The Two Week Wait (31 page)

‘I guess . . . I just feel so bad for her.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

Lou sighs. ‘In theory I appreciate that. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry.’

‘You shouldn’t feel guilty that you got pregnant and she didn’t. That was always a risk with this arrangement.’

Lou nods, but she can’t turn off her sense of responsibility simply because Adam has told her to.

‘And now you’ve given permission for them to use your frozen egg—’

‘Embryo,’ corrects Lou: it was to get her sign-off that Ian, their embryologist, had called.

‘Embryo, sorry. Anyway, you’ve been hugely generous—’

‘It’s not as if I got nothing in return.’

‘Of course you did. But maybe she’ll have better luck this next time. At least she still has an option.’

‘I suppose . . . ’

‘It certainly doesn’t mean you’re not pregnant.’

‘Mm.’

‘Or that you shouldn’t be happy that you are.’ He pauses, and his voice softens. ‘You deserve to be, don’t you
ever
think you don’t.’ He pats her
hand. Not for the first time, she appreciates what a good GP he must be. Then he laughs, ‘And, if you don’t mind me saying, your tummy is quite a bit bigger.’

‘Probably fat from so many sweets,’ she says, stretching out her legs and looking down.

The lino beneath her feet is badly worn; the plastic chair she’s sitting on is wobbly, coming unscrewed from its base. Now Lou is so far into her first trimester, the clinic’s role
is over: she and Adam have been referred on to the NHS.

What a marked contrast it all is to the pristine surroundings of the Marylebone Fertility Clinic, she thinks. And we’ve been waiting an hour already. Still, at least the hospital is only a
few hundred yards from my flat.

At last: ‘Louise Burgess!’ bellows a nurse from a few feet away.

Lou jumps.

‘If you’d like to follow me,’ the nurse says. But this is the department where she had a scan with Sofia, an experience she remembers vividly, so Lou already knows where to go.
She was nervous then, too, and resented being surrounded by pregnant women. Who could have known she’d be back barely eight months later, supposedly one of them?

*  *  *

‘Mr and Mrs Morris, it’s good to see you back again,’ says Dr Hassan, leading them through to his consulting room. ‘Though I’d like to take this
opportunity to say how very sorry we are that our first attempt at IVF didn’t work for you.’

Being here once again brings their situation home to Cath. The doctor’s large mahogany desk with its silver-framed photos of what must be his own family, the tall twiddly-stemmed house
plant in the corner, the shelves lined with hefty reference books and research papers. She and Rich have even sat in these chairs before. Cath gulps
. Bet you’re not as sorry as I am
,
she thinks, but says nothing for fear she might break down.

‘I gather that you’ve had a consultation with the counsellor and discussed your options, and this is what’s brought you both here.’

Rich speaks for them. ‘My wife decided to give her body a rest for a few weeks before we tried again.’

‘Always advisable. So, I gather you’ve been taking the oestrogen and progesterone tablets for a fortnight . . . ?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which is necessary because this time we’re using a frozen embryo, as you’re obviously aware.’

‘Before we do, can I ask you something?’ Cath wishes she could disguise her upset, but her voice is husky. It only makes her feel more vulnerable.

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just I think last time I, um, got my hopes up a bit too high, and this time, I don’t know, I don’t want to be quite so unrealistic . . . ’

‘I see . . . ’ Dr Hassan folds his fingers under his chin.

‘It’s very hard trying to be positive whilst at the same time not allowing myself to believe it’s going to work.’

‘I quite understand. It’s a difficult balance.’

‘What we need to know is,’ interrupts Rich, ‘the odds are not as good with frozen embryos, are they?’ He and Cath have discussed this ad nauseam. Whilst it’s
comforting to hear a positive spin, especially from a consultant, this time round they are endeavouring to be more pragmatic. We need to protect ourselves, they’ve agreed.

‘So are you asking me the odds of having success with this particular treatment?’

‘Exactly.’

‘It’s not easy to say. There are so many variables. Just because IVF doesn’t take the first time for some patients is no reason for it not to work the second.’

‘But surely, if the embryo is frozen—’

The doctor coughs. ‘Actually, research shows the outcome from IVF using cryopreserved embryos is uniformly positive, with no marked increase in birth defects or developmental
abnormalities.’

‘But that’s generally,’ urges Rich. ‘Whereas I thought our embryo wasn’t such good quality as the two you implanted?’

Dr Hassan shuffles in his seat. Cath empathizes with him. It must be hard to get it right for a couple like them: he won’t want to seem all doom and gloom; neither will he want to give
false hope. Ultimately, the procedure is also a gamble for him. Much of this she and Rich have spoken of already in their counselling session, yet it seems no matter how often they go over it,
there are no definite answers: only yearning and vagueness and fear.

‘All I can say is we’ve defrosted the embryo, and the embryologist has had a good look at it under the microscope. She’s happy, so I’m happy, and if you’re both
happy we’ll go ahead.’

Mention of looking at this specific embryo gives Cath a fresh perspective. She recalls her mother’s concern about what happened to those that remained unused. It seems so wrong to throw it
away. In that instant, she is clear. She swivels to face Rich. ‘I’ve taken all the medication . . . We’ve gone to such lengths to find the money . . . ’ She grasps hold of
his hand. ‘But it’s more than that – don’t you see?’

‘Eh?’

‘We both know this embryo might not work. Or it
could
be the beginning of a baby, a life.’

‘Perhaps . . . ’

‘There’s no perhaps about it.’ She smiles reassuringly at her husband then turns back to Dr Hassan. ‘No.’ She is vehement. ‘We have to give this particular
life a chance.’

*  *  *

‘And there you are, can you see that?’ says the sonographer.

Lou and Adam look at the screen. After so many scans Lou is getting good at deciphering shapes in the black-and-white blur, but even so she is surprised at how easy it is to make out. She can
discern limbs, a torso and a comparatively enormous head.

‘Oh my goodness!’ says Adam. ‘He’s got his legs in the air!’

‘How do you know it’s a he?’ says Lou. She can’t see anything to indicate it is.

‘I don’t,’ says Adam.

‘We don’t want to know,’ says Lou quickly to the sonographer.

‘Are you sure?’ says Adam. Although they’ve agreed not to find out, Lou detects he’s angling to.

‘No, I don’t want to, if that’s OK.’ She explains, ‘I think it will help me with the labour, if I’m pushing with a surprise in store.’ She’s not
admitted it to Adam – that would be truly tempting fate when she’s been finding it hard to believe she’s even pregnant – but the prospect of giving birth terrifies her.

‘A birthday surprise.’ The sonographer nods. She’s a young woman, so skinny her uniform hangs off her. Lou wishes she’d crack a smile. ‘We can’t tell
ourselves at this stage. Not accurately. You’d have to wait till the next scan to find that out anyway.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’d forgotten he’d be this big,’ says Adam, going right up to the monitor. ‘It’s ages since I saw a scan. But he looks like a real baby.’

‘Yes, at ten weeks they do,’ says the sonographer. ‘I should measure him.’

‘Or her,’ says Lou.

‘He seems to be in a very chilled-out position,’ says Adam.

‘Those are the arms up behind the head,’ says the sonographer.

‘Ooh yes!’ says Adam.

‘He’s five centimetres from crown to rump. That’s a really decent size.’

‘Specially since I’m such a short-arse,’ says Adam.

‘From this I’d have said you’re actually more like eleven weeks.’

‘Well, I can’t be,’ says Lou.

‘Are you sure? I need to put the date for our records.’

‘We had IVF, so yes, we’re sure.’

‘Hmm . . . ’ She sounds doubtful.

‘It was Monday 5th August. I can even tell you the time if you want,’ says Lou.

‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ But Lou could swear she sees her make two little lines on the form nonetheless. Hmph, she thinks, irritated.

The sonographer moves the scanner to the right. ‘Your ovaries are slightly enlarged,’ she observes.

‘Really?’ At once Lou is alarmed.

‘I think it’s quite common with IVF . . . ’

Think?
Lou’s anxiety grows.

‘
Mm . . . ’ She moves the scanner to the left. ‘They do seem to be. Have you been uncomfortable at all?’

‘Well, yes.’ Lou is uncomfortable right now. Yet again she’s been required to have a full bladder. ‘But I’ve never been pregnant before, so I wasn’t sure what
I should feel like.’

‘I’ll just get the senior radiographer in, for another opinion.’ The nurse lays down the microphone and leaves the room.

Adam goes over to the machine. ‘She’s left it on.’ He picks up the microphone.

‘Adam!’ says Lou. ‘What if they catch you?’

‘Stuff it if they do. They’re hardly going to strike me off.’ He moves back to Lou’s belly. ‘Gosh . . . I haven’t used one of these since med school,
they’ve changed an awful lot . . . ’

‘Don’t break it, for God’s sake.’ She is half nervous, half wants to laugh. She feels like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘And don’t you DARE check if it’s got a
willy!’

‘I’m not going to,’ says Adam. ‘I just want to check the heart—’ He moves the microphone to the centre of her belly, but just then the door opens. Adam
thrusts the microphone back before the sonographer sees what he’s doing. She has a second uniformed member of staff behind her: Lou is glad to see she is older.

‘So.’ The older woman swivels the screen with one hand, picks up the microphone with the other, and immediately locates Lou’s uterus. ‘Anya says your ovaries are a bit
enlarged . . . ’ She moves the microphone this way and that. ‘Ah yes, I see they are. But you’ve had IVF, I gather?’

‘Yes. Ten weeks ago.’ Lou grips the side of the couch, bracing herself for bad news. I
knew
it was too good to be true, she thinks.

The woman looks at the form, frowns, picks up a pen, makes a small correction. Lou feels vindicated. Then the woman says, ‘I’d say it’s nothing to be concerned about, then.
It’s very common, if you’ve had fertility treatment. You’ve a touch of OHSS.’

‘Ovarian hyperstimulation?’ asks Adam. It’s a term Lou knows too. It always sounded so ominous. Perhaps she feels sick after all.

‘Yes . . . ’ Again the nurse moves the microphone. ‘Looks that way . . . ’

Lou grips the couch even tighter.

‘But you say it’s nothing to worry about?’ says Adam.

He sounds much calmer than me, thinks Lou.

Adam peers at the screen. ‘If the baby is five centimetres long . . . they don’t look that big to me. I’m a GP,’ he explains.

Bless him, thinks Lou.

‘No, they’re not, really. They’re only two or three centimetres bigger than normal.’

Ah. Lou relaxes. In comparison to a growth the size of a grapefruit like her fibroid, that doesn’t sound drastic.

‘You feeling any pains?’ asks the woman.

‘No,’ says Lou. ‘Just a bit, well, er, bloated.’

‘Short of breath? Thirsty?’

‘No.’

‘Then to answer your question, I genuinely wouldn’t worry, no. Just drink lots of water and it should subside as your pregnancy progresses.’ She moves the microphone some more.
Presently, she smiles. As she does so, like Anna, her whole face changes. She appears to shine with pride and confidence. ‘Just look at this little thing! He’s perfectly happy. See
that?’ She points at the monitor.

There, sure enough, is a tiny heart, ferociously beating away.

For fourteen days, Cath has had in her handbag the test that they gave her when she left the clinic. This time she’s pledged to handle the process as differently as she
possibly can. So she’s not bought any extra tests, she’s not gone on about being pregnant to Rich (well, not much, at any rate), she’s even worn black knickers to make checking
them hard. She’s continued to keep schtum about the treatment at work, instead offering to cover for a colleague’s holiday on top of her usual hours, which has helped provide
distraction.

‘Buddhists say there’s a period of negotiation between the womb and the mother,’ Sukey had commented on hearing of her lack of success first time round. At the time Cath had
been livid – ‘Not more bloody Buddhism!’ she’d fumed to Rich when she’d come off the phone – but three months on she can appreciate there may be some value in
the words, and she’s tried to be less bullish in her approach. I can’t force myself to be pregnant, she’s told herself, so whenever she’s felt herself getting excessively
preoccupied or fretful, she’s developed her own vituperative mantra:
Fuck it.
After all, what will be will be.

But today it’s as if all her pent-up energy has come to the surface and, mantra or no mantra, she can’t contain herself a moment longer.

It’s 5 a.m. and Rich is asleep beside her. It’s unfair to proceed without his involvement, she knows. But if it’s bad news I can break it to him gently, she reasons, and if
it’s good he’ll be pleased regardless.

She slips quietly from the room and pads downstairs to fetch her handbag. Then she returns with it to the bathroom, gently closes and locks the door and removes the box. Her hands are shaking as
she tears off the cellophane. No need to read the instructions; it’s the same brand she used before.

I hope that’s not a bad omen, she thinks, and as she pees, she prays.

*  *  *

Rich wakes with a jolt.

The light is on and Cath is virtually sitting on top of him, brandishing something. Bleary, he focuses his eyes, and realizes what she is saying – yelling: