The Baby Trail

by Sinéad Moriarty

  If you are relaxed and in the hands of a gentle physician, the cramping is usually mild. However, if the dye does not flow through the Fallopian tubes, additional pressure may be necessary to see if the tubes are really blocked. This can cause more intense discomfort.

  I felt a bit better. Maybe I wasn’t such a basket case. Dr Tunney had obviously been a bit heavy-handed with the pressure he’d applied. In future I’d go to the American websites for my information. They were more understanding, caring and compassionate than the stuffy old BBC.

  I switched off the computer, climbed into bed with a hot-water bottle and called Lucy. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hey, how’s it going?’

  ‘OK, you?’

  ‘Fine. You don’t sound too good. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ve just come back from a horrible test,’ I said, my chin wobbling as self-pity kicked in.

  ‘Oh, Emma, was it painful?’

  ‘Yeah, it was. And I’m sick of the whole thing, Lucy, I really am.’

  ‘Was James with you?’

  ‘No, there’s no point in him coming, there’s absolutely nothing he can do.’

  ‘Well, what about me? I’d be happy to come with you.’

  ‘Thanks, but to be honest, it’s easier to nip in and out on my own. I hate all the poking and prodding of my insides. It can’t be good for me.’

  ‘It sounds awful. Can I get you anything or do anything?’

  ‘Yes, distract me by telling me about your life. Any word from Donal? What’s the latest?’

  ‘Well, he called the other day and asked me to go racing on Sunday.’

  ‘Horse-racing?’

  ‘Greyhounds, I think.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I said yes. It’s not as if my diary is full and he was pretty good-humoured about the Vagina Monologues date, considering he was totally humiliated in front of a room full of screaming women.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha. I love that story. Every time I think of him shouting, “Cunt,” it just cracks me up.’ I giggled.

  ‘I know. I wish I’d had a camera – his face was a sight.’

  ‘So, what are you going to wear?’

  ‘No idea, haven’t give it a second thought.’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘My Prada boots, black trousers and my beige winter jacket,’ Lucy admitted.

  ‘I love those boots, they’re amazing. He won’t be able to keep his hands off you.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I haven’t had any action in months. Anyway, enough about me and my non-existent sex life, will I call out later to see you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, really. James will be home soon so I can ear-bash him about my day. You’ve cheered me up already. Good luck on Sunday, keep me posted.’

  ‘Will do. Mind yourself.’

  23

  Three days later I was back with Mr Reynolds at the Harwood Clinic for the analysis of my results. The pain of the test had subsided and I was feeling better physically, but was nervous in case they had discovered something drastically wrong with me. After giving me his wet-fish handshake, Mr Reynolds asked me how the test had gone.

  ‘Well, to be honest, I found it pretty painful,’ I admitted.

  I had planned to tell him that it had been one of the worst experiences of my life and in future he should warn his patients because his idea of a ‘slight stinging’ was ludicrous and he should try shoving some barbed-wire up his penis the wrong way and see how that translated into ‘mild discomfort’. But when I was sitting in his office, facing him, I lost my nerve and opted for a toned-down version of events.

  Mr Reynolds nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, let’s take a look at these X-rays, shall we?’ he said, and placed two on a screen. He stood to one side, as if giving a lecture to a bunch of medical students, and began pointing to various shapes on the screen. ‘Now, as you can see here the uterus appears to be normal, which is good news. The right Fallopian tube seems to be open – we can see the dye passing through the uterus and the right-hand tube and spilling into the abdominal cavity. The left-hand tube, however, is not so clear. It’s impossible to tell from this X-ray whether the dye is spilling out or not. I’m afraid it’s unclear as to whether this tube is open or not.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It would be advisable to redo the test so we can double-check the left-hand side.’

  ‘Sorry? Did you just say redo the test?’ I asked, horrified at the prospect of having to go through that again. ‘Hell will freeze over before I ever put myself through that torture again. There must be a less painful way of finding out about that tube. Besides, why can’t you see from the X-ray? Did Dr Tunney not do it correctly? Why should I have to have another test? I don’t understand how this is all so inconclusive.’

  I was beginning to panic.

  ‘I realize it’s frustrating for you but sometimes the X-rays don’t tell us all we need to know.’

  ‘I’m not having that test done again. Does it really matter anyway? You only need one good tube to have a baby. Don’t you?’

  ‘Well, in theory, yes, you do only need one functioning Fallopian tube, but it’s important to know if they’re both working correctly. There is a less painful way of investigating the status of the Fallopian tubes and abdomen. We can perform a laparoscopy. It’s a procedure that is usually done as day-case surgery under general anaesthetic—’

  ‘No.’

  Mr Reynolds looked at me.

  ‘Sorry, Doctor, but I don’t want any more poking and prodding down there, it can’t be good for you. We’ve established that I have one functioning tube and that’s enough for me,’ I said firmly.

  I didn’t want to undergo a general anaesthetic to establish what we already knew – I had one good tube and probably two good ones. If Dr Tunney had done his job properly we’d know for sure about the second. They should send him on a photography course to fine-tune his skills. His blurry X-rays were no good to anyone. I wanted to move on to the next stage. I wanted fertility drugs.

  ‘What can I do to make sure I produce eggs? What can I take?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to have a laparoscopy I could put you on a course of clomiphene with ovarian follicle tracking.’

  ‘OK … What does that entail?’ I said suspiciously. I didn’t want any more pain.

  Mr Reynolds explained that clomiphene citrate increased FSH and LH output from the pituitary … Basically, he told me that it prompts your body to produce eggs. And you could take it in tablet form a few times a month. It sounded good to me – no pain at all.

  ‘The majority of pregnancies occur in the first few treatment cycles and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t happen quickly for you. I must explain, however, that there is a slightly increased chance of multiple pregnancy with clomiphene.’

  Fantastic. I’d definitely have twins now, maybe triplets. This was perfect. I’d not only get pregnant quickly but have a family in one go. I beamed at Mr Reynolds. ‘No problem at all.’

  He smiled at me. ‘Yes, that’s what most of my patients say. But I must warn you that multiple pregnancies can be dangerous for the babies and the mother so it’s not the ideal situation. However, as I said, there is only a slight chance of it occurring.’

  Fine, whatever, let’s just get on with it, I thought. I wanted him to give me the drugs there and then, but he wasn’t finished with the bad news yet.

  ‘You also need to be aware that there continues to be debate on the question of a relationship between the use of clomiphene and later development of ovarian cancer …’

  Cancer! Did he say cancer? I tried to concentrate as Mr Reynolds explained that some analysis had been done ten years ago on a group of women in Seattle and some of them had developed malignant tumours in their ovaries and they thought it might be connected to clomiphene.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘treatment with clomiphene for less than a year was not associated with increased risk and the consensus is that the risk has probably been overstated, but it
is important that you know about it.’

  So, the ones who got the cancer had been on the drug for over a year. Well, that was fine, because I’d be pregnant within three months. Still, I didn’t want to go through all of this and die a few years after giving birth and have my beautiful triplets being brought up by some young blonde whom James had married on the rebound. I decided to double-check on the risk front.

  ‘So, the risk is minimal?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Totally?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Now, the follicle-tracking,’ said Mr Reynolds, not giving me much time to recover from the cancer scare, ‘will show us if the ovaries are functioning well with the clomiphene. It allows us to track the size of the follicles in the ovary over several days to predict timing of ovulation.’

  ‘And how does that work?’

  ‘It’s a series of internal ultrasound scans.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. External was fine. Internal most certainly was not. I winced.

  ‘I can promise you that the scans are not painful at all.’

  Well, I’m not going to Dr Tunney, I thought. If he can’t take a decent photo he’s likely to shove the internal scanner up my ass instead of my vagina.

  ‘Who will be doing the scans?’

  ‘I can arrange for you to have them done at a private clinic down the road here. They have the most up-to-date scanners and I’ve had positive feedback from all the patients I’ve sent there.’

  Well, it would be good to know exactly when I was producing the eggs and it would help us perfect our timing, so I decided it was a good idea. ‘OK, fine. When do I start taking the drugs?’

  ‘You’ll take them between days three and seven of your next cycle,’ said Mr Reynolds, writing me a prescription. ‘Then call the clinic and make an appointment for tracking on days nine, eleven, thirteen and fifteen of your cycle. They may want you to come back for another one on day sixteen or seventeen depending on your ovulation date.’

  It all sounded a bit intense. I hadn’t enjoyed my one previous internal examination at all. Mind you, it had had a lot more to do with the radiologist being so rude than the fact that it was painful. It hadn’t really been painful – more uncomfortable, really. Besides, at least this method left no room for ambiguity and it would help us focus on the right days to have sex.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the prescription.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Mr Reynolds. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks to review the first month.’

  When James came home later, I followed him around the house and gave him a blow-by-blow account of my day. ‘… and I have to take these mad drugs that make me produce loads of eggs and there is a strong possibility that I could develop ovarian cancer from the drugs and die after giving birth to triplets.’

  James stared at me, frowning. ‘Cancer? As in, cancer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t this a bit extreme, Emma?’

  ‘No. It’s the only way.’

  ‘What about good old-fashioned sex?’

  ‘We’ve tried that. Remember?’

  ‘So you’re going to give me three strong sons, then die and leave me to bring them up alone?’

  ‘Daughters – and you can only remarry after five years of grieving, but not to a blonde and definitely not to that cow who’s always flirting with you after the matches.’

  ‘What cow?’

  ‘You know – Paddy’s sister, Louise.’

  ‘Why not her?’

  ‘Because I’m not having my three daughters brought up by some fool who can barely string a sentence together. You can marry a nice brunette – maybe a teacher or something. But she can’t have any kids of her own, I want her to be fully focused on my girls.’

  ‘But look how well it worked out for the Brady Bunch. He – like me – had three boys and she had three girls.’

  ‘Yes, but your new wife’s boys will want to be getting into my girls’ knickers and I’m not having that.’

  ‘Why do I have to wait five years?’

  ‘Any sooner would be disrespectful to me and my family. And by the way I want that Billy Joel song “She’s Always A Woman To Me” sung at my funeral.’

  ‘That’s a dreadful song. It’s so cheesy.’

  ‘It’s not your gig, it’s mine and I want that song.’

  ‘Yeah, but you won’t be there – so I’ll have George Michael’s “Freedom” played instead.’

  ‘Not funny.’

  ‘Neither is taking drugs that are going to give you cancer,’ said James.

  ‘They won’t. I was exaggerating. Some woman in the back of beyond got ovarian cancer ten years ago or something and everyone made a big deal about it because she had also taken these drugs. It’s a one in a zillion chance. Don’t worry, I have no intention of leaving you to marry some busty young one.’

  24

  Lucy wasn’t unduly worried about her date with Donal. She had been greyhound-racing at Shelbourne Park in Dublin on a corporate night out and had been surprised by how much fun it was. She had expected it to be really boring but instead she had ended up dining in a private room overlooking the racetrack and had spent the evening sipping wine and placing bets without having to leave her chair. She had even ended up winning a few quid.

  Donal had said he’d pick her up early on Sunday as they were going to a race meet in Tipperary. Lucy presumed it was going to be some type of corporate rugby-lunch thing. She hoped the racecourse dining rooms in Tipperary would be as nice as the ones in Dublin. She thought the same company owned them all. As she had discussed with me, she was wearing her high-heeled black boots, tight black trousers, black cashmere jumper and her favourite beige suede jacket with fur trim.

  When Donal arrived, he took one look at the boots and said, ‘You can’t wear those shoes, they’ll get wrecked. Besides, you’ll never be able to wear those heels all day.’

  Lucy was a believer in suffering to look good. The boots were very high and exceedingly uncomfortable to wear, but they looked great with the trousers and she was planning on staying seated for most of the day. Besides, she had a box of plasters in her bag for emergencies.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I could walk for Ireland in these. They’re actually very comfy.’

  Donal looked down at the pointy heels and shook his head. ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

  ‘Yes, I am. Come on, let’s go,’ said Lucy, locking her front door and pulling her jacket closed against the howling wind.

  Donal drove like a maniac and talked incessantly about how convinced he was that his dog, Blackie, was going to win. He owned half of her; the other half belonged to the trainer, Jimmy McGee. According to Donal, Blackie had been running well over the last few weeks and they were confident she was going to win the big prize today. He reckoned he could make up to ten thousand euro if things went well. Lucy was delighted: if he was counting on winning that kind of money it’d be champagne all round, and being with a dog-owner was bound to make the day more exciting. She just hoped Donal didn’t expect her to trudge down to the ring before the race like the owners did at horse-racing: it was lashing rain and she didn’t want her hair to go fuzzy.

  When they had reached the outskirts of Fethard, Donal swung into a small run-down house and hopped out of the car.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘To pick up Jimmy and Blackie,’ said Donal, as he ran up to the front door.

  Two minutes later a man of about fifty, in an oversized tweed jacket and cap, climbed into the back of the car, with a large greyhound in tow.

  ‘Jimmy, this is Lucy.’

  ‘Howrya,’ said Jimmy, pulling his lips into a toothless grin. ‘This here’s Blackie,’ he said, patting the dog fondly on the head.

  As Lucy turned her head to say hello, Blackie leaped forward and slobbered over her face. Lucy was not an animal lover and, with the dog licking off her makeup, she was not about to chan
ge her mind. She pretended to pat the dog while pushing her into the back seat.

  ‘Isn’t she something?’ said Donal, beaming at Blackie. ‘Well, Jimmy, how’s she been the last week?’

  ‘Great, Donal. She’s been great now. I took her out this morning at six to loosen her up and she was flying so she was. I tell you, we’ll be winning big-time today. I feel it so I do.’

  ‘Woo-hoo,’ whooped Donal, thumping the steering-wheel. ‘Come on, the Blackie.’

  Blackie – excited by the whooping – threw herself and her wet, mucky paws into the front seat on top of Lucy and her cashmere jumper. Lucy stared down at the balls of delicate wool wedged between Blackie’s filthy paws. She silently cursed Donal and his stupid mutt.

  They drove on, then took a sharp turn left into the middle of a wet field that was jam-packed with cars, dogs and people in Wellington boots and wind-cheaters. Lucy looked at Donal. ‘Please tell me this isn’t it? This isn’t the venue. Where’s the racetrack? Where’s the bar?’

  ‘There’s no track in coursing. This isn’t greyhound racing, it’s coursing,’ said Donal, looking confused.

  ‘But you said we were going to the dogs,’ said Lucy, panicking at the thought of spending the day knee-deep in mud.

  ‘Yeah, the dogs. Greyhound coursing is the dogs. Come on, you’ll have fun. It’s a great day out.’

  Donal got out of the car and caught up with Jimmy and Blackie, who were already mingling with the other owners and trading odds with the bookies. Lucy sat in the car and tried to breathe deeply. She was in the back-end of Tipperary, in the middle of a mucky field, wearing nine-hundred-euro Prada boots. There had to be a clubhouse or bar of some sort. She climbed out of the car and tottered after Donal, her heels sinking further into the wet grass with each step. She felt like a complete idiot. All the other women there were wearing wellies, jeans, chunky jumpers and rainproof jackets. The group Donal was talking to turned to stare at her as she stumbled towards them. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Can someone please tell me where the nearest toilet is?’