The Two Week Wait (20 page)

‘I can give you her basic physical characteristics,’ says Mrs Donoghue.

‘Please, that would be great.’

‘Obviously we’ve tried to match her to you and your husband as best we can. Dr Hassan has overseen it personally.’ There’s a rustle of paper. ‘So . . . she is in
her thirties, and we have her down as five foot six.’

That’s an inch taller than me, thinks Cath.

‘She’s Caucasian. With brown hair and blue eyes.’

Exactly like me.

‘And we’ve described her build here as athletic.’

No one could ever describe me as that, thinks Cath. She tries to picture her. ‘You mean she’s muscly?’

‘She’s lean; that’s what we’re meaning.’

They’ve met, concludes Cath, playing detective. ‘I’m not lean at all.’

‘Nonetheless we believe, given your husband has an athletic physique himself, she is an appropriate match.’

Cath feels a pang of jealousy. It’s hard not to resent this woman who is giving her husband something she is incapable of. Immediately she chides herself. Their donor is being so generous;
that it’s a symbiotic relationship was one of the reasons egg sharing appealed to Cath from the start. She pushes, ‘Can’t you tell me
anything
about her circumstances?
I’d like to know how we’re helping her too.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t – I honestly don’t even know myself. There is a different embryologist in charge of her.’

Oh, so they won’t have encountered one another after all. ‘Can you let me know how her treatment goes?’

‘Yes, we’ll do that. You’ll need to be kept abreast anyway – the number of eggs we collect will impact on you both.’

‘Of course.’ If they don’t collect enough, both IVF treatments could fail before they’ve even begun. ‘So what happens next?’

‘We’ll need to synchronize the two of you, cycle-wise.’

Cath is confused. ‘But I don’t have a cycle.’

‘No, so in your case we’ll prepare your uterus to ensure it is in the best possible condition for when the embryos are transferred.’

Sounds like lining a baking tray, thinks Cath.

‘You will simply take oestrogen tablets without any preliminary treatment.’

‘Right.’ Although she’s keen to wrest as much information as she can, Cath is increasingly conscious she’s been away from the gallery a while. ‘I’m sorry, but
I am going to have to go. I just want to be sure – is there anything I need to do right now?’

‘Not yet. We’ll have you come down to the clinic in the next few weeks. We’ll be in touch to confirm.’

Once again Cath is left waiting, powerless; it’s all down to her donor. What a strange set of circumstances, she thinks, to have someone, somewhere, going through this in tandem, having
such a profound effect on my life, yet not knowing who I am.

*  *  *

Half an hour later Lou returns the call.

‘It’s Ian, the embryologist from the clinic.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘We’ve found an egg recipient.’

‘That’s fantastic! Oh, I’m so pleased. So what’s she like?’

‘You know I’m not permitted to tell you very much.’

‘Of course – just let me know what you can.’

‘Physically, you’re remarkably similar. She’s a bit heavier than you, otherwise a perfect match.’

‘Can I ask why she needs my eggs?’

‘I can only let you know that hers aren’t viable.’

‘Can you tell me how old she is?’

‘Older than you, that’s all I can say.’

‘OK,’ says Lou. As a counsellor she bumps up against the issue of confidentiality every day. Nonetheless she is intrigued; fleetingly she pictures this other woman, then she pushes
the thought away. Time is pressing. ‘So what’s next?’

Ian explains, ‘You’ll receive two types of drug: first, an injection to prevent you from ovulating, on day twenty-one of your upcoming cycle. After approximately two more weeks,
you’ll be given a stimulant.’

‘Will I need to come into the clinic?’

‘You can do the injections remotely, though you will need to come in for a scan every few days. Are you going to be injecting yourself?’

‘I think my, um—’ – she chooses her words carefully – ‘the father of the child is going to.’

‘Great, a lot of women do it that way, it’s often easier.’

‘My, um, friend – well, actually, he’s a doctor.’

‘That’s perfect. Sounds like you’ll be in excellent hands.’

*  *  *

Call me between two and three
, says the text. At 2.03, Rich does as requested. He knows that although she’s given him an hour’s window, Cath is really asking
him to phone as soon as possible.

‘Guess what?’

Through the microphone of his Bluetooth, he can hear the sound of traffic. Presumably she’s on her lunch break. He’ll be way too slow for her if he speculates.
‘What?’

‘They’ve found us a donor!’

‘They haven’t!’ He can hardly believe it. Finally! Keeping Cath from going crazy these last three months has been hard work – and they’d been warned it could be up
to a year. He can’t imagine how she would have dealt with that. Lord knows how couples who have to wait even longer for treatment on the NHS manage.

‘Where are you?’

‘Just got on the motorway.’ Rich has been at the head office in Leicester. ‘I’m coming back now.’

‘You on your own?’

‘Yes.’ With so much background noise, it’s hard to hear.

‘So, do you want to know about her?’

‘Of course.’

‘She sounds exactly like me. It’s so spooky.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, same height, almost, same colouring, everything. Just a bit thinner, that’s all. Lucky cow.’

‘You told Dr Hassan she could be slimmer,’ Rich reminds her.

‘So I did.’ Cath laughs. ‘I think it’s just a coincidence, though.’

‘I’m sure,’ says Rich. From what he has been given to understand, there’s no surfeit of egg donors; to a large extent, they have to take what’s given. In a way,
that is easier. He can imagine it would be confusing to be surrounded by options. And whilst he can see that choosing a donor has its appeal – Rich likes getting what he wants as much as
anyone – the notion of selecting every aspect of a baby’s genes as one might pick a car, down to its hubcaps and upholstery, makes him uneasy. We’ll have blue eyes and brown hair
is one thing; we want a Ph.D. and a perfect 10 smacks to him of engineering.

Rich loves Cath precisely because she’s a one-off: an attractive, idiosyncratic, infuriating mix of impatience and enthusiasm, insecurity and creativity, passion and humour. She’s
irreplaceable; when confronted by the stark reality of losing her he became very clear about that. And just as Cath’s cancer was a random act, so, Rich believes, is life generally. It seems
fitting that their donor is someone who has by chance come their way through an act of kindness. There’s only one Cath on the planet, and no amount of box-ticking could replicate her.

He stops musing, realizing he’s missed Cath’s question. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said, “Are you happy?” ’

‘Of course I am, love, it’s fantastic news. Are you?’

‘YEE-ESSS! I’m
so
happy,’ she wails, and promptly bursts into tears.

Hi all . . . Well, today went RUBBISH . . . Now I know why they say the NHS is a lottery – everyone in my postcode who is not currently on down reg
medication etc. will NOT get IVF till NEXT YEARapart from those who can afford to pay!!! I can’t possibly drum up several thousand pounds. Honestly, I’m f****ing gutted!!! I cried all
the way home and am still in tears. I’ve barely been clinging on and now have no idea when we’ll actually get started . . . So so so so so so p’d off!!! Effing politicians. Since
when was it fair to clamp down on infertility? Plus I was on bus and actually heard two people moaning about their youngest kid turning 12!!! Yes, 12 years old and the mum has to go to back to work
full time . . . Argh!!!! How terrible!

Know it’s not great but came in and hit the bottle. So a little tipsy writing this message.

Hope everyone ok? Cause I’m not!!!! Daisy x

The intercom goes just as Lou is wondering what she can write to help Daisy feel better.

She presses the buzzer to let Adam in. While he climbs the stairs she returns to her laptop and logs off.

He pushes open the door to her flat. ‘Hi, how are you?’

‘Bit nervous, though I’ve sorted the medication.’ She leads him to her bathroom cabinet where she’s lined up her supplies in date order.

‘Wow, med central,’ says Adam.

‘There’s more in the fridge. Bit OCD, isn’t it?’ Lou laughs at herself. ‘I thought it would be easier if I lay on the bed. What do you reckon?’

‘Probably.’

‘OK, let’s get it over with. Here.’ She hands him some antiseptic wipes that came with the drugs. While Adam assembles the syringe, Lou watches. ‘You make it look so
easy.’

‘I’m used to it. Right then, lie back.’ She does as she’s told. ‘I’m going for your tummy, OK?’

‘Sure.’

He eases up her T-shirt, disinfects her skin, there’s a quick sting in her abdomen, a tiny pause while he removes the needle, and he cleans the area again. ‘There.’

‘That it?’

‘Yup.’

She sits up. ‘Gosh. That was nowhere near as bad as I expected. Thanks.’

‘You know I’m happy to do this every night, if you like?’

‘Coming each day might be a bit of a bore for you.’

‘It’s fine, I want to help. You’re on my way home.’

‘Mm. Though I don’t always get back from work at the same time,’ Lou prevaricates. She’s thankful that Adam wants to play an active role and she doesn’t want to
exclude him when he’s keen. It must be strange for him, as it is for her, that they’re not a couple, yet are on this road. Administering the drugs on her own is bound to be tricky; were
she still with Sofia, she could have helped. She should probably take Adam up on his offer. And yet . . .

Lou has experienced so many hands and gels and scanners and needles over the last few weeks, it’s as if her body is fast becoming public property. There were also the scalpels and surgical
instruments of her operation: that she was anaesthetized throughout only accentuates the sense she’s been handing her fate over to others. Most significant of all, she’ll be giving a
part of herself away again when she donates her eggs. A warning bell is going off.

‘Let’s see how we go,’ she says.

*  *  *

Cath gets to her feet, goes to the fridge, reaches for a bottle of white. She’s about to unscrew the top when a little voice inside her says
No
. She’s supposed to be looking
after herself; if she has one, she might have another.

‘My body is a temple,’ she tells the cat, and switches on the kettle.

She returns to the laptop, replaces the penultimate line of her message with
Have a glass of wine for me, I’m on the peppermint tea,
and sits watching the cursor flash at her.

There’s nothing on telly, she’s checked already; she’s responded to posts on two fertility forums, and if she goes on Facebook she’ll probably be drawn to look at her
friends’ pictures of their babies and children, again.

‘Well?’ she asks the cat. Bessie is half sitting, front legs neatly together like an ancient Egyptian hieroglyph, on the table. She shouldn’t be on a surface that comes into
contact with food, but both Cath and Rich are too soft on her. Bessie half opens her eyes, closes them again, slowly. Cath could do with some of her laissez-faire attitude.

She casts her gaze about the room. Taps her leg, restless.

This really won’t do – she’s weeks to get through yet. She has to find a way to kill time.

She can hear the kids next door playing. She looks out of the window – it’s still light, and over the hedge she can see their pigtails flying as they bounce in turn on the
trampoline. That must be fun, Cath thinks. She catches the eye of the eldest girl and waves. I need to do something physical too, burn off energy. Jogging or cycling doesn’t appeal –
rarely does. If Rich were here . . . but he’s not due back for hours.

Her eye falls on their garden. All the houses in their terrace have a decent ribbon of space overlooking Meanwood Park, so they are surrounded by vegetation. Cath appreciates the greenery, but
it’s hard to keep pace, and they’ve not managed to claw back control since she was ill. It’s been a wet July; the shrubs seem to have exploded like fireworks, and their patch of
lawn needs mowing, though it’s a bit late to start up a machine. She notices the ivy is working its way into the brickwork of the far wall; she could start by tackling that. She locates some
gardening gloves and her wellington boots.

‘Right then, Bessie,’ she says.

She needs tools if she’s to do this properly but the climber has also wound its way round the bolt to the shed.

Fiendish so and so, she says silently, pulling off the tiny suckers.

Finally she yanks open the door and a shaft of sunlight illuminates the interior. Folded chairs lie willy-nilly atop badminton rackets and old cans of paint; stacks of plant pots lean like
precarious towers of Pisa against dog-ends of carpet and the cardboard boxes from Rich’s PC. The rusting fork, spade and secateurs have clearly been hurled in with no regard to safety; a bag
of barbecue briquettes spills black dust over the floor. There’s barely space to place her feet. She curses her husband – she’d no idea it was such a tip – and gets to
work.

*  *  *

‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Adam. ‘One thing we haven’t really talked about.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Childcare.’ He hesitates. ‘I don’t mean to sound nosy, but I have to ask, financially, how were you envisaging it working – I mean in terms of your job, having a
baby and so on, given you’re up in London and, er . . . ’