The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1)

by Sinéad Moriarty

  I decided to jump in: James was being far too longwinded and waffly. ‘The thing is, I’ve been trying to get pregnant for seven months and so far nothing’s happening. So I’m a bit fed up.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dr Murphy. ‘How old are you now, Emma?’

  ‘Thirty-three and a half.’

  ‘And you, James?’

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘Well, I have to say first of all that you both have youth on your side. I’m quite sure that there’s nothing wrong with either of you – these things don’t happen overnight. When you’ve been on the pill for any length of time and then come off it, it usually takes the body a good six months to adapt. I have no doubt it’ll happen for you very soon. The important thing is not to get too stressed about it. Just relax and enjoy yourselves and it’ll all come together.’

  ‘Is there something we should be doing or taking that could help speed things up?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, ovulation tests can be helpful in narrowing down your most fertile days and, of course, a healthy lifestyle helps. Maybe you could cut down a bit on caffeine and alcohol and try to exercise a couple of times a week. But everything in moderation is fine. Don’t be stressing yourselves out unnecessarily.’

  ‘But what if something’s wrong and we don’t know about it? What if I have endometriosis or uterine fibroids?’ I asked. I had spent a few hours that morning on the babycentre.com/fertilityproblems website and I wanted concrete reassurance. I wanted answers, tests, results.

  ‘The likelihood of you having either of those problems is very slim, but if you like we could do some preliminary tests. A sperm sample test and some blood tests to check your hormone levels and a smear might be worth looking at.’

  ‘Yes, I want to have those,’ I said, jumping at the chance to do something. ‘I really want to move forward on this, Doctor.’

  Dr Murphy looked at me and smiled. He could see my frustration, desperation and impatience.

  ‘OK, well, I’ll set up an appointment with a gynaecologist colleague of mine, Dr Philips. He’s very good, I know you’ll like him.’

  A week later, and James was giving his sperm sample at a private clinic recommended by Dr Murphy. I went with him for moral support, although he said he didn’t need any. The clinic was very plush and the waiting room was full of couples whispering to each other. All the men looked fairly tense. James was a bit grumpy about me tagging along. ‘You really didn’t have to come, Emma. I don’t need hand-holding,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, but what if you can’t manage to give a sample and you need some help?’ I whispered back. ‘I don’t want some saucy nurse having to go in and finish off the job for you. I’d rather be on hand to help you out.’

  ‘In fairness, I think I can manage a sample on my own, thank you.’

  ‘Well, just in case I brought you this,’ I said, handing him a picture.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’

  ‘It’s Irina Shayk in a lingerie shot. You told me you thought she was hot, so I ripped it out of a magazine in the hairdressers yesterday.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you, darling. Didn’t the hairdresser mind you ripping it out of their magazine?’ said James, shaking his head and smiling at me.

  ‘Not when I explained what it was for. In fact, she told me she thought I was very open-minded and under- standing.’

  ‘Great, so everyone in the hairdresser’s now knows what I’m up to today. Anyone else in on it?’

  ‘No, believe it or not, I didn’t take out an ad in the Times.’

  The nurse came out and called James. I went up with him. She handed him a small cup and told him to place his sample in it. ‘And we have provided some material to help you. We know it can be difficult for men to give samples on demand, so there are some magazines and a video if you need to use them.’

  ‘Yes, right, thank you, Nurse,’ said James, blushing furiously as he strode towards the door.

  I sat down and tried not to laugh.

  Twenty minutes later James came out and handed the nurse his sample.

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked.

  ‘Not here,’ he hissed, as he frogmarched me out of the clinic.

  When we got outside I asked again.

  ‘It was fine. A bit slow to start, but I got there in the end.’

  ‘You were in there for ages. What type of porn did they have? Playboy or what? What was the film? Downthere Abbey or La La Lapdance? Was Irina’s picture helpful?’ I asked, giggling.

  ‘Well, I must say the magazines were pretty hard core – Mayfair, Hustler, that kind of thing, and the film option was Shakespeare in Lust,’ said James, laughing now too.

  ‘Did you watch it?’

  ‘No, the magazines did the trick.’

  ‘Were they new or old?’

  ‘Old.’

  ‘Gross. Were the pages stuck together?’

  ‘Well, no. If the pages were stuck together the guy wouldn’t have been aiming in the cup, now, would he?’

  ‘Was it hard to get it into the cup?’

  ‘It was a bit on the small side, but I managed.’

  ‘I wish they gave women something to look at when they’re having smears. It would make the process a lot more pleasant.’

  ‘Maybe you should suggest it to Dr Philips tomorrow.’

  I decided not to bring porn to my appointment with Dr Philips. He was a sweet man in his late-fifties, and I think he would have passed out at the mere suggestion.

  He took a smear, then some blood for tests. He asked me questions about my periods – were they regular? Heavy? Painful? Long? Was there cramping? Sweating? Light-headedness? Severe mood swings?

  When we had ruled out most of those things, he suggested that I go for an ultrasound to check that my womb looked healthy and to look for any signs of polycystic ovaries. He booked me an appointment for the next day. I was to eat nothing and drink two litres of water at least an hour before my appointment and under no circumstances was I to pee – I had to be nice and bloated for the ultrasound.

  The next day I woke up and poured myself a glass of water. After one glass I felt I needed to pee. After fifteen I thought I would burst. I got into the car and drove to the clinic. Every bump in the road was torture. I thought I was going to pee in the car. It was awful. When I got to the clinic, the receptionist said the radiologist was a bit behind and she was afraid I’d have to wait forty minutes for my appointment. She was right to be afraid, I thought grimly, as I sat down and crossed my legs. Very soon she’d need a pair of goggles and a swimming-cap behind that desk – my bladder couldn’t take much more of this: it was begging to be set free and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could control it.

  Forty torturous minutes later I was lying back on the bed, legs akimbo while the radiologist tut-tutted. ‘Did Dr Philips not make it clear that you needed to drink two litres of water before coming here today?’ she snapped.

  ‘Yes, he did, and I have drunk the water. I’m about to burst there’s so much water inside me,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  She sighed. ‘Well, you obviously didn’t drink enough. It’s no use. We’ll have to do an internal. Go and empty your bladder and come back straight away.’

  Joy . . . freedom. I leaped off the bed and hurled myself into the toilet. The relief was wonderful. Why the hell hadn’t they told me I could have an internal examination? I would have opted for that any day.

  I went back in, climbed on to the bed and assumed the position. The sour-faced radiologist came towards me holding a large stick with a round head that looked remarkably like a giant vibrator. I had a sneaking suspicion, however, that this monster would provide none of the pleasure of its smaller cousin. It was unceremoniously shoved in, where she proceeded to swish it about roughly from right to left staring at a screen and muttering under her breath. She kept clicking on the mouse and dragging lines across from one side to the other. I’m one of those people who like to be informed about what’s going on, particularly when someo
ne is staring at my innards on a TV screen.

  ‘So, what do you see? Does it look normal?’ I asked, squirming with discomfort as she shoved the camera to the far left of my womb.

  ‘Dunno, hard to say,’ she mumbled, as she continued to click and measure lines across the black fuzzy screen.

  ‘Well, does anything look really abnormal?’ I tried, desperate for reassurance.

  ‘I can’t say until I’ve studied the printouts. Dr Philips will explain it all to you.’

  ‘Well, can you tell me if you see anything that looks like it could be a big problem?’

  ‘Nothing stands out, but as I said, I’ll have to study the results,’ said the witch in the white coat, as she yanked the camera out. ‘You can get dressed now.’

  I wanted to smack her over the head with the vibrator-like camera, but I was putting all my energy into not crying. Why was she being such a cow? Didn’t she realize how awful and humiliating this was? Why the hell had she become a radiologist if she hated people so much? She should have gone into research. She was only fit to deal with lab rats. I was furious and upset. I stormed out of the room and when I got to the safety of my car I bawled. I was sore, and feeling very sorry for myself.

  When I went to see Dr Philips – three weeks and one further blood test later – my upset had turned into fury. I told him I thought his choice of radiologist extremely poor and I was upset at the way in which I had been treated. He checked the name on the report and said it must have been a temp as the radiologist he normally used was charming. He apologized profusely and said he would make sure I never had to deal with a stand-in again.

  He then told me that everything looked normal. The blood tests taken on day four of my cycle had shown that my hormone levels were normal.

  ‘We checked your FSH to confirm that sufficient quantities are being produced to trigger the follicles within your ovaries to begin preparing an egg for release. High levels of FSH are often taken to be an indicator that egg reserves are running low. We also checked your LH, which controls the development of the egg. Levels surge to trigger release at ovulation. However, consistently high levels can prevent such a spurt, and can be an indicator of PCOS, but your levels are normal. Also, your prolactin levels were normal. Prolactin is a stress hormone released by the pituitary. High levels can inhibit the release of FSH and LH. It is also the hormone that will eventually stimulate breast milk.’

  Normal stress levels? Was he trying to wind me up? I was totally strung-out. The way things were going, if the stress hormones were the ones that stimulated the breast milk my baby would be sucking on empty. I’d be a basket case by the time I got pregnant.

  ‘And finally the blood test we did on day twenty-one of your cycle was to check your progesterone levels. The body increases its production of this hormone after releasing an egg, so the test confirms ovulation is taking place. It would appear that you’re a very healthy young lady who ovulates regularly,’ said Dr Philips.

  I knew FSH was Follicle Stimulating Hormone and I recognized LH as the Luteinizing Hormone from my ovulation-stick instructions, but he had lost me on the PCOS. Still, I got the gist of it – I was producing eggs. I appeared to be normal.

  ‘So, what do I do now?’ I asked.

  ‘Go home, my dear, and lead a normal life. Try to be healthy and, most importantly, try to relax and enjoy a normal sex life. Regular sex around the mid-stage of your cycle is advisable, but don’t get too tied down with dates and times. The more relaxed you are, the more likely it is that you will fall pregnant. I have no doubt you will succeed in the very near future. The best of luck to you,’ said Dr Philips, shaking my hand.

  I wanted to hug him and thank him for being so nice, but I was feeling too emotional so I just mumbled, ‘Thank you for your help,’ and went home to tell James the good news. Along with his healthy sperm, I had healthy eggs.

  We were good to go.

  14

  Leinster lost the semi-final of the cup and James was gutted. They played really well, but the team from Toulouse outplayed them with their superior scrummaging (well, that’s what Gary Brown of the Irish Times wrote anyway). All the papers praised James for having taken Leinster all the way to the semi-final and predicted that he had a great career as a coach ahead of him.

  I reminded him of this as he sat staring gloomily out the window a week later, stirring his coffee. ‘I really thought we were going to win it. I really did,’ he said, for the zillionth time that week.

  ‘Look, James, no one’s dead. I know you’re upset, but everyone thinks you’re a hero for getting so far. Look at the positives. You’re being hailed as one of the best coaches Leinster has ever had, you’ve just been given a big pay-rise and a three-year contract. Come on, it’s not the end of the world.’

  James sighed and looked at me. ‘It is to me.’

  I was losing patience with the dramatics. He had been moping around the house for a week, watching a video of the match over and over again.

  ‘It’s not as if you were fired. You lost a game, next year you’ll win the league.’

  ‘It’s a cup, Emma. It’s the European Cup,’ he snapped. ‘Is it too much to ask for a little sympathy after I’ve lost the most important game of my career?’

  ‘I’ve given you buckets of sympathy. I’ve spent the last week dancing around making you your favourite dinners, letting you hog the TV every night, not nagging when you leave wet towels on the bedroom floor and telling you how great you are and trying to cheer you up. Come on, Jame, look on the bright side – at least you have healthy sperm.’

  ‘Emma, can you please, just for once, not bring sperm, babies or reproduction into the conversation? It’s doing my head in. This is about my career and has nothing whatsoever to do with baby-making. It may come as a shock to you to know that not everything in the world revolves around fertility. Now I’m going to have a long, hot shower and I would really appreciate it if you refrained from following me into the bathroom to check if I’m masturbating,’ he said, and stormed out the door.

  While James was in the shower, Donal rang. ‘Howrya, is he there?’

  ‘No, he’s having a shower.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘He’s very grumpy and down in the dumps.’

  ‘Ah, but we came so close.’

  ‘Oh, God, not you too. Look, take him out for a few beers or something. I’ve tried everything but he’s miserable.’

  ‘The lads have organized a surprise for him tonight.

  We’ll cheer him up for you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘OK, well, just tell him I called and I’ll see him down at the club at seven.’

  ‘Will do. Oh, by the way, Donal, I hear you’re a liberated man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt,’ I said, laughing, as I hung up. I left James a note on the kitchen table:

  Donal called. You are to be in the clubhouse at seven. PS You can shake it till it falls off!

  At three o’clock that morning, James staggered into the bedroom wearing a Superman outfit – red knickers and all. He leaped on top of me and kissed me. ‘Darling, I jusht wanna say that you’re the besht wife in whole world and I’m shorry for shouting at you. Alsho, if I shay sho myshelf, I am the besht coach in Europe. The lads shaid I was top bloke and they promished to win the Cup for me nexsht near. Now come on, let’sh make babiesh,’ he said, pulling off his cape. But his feet got tangled in the red knickers and he ended up falling off the bed and passing out on the floor.

  I pulled him back on to the bed and covered him with the duvet. My very own superhero . . .

  With James having regained his positive outlook on life, I decided I should do something to make me feel better about myself. I needed to be distracted and to stop wallowing in my pregnancy obsession and driving my husband insane. I reasoned that it was time for me to give something back to society. I was also secretly hoping that if I did some good work, I’d get a break on the pregnancy
front.

  ‘What goes around comes around’ and all that. I narrowed it down to three options – Amnesty International, prison visits or the Samaritans.

  First I went to an Amnesty meeting. Of the four people there, I was the only one not wearing a poncho and sandals. My dressing down had consisted of Top Shop jeans and a T-shirt. Suffice it to say that I didn’t exactly blend.

  I sat down beside Simon, an earnest young man with long, dirty-looking dreadlocks and an apparent aversion to personal hygiene. Suzanne, the Amnesty representative – wearing the ‘must-have’ poncho, jeans and a pair of open-toe Birkenstocks – explained what Amnesty was about and pointed out that they had no time for dogooders who joined for three months, then drifted away. They needed passionate people, active members, who would go on marches, write protest letters, participate in night vigils outside embassies and be available twentyfour/seven as committed members of the organization. At this stage the poncho-clad recruits were nodding vigorously and clapping.

  Then Suzanne asked us all to explain why we had come to Amnesty and what we felt we could contribute. Simon gave an impassioned speech about having spent a month on the West Bank, seeing first hand the Israeli brutality towards the Palestinians. ‘They are living like dogs, in sub-human conditions. We have to increase the pressure on the government to do something. We need to hit the streets.’

  OMG, what the hell was I going to say? By the time my turn came, I’d decided honesty was the best policy. I told Suzanne that I knew Amnesty had a shop, as it was quite near where I lived, and perhaps I could work there for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoons . . . They didn’t exactly kick me out , but I realised I was not what they were looking for. Thus ended my blink-and-you’ll-miss-it career with Amnesty.

  I met up with Lucy after the Amnesty fiasco to discuss my options. She said I’d be mad even to consider prison visits. She pointed out that you could get landed with a serial-killer type inmate who, on his release, would hunt you down and murder you. I pointed out that serial killers were probably not first in line for friendly prison visits. Still and all, better safe than sorry, said Lucy. After all, that Harold Shipman had seemed like a nice old family doctor and look what he’d got up to. She said the Samaritans sounded like a much better option. Better to be on the end of a telephone with an upset teenager than face-to-face in prison with a murderer. She had a point and I was very fond of the phone, so I’d probably be a natural.