by Hodge, Sibel
‘I’ll say it once again,’ he said, eyeing my waistband like I was about to whip a Kalashnikov out of my knickers and annihilate everyone in a ten mile radius. ‘Nice and slowly, let me see it.’
‘OK, OK!’ I clasped the bottle and pulled it out, practically shoving it in his face for him to inspect. ‘But please don’t make me keep it out in the cold air for too long; it has to be kept at body temperature.’
He squinted, peering at the contents. ‘What is that?’
‘Sperm. You see my husband and I are trying for a baby and I need to get it to the hospital really quickly. Oh, God, please don’t arrest me. You don’t know how long all this stuff takes. Every single month I’m waiting to get pregnant, and the doctors won’t do anything until it’s been at least six months, then you have to wait for all sorts of tests, and then before you know it another month has gone by and–’
He put his hand up to stop me, his eyes suddenly avoiding the sperm bottle. ‘OK, OK! Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on in the first place?’
I hung my head in shame. ‘Because I was embarrassed to be carrying a pot of sperm down my knickers. You probably would’ve thought I was a complete lunatic, and it’s not as if I like discussing the fact that I’m a sad excuse for a woman who can’t get pregnant with all and sundry.’
He gave me a pitying look. ‘I know what you’re going through. My wife and I tried for three years before she got pregnant.’ He nodded towards the pot. ‘How much time have you got left before you need to get it there?’
I glanced at my watch and groaned. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘Right. I’ll give you an escort. Let’s go.’ He rushed back to his car and turned on the lights and siren as I got into the VW and cranked the engine.
He pulled out in front of me and I sat practically on his bumper the whole way there. I grabbed a parking space with five minutes to spare and legged it all the way to the pathology lab.
‘Hello,’ I said breathlessly to the lady behind the reception desk. ‘I’ve got some sperm for you but it’s nearly at the two-hour-old mark.’
‘No problem, dear. I’ll make sure they get to it straight away. Have you got the form from your doctor?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled gratefully, pushing the sample bottle and the form over the counter.
‘Is that enough?’ I said, eyeing the tube. It only looked like a tiny bit of sperm to me. What if they needed more? I didn’t relish the thought of going through all this again.
‘Oh, yes. The normal ejaculation is around half a teaspoon. This will be fine.’ She wrapped the form around the sample and stood up. ‘Check back with your doctor in about a week and the results should be there.’
I clutched my chest with relief. ‘Thanks so much.’
My Womb is a Flower
I finished a gruelling pedicure on Mrs Omeroyd. Her bunions and ingrowing toenails were almost enough to distract me from thoughts of babies for a while. Almost, but not quite. I started fantasizing about what my baby’s feet would look like. Would they have Karl’s really hairy toes? Ew, I hoped not. If it was a girl, she wouldn’t be too impressed. Would it have a long second toe, like me? I was always really embarrassed that it was longer than my big toe, but I’d read somewhere that it meant you were a fast runner, although that didn’t ring true. I even used to come last in the egg and spoon race at junior school.
The post arrived when she’d left and, hurrah, my relaxation CD had come. I glanced at my watch. Perfect. I had two hours before my next client.
Poppy had told me the CD was fantastic for de-stressing and becoming one with your womb. I didn’t know exactly what that entailed, and it sounded a bit scary to me, but I ordered it straight away off the Internet. For ten pounds, I couldn’t go wrong. And if it worked, then woo hoo! I had a good feeling about it as I plopped it in the CD player next to our wooden six-foot bed and closed my eyes. This was exactly what I needed to relax me. I mean, it really wound me up when people told me to just stop thinking about getting pregnant and it would happen naturally. That’s the worst thing you can say to someone who’s been trying for so long. It made me want to scratch their eyes out. It’s not like I wanted to think about it all the time. It’s just some bizarre, unexplainable presence in my head that won’t go away. This deep-seated, uncontrollable need to have Karl’s baby. And anyway, I did stop thinking about it sometimes. Like when I was asleep.
‘Close your eyes and imagine you are lying on a sandy beach,’ a woman’s gentle voice broke into my thoughts as the CD began.
OK, yes, I can do that.
‘Let your legs and arms relax to the sides, palms facing upwards, as you sink into the warm, soft sand.’
Hey, I was way ahead of her.
‘Feel the sand cushioning your body as you take deep breaths in and out. Feel the rhythmic sounds of the sea lapping at the shore. In and out,’ she carried on for a few minutes with the in and out bit just to make sure I’d got the hang of it as I nestled into the bed – I mean, sand.
‘Feel the stillness and calmness entering your body with every breath in, and feel the anxiety disappear with every breath out. Concentrate only on your breathing. Let it flow easily.’
Mmmm, lovely. Any minute now I’ll be asleep. Maybe that’s the idea – that it worked on your subconscious when you were asleep by thought projection. I’m sure I read somewhere about someone who learned Japanese by falling asleep to a CD. And that will definitely help if my subconscious really is into self-sabotage like Poppy thinks. Yes, the mind is a funny machine, isn’t it? I saw on the news once about people who got terminal illnesses but suddenly managed to get well again through mind over matter.
‘Free your mind from all its thoughts,’ she carried on.
Right. Zip it, brain. I’m not thinking now.
‘Imagine a bright, hot, white light entering your body from the tips of your toes, slowly working its way up to your womb. The light is nourishing and powerful. It will give your womb vitality and strength and nourishment, and will allow you to carry your baby safely. Silently repeat after me, “My womb is the centre of my being. It is capable of carrying a healthy embryo.”’
I silently repeated it. OK, it’s a bit New Age-ish but never mind. Ha! Take that subconscious!
‘Now imagine the light touching your ovaries.’
Wait a sec, what does she mean by touching? Stroking? Tickling? Caressing? I don’t want to get it wrong and blow them up with the light by accident.
‘Don’t forget to keep breathing. Deep, relaxing, soothing breaths.’
But what about the light? What am I supposed to do with it?
‘Now imagine the light encapsulating your whole body, warming it. Your whole being is vitalised by the light. Repeat after me, I am the light. I feel the light. The light is power.’
Damn, I missed the ovaries. Does that matter? Won’t it work now? I quickly repeated it before she could move on somewhere else.
‘The light is fluttering down to your vagina.’ For some reason she barked out the word “vagina” so it echoed around the room.
Ew…I hate that word. I cringed. It reminded me of a giant abyss. I suddenly imagined my fufu as a big, black, unaccommodating hole and that just did it for me. There was no bloody way this was going to work.
I jumped off the bed and jabbed the off button as tears sprang into my eyes. What a ridiculous idea, anyway. How stupid of me to even think a relaxation CD would help get me pregnant. Bloody Poppy. Bloody fertility treatment. And bloody VAGINA!
****
When Poppy rang to ask if I’d got the CD yet. I broke it to her gently that it didn’t have the desired relaxation effect.
‘OK, well, not to worry,’ she said, her voice as upbeat and positive as ever. ‘Sometimes I just make up my own mantras to use with relaxation. Why don’t you just try saying something like, “My womb is a flower,” or “Fertilize my egg,” over and over again while you take deep breaths and close your eyes.’
Hmm…I couldn�
�t see that working, either. ‘OK,’ I said.
‘What you need to do is project positive thoughts to the Universe. It will help you receive cosmic enlightenment, and get rid of any negative energy surrounding you. I think your chakras are probably blocked, too.’
Oh, God, that didn’t sound good. On the eve of my test to check if my fallopian tubes were clear, I didn’t want to be hearing about any possible blockages.
‘What does that mean, exactly? Is it like having a blocked nose, or something, and I can just take Beechams Powders to unblock them? ’ I chewed on my lip, waiting for her answer.
She chuckled. ‘Not exactly. All of us have energy fields in us which are our chakras. If they’re blocked for some reason, it can affect our mental and physical well-being. Positive thoughts can be a great way to unblock them.’
****
So as I lay in bed that night, thoughts whirring around in my brain like an out of control computer processor, I thought about what Poppy had said. Maybe she was right. I mean, it sounded a bit I’ve-had-too-many-acid-drops hippie stuff and all that, but what did I have to lose by asking the Universe for help? I decided to call the Universe Zelda, because it sounded like a Universe-ish kind of name, and I suspected she was a woman.
As Karl snored softly next to me I tried to block out all noises and closed my eyes, taking long, slow, deep breaths.
My womb is a flower, my womb is a flower, my womb is a flower. I silently repeated the mantra in my head, trying not to laugh.
What is that supposed to do, anyway?
Oh, shut up, brain!
OK, shutting up now. Come on subconscious, wake up!
I mean, really. Why a flower?
Zelda, my womb is a flower, OK?
Flowers are nice, though. Pretty. Unless you count the flowers on stinging nettles and then they’re pretty pointless, aren’t they? I mean, what’s the reason for having flowers on stinging nettles? What boyfriend in the world would buy a bunch of stinging nettles for their girlfriend as a nice Valentine’s Day gift? Oh, actually, there was Craig who I dumped when I was about sixteen and he turned up on my doorstep the next day with a bunch for me.
Shut up, brain!
OK, OK!
Flowers are a sign of spring, rebirth, new beginnings. Yes, that’s it! Birth.
Another deep breath in.
My womb is a flower. My womb is a flower.
And as I drifted off to sleep I repeated it over and over again.
Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
That night I dreamt I gave birth to an onion. It was so vivid, as well. I was in the delivery suite, huffing and puffing away, and Karl was standing next to me with a happy grin on his face, mopping my sweating brow and gripping my hand as he looked lovingly into my eyes. In my dream, I could actually feel the onion coming out of my fufu.
I glanced down, exhausted but ecstatic, for the first glimpse of my beautiful baby. The doctor wrapped it up in a soft, fluffy blue blanket and handed it to me.
When I saw it was an onion, I screamed my head off. Then I woke up.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I was so freaked out I had to look up the meaning of dreams on the internet…
Seeing an onion in your dreams represents jealousy and envy from others if you’re successful. (No, that couldn’t be it. I didn’t think any of my friends were jealous of me. I mean, Amelia didn’t want a baby, and Kerry was a single career-girl who was perfectly happy with no kids.)
I kept looking…
If you dream of onions, you will go through a period of sorrow. (Yikes! I didn’t like the sound of that one.)
Onions in dreams: You need to cry or get in touch with your emotional side. (What? I’d been crying enough tears every month when I didn’t get pregnant to fill the Thames!)
Spiritual meaning of onions in dreams: The multi-layered aspect of the onion symbolizes the Cosmos – either the Universe or a personal journey. You need to look behind the obvious as you peel away the layers of the onion to achieve personal growth by working through your issues and getting closer to root causes. (Aha! Finally! I liked this definition better!)
So, Zelda had answered me. I had to go through some personal journey to get pregnant. And my tests were today so I really would be getting closer to the root causes of my problems. Maybe she was telling me not to worry, that everything would work out OK in the end.
A smile of satisfaction formed.
Yes, that was it. Absolutely.
****
We’d decided to go private to pay for the tests rather than endure the eight-month waiting list to get them done on the National Health Service. Time was speeding by, and at this rate I’d be seventy before I managed to get pregnant. I’d already had to wait until early in my next cycle to have it done so they could see if I was ovulating or not.
I had to have a full bladder for the ultrasound scan, and boy was it full. Maybe I’d overdone it on the water, but then I didn’t have a clue how long it took to get from my stomach to my bladder. It wasn’t something I normally thought about. Ooh, if they didn’t hurry up, it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
I crossed my legs. Ah, big mistake! I could hear my bladder screaming at me in pain. I quickly uncrossed them and moved around in my seat, trying to get into a position where I didn’t want to wet myself. The only spot of good news was that trying to concentrate on keeping it in was stopping me from worrying about the tests.
‘Gina,’ a short and very round nurse called my name.
I took a deep breath and waddled towards her like John Wayne to avoid any unnecessary spillage.
She smiled. ‘I see you have a full bladder.’
‘Full is an understatement.’ I pulled a face.
‘Follow me. The scan won’t take long.’ She led me into a small room with an examination couch and a couple of ultrasound machines on wheels. ‘Take off your knickers and put the blanket over you. I’ll be back with the gynaecologist in a moment.’
I did as she said, stepping up onto the couch like a geriatric in case my bladder popped.
I fidgeted for what felt like an eternity in bladder-squashing hell until she came back with the doctor, who was about fifty and balding. Why were most gynaecologists men? I wondered what he told his wife when they discussed his day at work over dinner. “Oh, yes, darling, I had a great day looking up a variety of lady gardens.” I’m pretty sure his wife wouldn’t be too impressed as she was tucking into her fufu-looking oysters when he discussed everything from the young, manicured topiary to the old, overgrown wild orchard he’d seen that day. Ew, it didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Right then, Gina. I’m Doctor Dye.’ He fiddled around with the equipment, making sure it was on.
Er, hang on. Did he just say Doctor Die? A cold chill slammed through my veins. That was a bad sign if ever I saw one.
‘Um…pardon?’ I squeaked.
He turned back to me with a huge smile on his face. ‘No, it’s not spelt D-I-E. It’s D-Y-E. Don’t worry,’ he chuckled, ‘you’re quite safe. I haven’t lost a patient yet.’
‘Right. Well, OK.’ Although I wasn’t entirely enthralled by it. What if Zelda was trying to tell me something?
‘Just relax.’ He rubbed some cold gel on my stomach.
Yeah, right. With Doctor Dye! He probably wouldn’t even see my ovaries now. They were probably shrinking into my body this very second because he’d scared the shit out of them.
The nurse put a hand on my arm and gave me a reassuring smile.
‘OK, here we go.’ He moved the head of the scanner over my abdomen as he faced the monitor. It was turned partially away from me so I could only see a bit of the screen.
Visions of my dream popped into my head.
‘Now, you should be on about day eleven of your cycle, is that right?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ I craned my neck to see the screen he was looking at. But all I could make out were black and white lumps and blobby bits. Was that good or bad?
&
nbsp; He moved the scanner head into various positions, pausing periodically to click something on the machine and take pictures, frowning occasionally.
Uh-oh, why was he frowning? My heart rate raced as I imagined all sorts of possible scenarios. Ovarian cancer, cysts, fibroids, an onion.
‘Well, this is your uterus.’ He pointed to some black and white shape on the screen that looked like a squid to me. ‘It looks absolutely fine. No abnormalities, so that’s good.’
I let out a breath of relief that I didn’t even know I’d been holding.
‘There are no fibroids or cysts, and you don’t have polycystic ovaries, which is good news, too.’
‘Great!’ I smiled enthusiastically.
‘But…’
Oh, crapping hell! I just knew there was going to be a but in there somewhere. My smile faded.
‘I should see signs of follicles appearing by now, but I can’t, which means you’re not about to ovulate soon,’ he said. ‘Are your periods regular?’
‘No. They can be anything from two months to four months apart.’
He moved the scanner around more, pressing on my stomach as my bladder made protest groans.
Ouch! Ouch, ouch, ouch. I’m going to wet myself in a minute! Hurry up, hurry up!
And then he said, ‘OK, all done.’
Need a wee. Need a wee.
He removed the scanner and cleaned the head. ‘There’s a toilet through there. If you empty your bladder and come back, I’ll do a transvaginal scan, too.’ He pointed to a side door in the cubicle and I rushed off with the blanket clutched around me like my feet were on fire.
I plopped down onto the toilet as the waterworks started, sounding like Niagara Falls being let loose.
