by Adele Parks
I sigh, glancing around the fertility clinic reception, I really don’t think we need to be here, trying for another baby. It’s like we’re pushing our luck. Being greedy. Asking for trouble. We’re happy as we are.
Simon squeezes my hand. I think of the last night in the cottage. Millie was exhausted after a week of fresh air and long walks, she almost nodded off at the kitchen table over supper. We got her to bed by 7 p.m. and she was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Simon suggested we have a glass of wine in the back garden, make the most of our last night and the privacy that our cottage offered. There was a gas heater, one of those that’s bad for the environment so I demurred, but Simon persuaded me, ‘Just once. Go with it.’
Let’s just say, the wine (not a glass but two bottles in the end) and the sound of the sea crashing on the beach, the novelty of spending time alone together without other people or even Netflix, had an effect. We made love under the stars and a blanket. It was exciting, daring. The last time we did anything as risky was so long ago I can’t remember when it was exactly. Years and years ago. Afterwards, we lay snuggled up under the slightly scratchy picnic blanket, clinging to one another for warmth, and just allowed ourselves to be. Be relaxed. Be satisfied. Be enough. It was blissful. Until Simon kissed the top of my head and said, ‘Do you know the one and only thing that could make this moment more perfect?’
‘A post-coital cigarette?’ I joked. I’ve never been a smoker and Simon gave up when we first started dating. I know he still misses it, even after all this time he craves the nicotine hit. Simon likes hits and highs. I don’t get it at all. I’m not the sort of person who values kicks above health.
‘Well, that would be good, but no. I was thinking a baby, asleep in the other room.’
‘We have a baby asleep in the other room.’
‘We have a little girl,’ he said gently, not unkindly.
‘Well, they can’t stay babies for ever.’
‘That’s not my point.’
I felt the warmth of his body along the length of mine and yet I still shivered. ‘You’re serious?’
‘I love Millie so much. And you,’ he added swiftly. ‘I can’t bear to think that we’re not giving her everything.’
‘We do give her everything we can,’ I pointed out.
‘Other than a sibling,’ he countered.
‘Yeah but it’s not as though we tried to deny her that, it just hasn’t happened. It’s unlikely ever to because neither of us are getting any younger.’ And conceiving was never something we were good at. I don’t add that. We don’t talk about the horrors we went through to get Millie. It’s generally agreed that the pain of childbirth is forgotten once you hold the baby in your arms. In my case it was also the pain of years of trying to conceive.
‘We should make it happen. She’s so gregarious and loving. I can’t bear the idea of her missing out on having a sibling.’
‘Having a sibling isn’t always a bonus,’ I argued. ‘You’re not at all close to your sister.’
‘No, but you adore yours. I want Millie to have what you and Rose share.’ He turned to me and I saw fire in his eyes. I should have understood then that he wasn’t going to let the matter drop. He’s a very determined man when he wants to be.
Stubborn, my mum says.
2
Chapter 2, Simon
The waiting room was chilly. The air-conditioning was a little too vigorous. It was bright outside so people had risked T-shirts and sun dresses, except for Daisy, she always felt the cold so she was sitting in her jacket. It looked like she was ready to make a dash for the door at any moment. It looked like a protest. Simon knew Daisy didn’t want to be there. He understood. He remembered the heartache associated with these sorts of places, certainly he did. And she was right, they were perfectly happy as they were, but his point was that maybe they could be happier still. Why not? Why settle?
When bored, or nervous, or stressed, Simon had a habit of repeatedly tapping the heel of his foot on the floor. This had the effect of causing his whole leg to continually jerk in violent shudders. He never noticed he was doing it until Daisy reached out and put her hand on his thigh, calming him, silently asking him to stop. She did exactly that now. He stopped, picked up a newspaper and quickly flicked through it. There was nothing to hold his attention. Just reports of financial crises and politicians caught with their pants down, nothing new there. He put down the paper and started to whistle. He wasn’t aware that he was doing so until Millie giggled and began dancing to his tune, probably saving him from a swift reprimand from Daisy. Daisy always forgave his restlessness, his quirkiness, if it entertained Millie. Despite the vicious air-con he felt clammy. He could feel sweat prickle under his arms. God, he could do with a drink.
He had persuaded Daisy here to visit the clinic on the understanding that they were just going to have a chat with Dr Martell, one of the country’s best fertility doctors, or reproductive endocrinologists, to give him the proper name. They were simply going to ask about their options, explore possibilities. That’s what he’d told her. But he’d lied. He’d already visited Martell ten days ago for a general health check, as well as a specific test of the health and fitness of his sperm. He wanted to get things moving. Many years ago, he had been told that his sperm was slow but in the end that hadn’t been a problem. It had been a case of the tortoise and the hare, Millie was proof of that. However, Daisy made a good point, he was aware that he was seven years older now than when they had conceived Millie, they both were, obviously. That didn’t necessarily mean they were out of the game though, did it? Simon was keen to know if there had been any scientific advancements since then, something that could give his boys a bit of an advantage, if you got the gist – or at least something that might level the playing field again. He was forever reading articles about the increase in the number of women having babies in later life. He thought that by taking the initiative and putting himself through the tests first, Daisy would be encouraged. He knew it was a lot to ask. The tests and possible subsequent treatments Daisy might require were significantly more arduous than anything he’d have to endure. IVF had been a slog. But it would be worth it.
He stopped whistling, but Millie didn’t stop dancing. She was in a world of her own, clearly the music continued in her head. Maybe she was listening to a full orchestra. Maybe she was on stage at the Paris Opera House. She was a marvel! Millie had an incredible, exceptional talent. She danced beautifully. She was the sort of child who naturally bounced, flew and glided through her day. Daisy often commented that she was in awe of her daughter, as she hadn’t been the sort of girl that anyone ever suggested ought to take dancing lessons: her nickname as a child – as bestowed on her by her family – was Fairy Elephant. She lolloped and lumbered, rather clumsily. As a boy, Simon had never been taken to dance lessons either, his family were far too conventional to consider that, but he liked to think he had been pretty good at throwing shapes on the dancefloor (a phrase he used self-satirically); certainly, he was good at sport in general. He’d always thought that Millie had inherited her natural ability to dance from his side of the family, his sister had been a great gymnast and was quite good at tap as a child. She was certainly good at doing flits, thought Simon with a sigh. His sister had announced she was emigrating to Canada about a month after their mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He kept telling himself it was a coincidence, but he didn’t know for sure. It was certainly an inconvenience, that he was certain of.
Millie adored all things frilly, pretty, floaty and twirling. Daisy had started her at dance classes just before she turned three. It’s not that Daisy was a particularly annoying, overly-ambitious mother, it was simply that Millie needed to channel her energy and desire to coil and whirl somewhere. It turned out she was very good, quite extraordinarily so. Her dance tutor said that in all her nineteen years of teaching, she had never seen equivalent talent, focus and drive in a child so young. Daisy was a teacher – not a dance teacher b
ut a Year Six teacher at a state primary school – and she was aware of the value of that observation. She’d excitedly told Simon that teachers had to be very careful about what they said to parents, as parents all tended to get a little carried away. Everyone believed they’d produced a spectacular little miracle, when in fact most kids were within a recognised range.
Although, evidently Millie was a spectacular little miracle.
Simon’s eyes followed her around the waiting room; she was on her tiptoes scampering, arms aloft, like ribbons, chin jutting at an elegant angle. An adorable mix of childish abandonment and earnest concentration. Everyone in the room stared at her with an intensity almost equal to his, it was impossible not to. The emotions she triggered varied: amusement, delight, longing. Daisy looked torn, somewhere between jubilant and embarrassed. She’d said she thought it was tactless bringing a child to a fertility clinic, as though they were showing off.
‘We don’t need to rub their noses in it,’ she’d warned. Simon thought her turn of phrase was amusing, quaint. He thought Millie’s presence in the waiting room had to be inspiring. Other parents would be encouraged. There was no doubt, she was special. For sure, they had to go in for another one. Millie might very well become a prima ballerina at the Royal Ballet, why not? Who knows what else they could produce: an astronaut, the next Steve Jobs, the person who finds the cure for cancer. Or even, simply a pleasant person who was nice to their neighbours, remained faithful to their partner, became an interested parent. It was life. Life! What was more important than that? You had to try, didn’t you? You had to.
Millie danced every single day. She was crabby if she missed a class, even on holidays she carved out a couple of hours practice time. She was just six, but was that dedicated. It was astounding. Aspirational. Her existence was wall-to-wall pink tulle. When she started school she’d had meltdowns every day and, at first, Simon and Daisy had been confused and troubled as to why. ‘Do you have friends, Millie?’, ‘Is your teacher kind to you?’, ‘Do you like the lunches?’, ‘Can you find your coat peg?’ they’d asked, wracking their brains to imagine any possible irritation or upset.
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ she’d spluttered through distressed tears.
‘Then what is the matter?’ Simon had asked, exasperated, tense. He’d taken the morning off work to be with Daisy when they tried to persuade Millie to go into her classroom.
‘The uniform is ugly!’ She’d howled. ‘It’s green. I want it pink.’ Her explanation, hiccupped out indignantly, had only made Simon laugh. Daisy ultimately solved the matter by sewing a pink ribbon all around the inside hem of Millie’s school skirt. An act that Simon always thought was a display of pure brilliance and devotion.
‘I feel very uncomfortable taking Millie into the consultation room,’ Daisy whispered. ‘She’ll understand enough of what we are talking about to be interested. I don’t want to get her hopes up that there’s a sibling on the way.’ Because Simon had just been thinking about the hand sewn pink ribbon, he was more inclined to indulge Daisy.
‘OK, well how about I go in first and hear what he has to say and then you pop in after me.’
‘Won’t that take twice as long?’ Daisy looked anxiously about her. There were two other couples in the waiting room. They may or may not have been waiting to see Dr Martell. ‘I’d feel awful if we overran.’
‘We’re paying for it, so you don’t have to worry.’
‘It’s impolite.’ Daisy had a heightened regard for being polite. Simon sometimes found that charming, other times he found it frustrating.
‘Well what do you suggest? Leaving would also be impolite.’
Daisy nodded. ‘I suppose.’
At that moment a smartly-dressed nurse appeared, she had a clipboard and clipped tones; she oozed efficiency. ‘Mr and Mrs Barnes?’
Simon stood up, kissed Daisy on the top of the head. ‘Don’t look so worried. This is the start of a wonderful adventure,’ he told her. ‘Love you.’
3
Chapter 3, Daisy
The moment Simon vacates his seat, Millie bounces into it, although she still doesn’t settle. Instead, she holds her legs out in front of her and repeatedly points her toes up to the ceiling, then stretches them out. I love her energy. She’s delicate and yet strong, a winning combination. I was a robust child. Hefty. By the time I was fourteen I hit five foot ten, not a lithe beanpole model-in-the-making five foot ten but large, ungainly, always-in-the-way five foot ten. My arms were as wide as other girls’ waists, my breasts seemed to loll around my tummy like some old woman’s. I hope puberty is kinder to Millie. I worry that she will inherit my height. That wouldn’t be ideal for a ballerina unless she dances in Russia, they like them tall there, but I don’t want her to go to Russia. I do worry that by encouraging her to dance I’m basically pursuing a fast-track path to body dysmorphia. But Millie is quite unlike me. As a girl I had glasses and spots, orange hair, freckled skin and the wrong clothes. Even when I had the right clothes they looked wrong on me. It’s just the way it is for some people. We can’t all be born beautiful.
The good thing about being forty-five is that all that angst about how I look is behind me. I’ve learnt how to accept myself, make the most of myself, that’s what women like me must do. However, I live in awe of my child. Sweet, yet certain. I look at her and I know I’ve done something right. No matter what.
Before Millie came along, we endured a decade of longing for a baby. Most young, happily married couples wait a few years before they turn their attention to baby-making, I was faster off the blocks. By the time I met Simon, my sister Rose was already the mother of two adorable boys – twins! I realised to make any impact at all on my parents, in terms of providing grandchildren, I’d have to get cracking and ideally produce a daughter. I’m joking, I wasn’t motivated to procreate by the innate competitiveness that exists between siblings, I simply adore children and I longed to be a mother. As a young girl I played with dolls, nothing else, I wasn’t interested in Play-Doh, colouring books or Lego, for me it was all about pretending to be a mummy. I started babysitting my little cousins when I was twelve and then for various neighbours by the time I was fifteen. I’m a primary school teacher. I like children, the cheeky, boisterous or mischievous types, the shy, arty or cuddly types. I’ll take any of them.
I threw away my pill packet the morning we got married. It was one of the most exciting things about the day. For the first few months, I didn’t allow myself to be at all concerned when I still got my period. I was busy putting our house together. We’d bought a one-bedroom flat in North London, I was occupied with hanging pictures, picking out furniture, getting a washing machine plumbed in. It was all so new and exhilarating. Back then, every dull chore seemed like such a delicious treat. Adulting was a novelty. I found it thrilling that I was allowed to slob around in pyjamas all day on a wet, wintery Sunday, that I was allowed to say the words ‘my husband’, and I was allowed to go with said husband to Tesco Metro at 9 p.m. to buy a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, if we so desired. We were in charge of our time and finances, we were a couple. Such thrilling freedom. We were just waiting for the next bit to start.
On our first wedding anniversary, I started to feel qualms of unease. I’d held this secret little fantasy that I’d be announcing our pregnancy that day. I was a month off my thirty-first birthday, Simon was just thirty-two, still young. But, even so. We made an appointment with our local GP. The doctor laughed, told us we had plenty of time ahead of us, told us to relax. When I pushed him, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he checked I didn’t smoke, suggested I cut back on alcohol, ‘Start preparing your body if you want to. You don’t need to deprive yourself, though. Don’t be silly about it. Just get healthy. Exercise, consider yoga. Everything will be fine. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
I wanted to do anything and everything I could to chivvy along the process. I took folic acid, I started to meditate, I stopped drinking altogether. Simon picked up the slack. I
nstead of sharing a bottle over a meal, he started to polish one off on his own. I didn’t mind, he was funny and relaxed when drunk. I’m not saying he was usually uptight, but he is quite a reserved man in some ways. Most comfortable in a one-to-one situation.
On our second anniversary I suggested he too might like to stop drinking. That maybe we needed to go back to the doctors and get some tests done. He agreed to the tests.
They examined my fertility first. I don’t know why, maybe because medically women are more often the cause for concern, or maybe it’s just sexist. I wasn’t surprised when the tests came back and said I was to blame for our problems. I had fibroids: non-cancerous, oestrogen-dependent benign tumours, growing in my uterus. These tumours cause pelvic pain and heavy menstrual bleeding. They can also cause infertility. It was recommended that I have a myomectomy to remove them. We did that, another two years passed, we still didn’t get pregnant, so we saw another doctor. She recommended that they run some tests on Simon too. I couldn’t believe it when the results came back. He also had problems. Sluggish and poor-quality sperm. We were both to blame.
It was a very difficult time. It seemed that we looked at one another in a slightly different light. I didn’t want to, but I found myself thinking he was a little less perfect, not quite so golden; I realised that he’d probably been thinking as much about me for a while.
My story, our story, is not particular or peculiar. Everyone knows someone who has struggled with infertility. The very regularity of the story is a tragedy. We started IVF shortly after our fifth wedding anniversary. It takes its toll. I think any couple who has been through it would agree. When we’d been trying to conceive naturally we’d still had a bit of fun, we’d tried different positions, we’d had lots of sex. IVF was not fun. There’s no sex involved – well, other than the thing Simon had to do into a pot. I don’t think jerking off to porn counts as sex after the age of about fourteen.
