‘Well, it hurt. Do you have to be so rough? The bloody injection’s bad enough without you bruising my leg first with all the flicking. Just stick it in and get it over with, and don’t hit a nerve.’
‘Maybe I should get some ice to numb the area. That might help,’ he said, putting the needle down and heading out the door.
‘James!’ I roared. ‘Will you stop faffing around and stick the bloody needle in?’
‘OK. I was just trying to make it less painful. I think that icing the leg would be a good idea. It says here on page three—’
‘STICK THE BLOODY THING IN BEFORE I KILL YOU!’ I shouted, snatching up the instruction leaflet and flinging it across the bathroom.
‘Fine,’ he said, expertly ignoring my histrionics. ‘Ready, then? And a one and a two and a—’
I grabbed his hand and shoved the needle into my thigh. It was James’s turn to shout: ‘For God’s sake, Emma, you’ll hurt yourself.’
I had expected it to be really painful. I had wound myself into a frenzy about the daily injections I was going to have to endure, but it was all right. Not painless, but not too bad. I looked down at my thigh where the red mark was. Well, let’s face it there was plenty of flesh available to soften the blow. James, breathing deeply to stay calm, inserted the drug into my leg, gently pulled out the needle and stuck a plaster over the mark. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘you were making too much of a production of it. I don’t want it to take longer than absolutely necessary.’
Fine. Tomorrow I’ll just stab you,’ he said, picking up the torn leaflet.
‘That would be lovely, thanks.’
For the next two weeks James injected me, and as the level of hormones in my body increased I became ever more volatile and my mood swings had to be seen to be believed. On the fifth day when James arrived five minutes late to give me my injection because he’d got stuck in traffic, I accused him of having an affair and told him I wanted a divorce. Then I locked him in the bathroom and refused to let him out until he swore on his mother’s life that he wouldn’t divorce me because I couldn’t bear him children. On the eighth day we went grocery shopping but had to leave the supermarket when I saw an old woman shopping alone and began to sob hysterically about the sadness of loneliness.
On day eleven I was back in the clinic having my fourth ultrasound and blood test in ten days. The waiting room was full of hopeful, desperate women like me. I felt right at home. I preferred these women to the pregnant ones. At least we were all in the same barren boat. We nodded and smiled at each other. I was surrounded by kindred spirits. The room was full of unspoken empathy. A small blonde woman to my left turned to me and asked me how my follicles were coming along. I said they seemed to be doing OK, they weren’t A-students but they certainly couldn’t be admonished for lack of effort.
‘I’ve got twenty beautiful ones,’ gushed the blonde. ‘I think it’s partly to do with the fact that my husband is so good at giving me the injections. Mind you, I have fantastic veins, which helps. The nurses said my follicles are the best they’ve seen. I meditate and use visualization techniques daily, it’s very effective …’
Suddenly I felt wretched again. I had seven measly follicles and Fertility Barbie had twenty. Obviously Ken was doing a better job at injecting Barbie than James was doing with me, or maybe it was my veins. I’d never really thought about my veins before. I looked down at my arms as Barbie rattled on. What made a good vein? Were bulgy ones good? I looked at hers; they seemed pretty normal to me. Before I could throttle her, the nurse called me in for my tests. I had ten follicles and my estradiol was 2000. This, judging by the smiles and nods from the nurse, was good news. She told me to sit by the phone, as I’d be ready for my hCG injection soon: ‘HCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) is a crucial part of the IVF cycle and is given about 35 hours before egg retrieval’ – so said my IVF guidelines book. While it was all good news, I was dreading the egg retrieval, so I wasn’t exactly dancing around the room when Nurse Nancy called the next day to tell me exactly when I needed to have the hCG shot. James injected me at the exact time indicated and we went into the clinic two days later for the procedure. While I was being punctured by giant needles and sucked free of eggs, James was going to be masturbating at his leisure in a nice room the clinic provided, with wall-to-wall porn to help him along the way.
I don’t remember much about the retrieval, as I happily wafted off into a deep sleep for the duration of the process. I woke up in the recovery room feeling groggy and sore and glad it was over. I was sent home with a goody bag that included: antibiotics to prevent yeast infection, steroids to protect the prospective embryo from attack by white blood cells and – just in case I thought I was getting off lightly – vaginal progesterone suppositories.
The embryologist called me the following morning to discuss how many eggs to transfer. He suggested that we let eight of the embryos grow for a few days before choosing the best ones. He reckoned we’d be able to transfer three in three days’ time. I was hoping he’d shove all of them in for good measure, but he assured me that three embryos was the standard number and would give me an excellent chance of getting pregnant.
Three days later I was back in for the embryo transfer, full bladder, gown and hat on, legs in the air. I had been given the Valium I had requested and Dr Reynolds allowed James to come in with me to hold my hand – and, I suspect, to take any abuse I might dish out. When I saw the speculum coming towards me, I lay back and closed my eyes, willing the Valium to kick in. It was sore and uncomfortable and I wept with relief when it was over: I was finished with extractions and insertions. I was told to go home and rest for two days, then continue as normal.
Normal. How easily the word slips off the medical profession’s tongue. After weeks of injections, puncturing, steroids, suppositories, sucking of eggs out and pumping of eggs-plus-sperm back in, I was supposed to go home and be normal. I went home and was very abnormal. Although abnormal was now my normal.
For the next two weeks I cried a lot, slept little, and tried not to obsess over anything that could be construed as a symptom, limiting myself to poking my boobs six times a day. I shouted at my mother for getting my hopes up when she told me about some friend of a friend’s daughter who had given birth to beautiful twin girls after her first IVF treatment. I shouted at James when he said he had a good feeling about the treatment. I chased a magpie for two miles in desperation for it to find a friend – one for sorrow, two for joy – but the bastard bird was a one-man show. Then I cried because I felt sorry for it being alone in the world. I even began speaking to the embryos, begging them to cling on and hang in there.
But as the two weeks drew to a close, I thought seriously about the possibilities of failure. Could I go through this again? What about surrogacy? No, I didn’t want another woman giving birth to my egg and James’s sperm. It’d be like he’d had sex with her or something. Besides, any of the surrogacy women you saw on TV were rough as old boots and the thought of having to hold some dodgy bird’s hand while she pushed my baby out was way too weird. Adoption was the only solution I could imagine going through with. Still, I thought, maybe this time we’ll get lucky. Maybe this time we’ll be celebrating.
33
Two weeks after the embryo transfer, I went for a blood test to see if I was pregnant. The result was negative. There were no tears. I felt nothing. I was numb. Numb to pain, numb to being upset, numb to bad results. It had been nearly two years of disappointment. I had no tears left.
Mr Reynolds told me not to worry. He said my chances were excellent of getting pregnant during the next session of IVF. He told me not to be despondent. He said I was healthy and young and had time on my side. He came out with the same platitudes that I had been listening to for months. I sat in his office listening but not hearing. I looked over his shoulder out the window.
‘Approximately three out of four embryos don’t survive the period of early implantation long enough to become viable pregnancies, so don’t be t
oo discouraged by this first failure. I can assure you it will happen. We just need to be patient …’
Patient! I thought wearily. Be patient. Relax. Stop worrying. Chill out. I couldn’t listen to it any more. I stood up while Mr Reynolds was in mid-sentence. ‘I don’t think I can do this any more. Thank you for your time and for being so nice, but I don’t think I’ll be seeing you again,’ I said. My voice sounded as if it was coming from somewhere behind me, like an echo.
‘I understand that you’re disappointed, but please sleep on it. Don’t make any rash decisions yet. Call me in a few days and let me know how you feel then,’ he said kindly.
‘Yes, fine.’
I left the clinic and walked slowly to the car. I noticed things I had never noticed before. Details. The pictures on the walls, the plant pot, the colour of the receptionist’s nails as she bade me goodbye … I sat in the car for a long time – my mind a blank. I had no energy. I felt completely lifeless. Even breathing was an effort. Eventually I summoned the strength to drive home where I lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling. The phone rang.
‘Hi, Emma, it’s me,’ said Lucy, to my answering-machine. ‘Just ringing to say I’ve got a booking for nine at Chez Gérard. Did you get Jess a present or will we just pay for her dinner? I suppose thirty-five is a bit of a milestone. Anyway, I’ll see you in the bar for drinks at eight.’
I had forgotten Jess’s birthday. I used to be really good at remembering birthdays and special dates. I had been a thoughtful person before I had become an obsessive psychotic. I looked at the clock. It was six. We were meeting in two hours. Two hours is one hundred and twenty minutes, I thought. One hundred and twenty minutes is 7200 seconds. In the time it took me to calculate that, twenty seconds had elapsed. I sighed and closed my eyes. Maybe I could sleep now.
I couldn’t. I was too tired to sleep. My bones were tired. I felt one hundred years old. Weary of everything. Lifeless. I wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown. Was this what it felt like? Did you just lie down and never get up? I thought about ringing James to tell him about the IVF failure, but I couldn’t summon the energy. Besides, all I did was tell him bad news or shout at him, these days. I used to entertain him with funny stories about my day. I used to be witty and full of life. I used to make him laugh all the time. Now all I did was cry, shout or rant about the injustice of infertility. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had made him laugh with one of my stories or impressions. It was always him trying to cheer me up and I could see that the novelty was wearing off.
I wouldn’t blame him if he left me. He had married a fun-loving, energetic, sassy fireball – a girl who loved to go out and have a good time, someone who lived every moment – and he had ended up after three short years with a certifiable, moan-a-minute drip. Something had to give. I couldn’t go on like this. I couldn’t put myself or my marriage through any more strain, not to mention my poor family. My mother bore the brunt of a lot of my anger and frustration, as did Babs. Although I wasn’t so worried about Babs – she just ignored me or roared back. But my mother had suffered enough of my mood swings. It was time to make a decision. Did I really want to continue pumping myself full of drugs that made me utterly miserable? Did I want to spend the next God knew how long hoping and praying every month for a miracle? Did I want to know exactly what day I was at in my cycle for another two years? It had to stop, and I was the only one who could control it.
But then what? If I stopped my treatment I’d be back to square one and I knew that if I did that and went back to ‘nature’, no matter how much I pretended to myself that I wasn’t trying to get pregnant I would still obsess about it. But if I decided to adopt, I would be involved in a process that would guarantee me a baby at the end. Unless, of course, the social worker thought I was an unfit parent. There was no use waiting for Imogen and Henry to die in a car crash and leave me the twins (actually I always saved Henry, but left him able to cope only with Thomas). No matter how much I fantasized about it, the likelihood of it happening was slim to none. So we’d adopt a baby from China or Cambodia like Angelina Jolie. It wouldn’t be our flesh and blood. It wouldn’t be a mini-me or a mini-James, but it would be a baby and we’d be helping the world. The problem was that when I had brought up the possibility of adoption with James, he had got a bit shifty and said we should keep trying ourselves. He hadn’t seemed to like the idea. He’d not said as much, but he hadn’t been very enthusiastic. What to do? I lay there and tried in vain to weigh up my options, but I was too weary to decide anything.
I looked at the clock – it was half seven. I had spent an hour and a half procrastinating on the couch and now I was going to be late. I hauled myself up and sat listlessly under the shower, sighing as if the cross of Calvary was welded to my back. I had to snap out of it. I tried to give myself a pep talk. ‘Come on, Emma, it’s not that bad. You could have Aids or no legs. Come on now.’ Fuck Aids and fuck leglessness. I was sick of feeling guilty about being miserable. I’d allow myself to wallow for a few more minutes.
The shower perked me up enough to get dressed – albeit at the pace of a snail. I drove myself into town: I wanted to be able to leave early. I’d have a quick bite to eat, then crawl back into bed.
Lucy and Jess were there when I arrived. They were drinking champagne.
‘There she is. Hi, Emma,’ said Lucy. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
‘Uhm … yeah, why?’
‘Your hair is soaking wet.’
‘What?’ I said, feeling my hair, which had been dripping down my back soaking my shirt. I had forgotten to dry it.
Lucy and Jess looked at me with concern.
‘Sit down and have a drink, you look like you need one,’ said Lucy gently, leading me to my chair.
‘Emma sweetheart,’ said Jess, holding my hand, ‘did you get bad news on the IVF?’
I nodded. They both welled up.
‘Oh, Emma,’ said Lucy, hugging me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jess. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking, why don’t I give you some of my eggs? I’d like to help. Honestly. The only thing I’m good at is making babies, so let me help.’
I shook my head. ‘Thanks, Jess, but I’m not going to do it any more. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but no more IVF. It’s horrible.’
‘Drink?’ said Lucy.
I nodded. What the hell? I needed a drink. I needed to blot out the day. I downed the glass of champagne they put in front of me and held it out for a refill.
‘What happened?’ asked Lucy.
‘Let’s not talk about it. I’m not going to ruin Jess’s birthday with my boring infertility. I’m sick of it myself. Tell me funny stories. Tell me gossip. I don’t feel like talking. I want to listen to fluff tonight. Is that OK?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ they said, and they proceeded to entertain me with all the stories they could think of. I drank and drank and drank. I nodded and I laughed and occasionally I spoke – but it was all a blur. I felt as if I was hovering above the table, looking down on the scene. Now and then I’d catch Jess and Lucy glancing at each other. They looked worried. I continued to drink – my hair eventually dried and my shirt did too.
Four hours later we stumbled into the pub next to the restaurant and sat up at the bar to order cocktails. It was my idea. I didn’t want to go home until I knew I’d fall into a dreamless sleep. Tonight I wanted to forget who I was. But no matter how drunk I got, I still kept thinking, What am I going to do? How am I going to face tomorrow? I decided to order shots. As I was throwing a tequila slammer down my throat, I lost my balance and fell off the bar stool on to the marble floor, landing on my head. Finally, I thought –
Silence.
34
I woke up three hours later in hospital with James by my side and a large white bandage round my head. We were in Accident and Emergency, and the smell of urine and vomit was nauseating. Drunks shouted at each other and a fight broke out in the corridor. We were behind a curtain in a tiny cubicle.
I looked at James: he was a deathly shade of pale.
‘You’re all right, darling,’ he said, holding my hand. ‘You had a slight concussion and you cut your head so they had to bring you in for observation. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m not pregnant, James. It didn’t work,’ I said. The tears – missing earlier – were free-flowing now.
‘I know. Lucy told me. Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I’m going to be thirty-five in six weeks. I am a thirty-four-and-three-quarter-year-old woman in hospital because I got so drunk that I fell off a bar stool and bashed my head. I’m such a loser. How did I end up here? What happened to me, James? I want to be old Emma. I want to be fun Emma. I want my life back. I want to be me again. I hate myself. I hate what I’m turning into,’ I said, sobbing.
‘But you are you. You’ve just had a really difficult time lately. We’re going to stop the IVF. You need a break, darling. It’s been really tough on you.’
‘I’m sick of it, James. I’m sick of it and sick of me. It’s so boring. I’m so boring. I’m sick of feeling like shit. I’m sick of being grumpy and mean. Don’t you want us to be back to normal?’
‘Of course I do. That’s why I think you need to stop all the treatment. I hate seeing you upset. Let’s just forget about children for a while.’
‘But I can’t,’ I wailed. ‘I’ve tried to, I really have, but I can’t stop obsessing. It just takes over, you can’t control it. James, I think the only way to get my life back and still have children is to adopt.’
James looked away. ‘Come on, darling, let’s get you home. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Put your arm round my neck. There you go.’
I was too tired to argue. I leaned against him as he gently lifted me off the bed and helped me out to the car.
The next morning, Mum called over to check up on me.
‘How are you, pet?’ she asked.
The Baby Trail Page 24
