing of the call bell. The show was now really about to re-start. So I created a makeshift sanitary towel with a wodge of toilet paper (show me a woman who has never done that), tied my jumper round my waist to hide the blood, and went back to my seat.

  I must have gone very pale because Ella looked concerned.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not quite sure how to say this,’ I whispered, ‘but I’m having a miscarriage.’

  ‘Oh my god, shall we leave?’ she said.

  ‘It’s OK, I was expecting it but it’s a bit of a shock nonetheless. I’ll explain afterwards.’

  And with that the lights went down on the second half.

  When I look back at all the plays I’ve seen in my life there are only a few that really stand out. Jerusalem will always be one of them. I feel lucky to be able to say that I saw the original production, with the performance that has earned Rylance a god-like status among actors. But as the audience rose to its feet at the end of the play to give the cast a standing ovation, all I could feel was blood running down my leg. Sadly that’s the thing that I will most and always remember.

  The Infertility Diaries Part XIV

  In my darker moments (of which these days there are many) I wonder whether my infertility is some sort of punishment for how Peter and I got together. For the pain we caused to others. Maybe I don’t deserve to be a mother. Maybe this is my retribution.

  ANGER MANAGEMENT

  After the miscarriage we go to see our consultant. He is as sympathetic as ever but I am getting sick of sympathy; I just want some answers.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ I say. ‘I’ve now been through this process six times. I’ve had two biochemical pregnancies, one ectopic, now a miscarriage. What am I not doing right?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I know it might not seem like it, but these are all very good indications that you will get pregnant. If you were a machine, I would simply say keep going and sooner or later it will work. But I realise you’re not a machine; there’s an emotional and financial cost to all this as well.’

  ‘But there must be a reason I can’t seem to sustain a pregnancy,’ I say.

  I steal a glance at Peter, remembering our many conversations in which I have denied the existence of stress.

  ‘Do you think it could be stress?’ I ask.

  ‘Unlikely,’ he says going into lecture mode. ‘All the studies that have been done indicate that stress is not a significant factor. If you look at conception rates of women living in poor or war-torn countries they are no lower than those for Western women. There was also a seminal study done on women who had been raped, which found that pregnancy rates amongst them were no different than for women who had conceived in a loving relationship.’

  ‘Well what about my immune system? I’ve recently read about these things called natural killer cells that attack the foetus. Do you think that could be it?’

  ‘The doctor who pioneered this theory was based in California – he’s dead now – and there are a small number of doctors in the UK who practise his methodology, but there have been absolutely no clinical trials to prove its efficacy. Whilst I wouldn’t say that these treatments would harm you, there are no grounds to suggest they would make any difference at all.’

  ‘With respect, there must be a reason. Maybe science doesn’t know what it is yet. Maybe they won’t find it out in my lifetime. But there will be a reason.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, go on, hazard a guess. What do you think is wrong with me? I won’t hold you to it, but in your professional judgement, what the hell is going on?’

  He pauses. ‘Jessica, I don’t know. All I can say is th
at you are either very unusual, or very unlucky.’

  We say goodbye and as the door closes behind us I look at Peter.

  ‘You were a bit hard on him,’ he says.

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Well, you used the phrase, “With respect”. It’s always a giveaway.’

  ‘Well, with respect, there must be a reason.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it’s not his fault. He’s trying to do his best for us.’

  ‘Is he? I’m fed up with being told that all the indications are that if we keep on trying I will get pregnant. It just means we do what we did last time and then we don’t.’

  ‘This clinic has got us further than any other. They deserve another chance.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And maybe, in the meantime, you need to do something about your anger.’

  ‘Angry? Me?’

  ‘Yes. You.’

  Peter probably has a point. My anger is becoming more and more of a problem. With us; with our doctor; with everybody. And so a month after my miscarriage I find myself in East Grinstead on a Friday morning. My work colleagues think I’m away for a long weekend, which, strictly speaking, I am. But there isn’t a hotel with a spa in sight. Instead, I’ve booked myself on to an intensive weekend of Anger Management.

  When I arrive two women are already there having coffee. I help myself to a cup and join them in polite conversation. One of them is the programme administrator, the other a Scottish woman who is attending the course that weekend. The first thing the administrator says to me is that there have been a number of dropouts, so there will now be only three of us taking part. This isn’t good news as it means there will be nowhere to hide. A few minutes later a man, probably late twenties, comes in: the last of our trio. He seems very nervous, which instantly makes me feel more relaxed.

  Then the course tutor arrives. A small, round South African who bounces with self-assurance.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘I’m Mike.’

  ‘Jessica,’ I say.

  He looks me up and down.

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ he asks.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mike, you can’t say things like that,’ the administrator hisses.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘You probably will be later,’ I say (quietly).

  I look down at myself surreptitiously. I am wearing a long baggy grey jumper over skinny jeans and boots. I thought I looked casually sophisticated. But clearly the outfit also makes me look fat. Or pregnant. Maybe I am fat, because I’m definitely not pregnant.

  Let’s just say this isn’t a good start to the weekend. I’m hurt (what woman wouldn’t be?), and I’m also angry that the tutor of the course could be so tactless. I guess I’m in the right place to deal with it, but at this precise moment I feel too angry to think about trying. All morning I continue to fume, distancing myself from the group by giving brief and cautious answers.

  At lunch Mike turns to me and says, ‘Jessica, can I guess what you do for a living?’

  ‘OK,’ I say suspiciously.

  ‘Are you a recruitment consultant?’

  ‘No.’

  I look at him intently, waiting for the next question. It doesn’t come so I don’t volunteer the right answer either. I think you could say this isn’t going well.

  In the afternoon session Mike leads us into a more in-depth discussion about why each of us has come on the course. The man in his twenties describes an incident he was involved in a few weeks ago. He had been at a pub with some friends in his home town when a guy standing next to him at the bar said something – he couldn’t even remember what it was – and he found himself turning round and hitting him in the face. He has no idea why he did it, and he is shaking so much as he tells the story, it is clear that this is the truth.

  The Scottish woman says that she and her husband have terrible rows and she’s worried about the effect it’s having on their children. She is explosive. He is passive aggressive. They have both agreed to do the course separately to try to find techniques to deal with it.

  Then it’s my turn. I contemplate lying but then think of the four hundred quid I’ve shelled out to do the course. So I take a deep breath and tell the group that I’m angry with the hand that life has dealt me, and that recently I’ve felt this more than ever.

  ‘And why’s that?’ Mike asks.

  ‘Because after spending years trying to get pregnant, I finally did, and then I had a miscarriage.’

  For the first time that day Mike is silent.

  That’ll teach him.

  By the end of the day I am starting to feel better. When I get back to the hotel I am staying at for the weekend, I crack open a bottle of sparkling water from the minibar – the course has a no-alcohol rule – and contemplate what I’ve learned. I think the most salient lesson is that being angry with other people ultimately only hurts you. I guess my own feelings that day have proved the theory.

  The rest of the weekend is more enjoyable. We learn Mike’s eight steps to managing your anger and we get to know each other’s relationships with anger intimately. Given that we all spend most of our lives with the same people, having more or less the same conversations, there is something special about developing a deep and honest connection with a group of strangers over the course of a weekend. At times it starts to feel like we are in intensive group therapy. Mike, in his now familiar blunt manner, makes acute and sometimes painful observations about each one of us. It feels like every aspect of our lives, not just our anger, is under the microscope.

  By the end of the course I think the most important insight I’ve had is that anger is just the reaction to something else – something deeper going on inside. You have to start by working out what that is before you can overcome it. It makes me realise that I’m not really an angry person at all. It’s just a by-product of how sad and disappointed I am that my life isn’t working out as I planned.

  And the hard thing? I still have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

  The Infertility Diaries Part XV

  I guess I have to admit that Mike had a point. When I reached my mid-thirties I started to notice what I can only describe as a small rubber ring developing round my tummy, like I’m wearing one of those all-in-one swimming costumes for toddlers with a float stitched in. I keep thinking I must do something about it. A hundred sit-ups each morning, something like that. Then I think, what’s the point if I’m going to get pregnant? Much better to wait until afterwards and then really attack it. But I’ve been saying that for years now. The excuse is starting to wear a little thin.

  THE STONEMASONS ARMS

  I’ll always remember today. One of my best members of staff handed in his notice. It’s a right pain when that happens. I feel like bursting into tears and accusing him of desertion, but I’ve learnt the hard way that there is no point in getting upset and taking it personally. So I throw my arms round him, say congratulations, and start working out what the hell to do next. But I digress. It’s neither his resignation nor my noble response for which the day will be remembered.

  After work I take him out for a drink with a couple of other colleagues to celebrate his new job. Spontaneous nights out are always the best. A couple of bottles of wine in and we are having a brilliant time plotting our takeover of the National Theatre. Then, all of a sudden, my head starts pounding and the room starts to swirl. I lay forward on the table and say: ‘I’m sorry, I suddenly feel really drunk.’

  I can feel embarrassment looking down on me. This is hardly how the boss should behave. But I can’t lift my head to do anything about it. I start to feel nauseous. That telltale sensation of saliva in the back of the throat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Then I lift my head, swivel round in my chair, and throw up on the floor of the Stonemasons Arms.

  My colleagues seem to be taking the situation
in their stride. One of them immediately goes over to the bar to get a cloth; another moves my bag and coat away from the vomit. I lay my head helplessly back on the table.

  ‘I need to go home,’ I say.

  ‘You can’t go back to Oxford on your own like this,’ one of them says. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go home.’

  ‘Well let us ring Peter and get him to come and pick you up.’ ‘He’s not there,’ I say. ‘He’s away working.’

  ‘Then why don’t you stay with one of us? Or your parents? Or a friend?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say more forcefully. ‘I have to go home.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I just have to.’ And then, because I can’t think of anything else to say, I tell the truth: ‘I’m going through IVF. I have to go home to take my drugs.’

  I sense a beat of silent surprise after my unexpected revelation. Whilst my ectopic pregnancy had become common knowledge, and a few senior staff also knew about my miscarriage, I had never explicity told anyone that these had all been the result of IVF treatment.

  ‘Can you call me a taxi?’ I say.

  ‘A taxi? To Oxford? That will cost a fortune. If you have to go home why don’t you let one of us take you to Paddington and put you on the train.’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Call me a taxi. I don’t care what it costs.’

  I don’t have another choice. I feel terrible – almost on the verge of unconsciousness – but I am halfway through the stimulation phase of another round of IVF and I have to do whatever it takes to get home. A couple of hours later, fifty miles and one hundred and fifty quid down, I crawl into bed, give myself my injection, and fall asleep in relief.

  The next day I feel so ashamed. Added to the embarrassment of disclosing we are going through IVF, I also feel utterly irresponsible. Why have I risked jeopardising yet another round of treatment and all the money it costs by going out and getting drunk?