July #5
After my first botched attempt, Noah helped me with my injections.
We didn’t talk about it ; it was more of a silent agreement.
Every evening at eight o’clock my phone alarm sounded.
I walked over to the fridge and retrieved the saline solution, which, after much deliberating, I’d decided should live in the bottom shelf of the door in between the orange juice and the milk, as if being among natural foodstuffs would make it less artificial.
Then I climbed the stairs and resumed my seated position in the bathroom.
By the time I’d done the mixing and got rid of any air bubbles, the syringe was ready, and he was with me.
Sometimes the needle wouldn’t go in for him either.
I would bite my lip as unsolicited tears sprung up in my eyes and he would tell me to hold on, that in a minute it would be over.
On the third evening, Anna called. I stared at my screen, which whenever she phones me shows an old photo of the two of us that she found and sent to me during a particularly nostalgic period.
We’re in our south London flat, sitting side by side on the sofa, a plain grey ; if you look closely, you can see the stark white of tiny feathers poking out in places.
She’s leaning back with one leg crossed over the other, a grin stretched across her face.
I’m grinning too, while hugging my knees to my chest, my fingers interlinked.
We both have bare feet, and her toenails are painted denim blue.
We’d moved in that day, and beside us, half in shot, is a personalised cushion she’d ordered off the internet – a joke, but one that remained in our living room/dining room/kitchen for the two years we lived together.
Stitched onto its front are the words : HOME IS WHERE ANNA AND CATHY ARE.
When she sent me the photo, the subject line read : Where oh where is our beloved cushion? !?!
That evening, I kept staring at the screen until the photo vanished and, in its place, a little message appeared saying I’d missed her call.
I told myself that if she called back, I’d pick up this time.
I wanted to talk to her, to tell her what was going on, and more than once that week I’d found myself clutching my phone, my thumb hovering over her name.
Every time, something had stopped me. I’d experienced a needling pain in my chest, which I couldn’t explain ; I’d tried to physically rub the pain away and work out what I was feeling. Embarrassment perhaps.
I watched and waited and chewed at my cheek, which I’d accidentally bitten during dinner the night before and was providing a sort of solace.
I unlocked my phone and checked when she was last on WhatsApp : a few minutes ago.
A few minutes more of sitting and staring and I turned the screen over to face the table, wondering whether my side effects were kicking in.
The next morning, the day of my first scan, I felt them – jitteriness, hot and cold flashes, lethargy.
I’d managed to avoid any more online forums since my argument with Noah at the start of the month, but now I found myself beholden to them, urgently scrolling in search of solidarity and some acknowledgement that yes, it was normal to experience heart palpitations, and yes, they would go away again.
‘How are you feeling?’
When Doctor Day first asked the question, tugging at his tie, I found myself replying with a stock ‘Fine, thanks’. But as I lay back and he swivelled his chair into position between my legs, I changed my answer : ‘Actually, I feel a little queasy.’
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that any side effects should settle down in a few days once the initial shock of the hormones has subsided.
’ Perhaps as a distraction from the wet probe he was slowly slipping inside me, he directed my attention towards the screen, which showed my ovaries – there, left and right.
‘Is it working?’ I asked, noticing the slightly frantic note in my voice, and lowering it as I added : ‘Can you tell?’
‘So far, so good,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a better idea the closer we get to your final injection though.’ He jotted some things down and when he was done, he pulled out the probe and passed me a piece of tissue to wipe myself with.
I was walking back through the waiting room when I saw her, sitting with one knee crossed over the other, holding a book in one splayed hand.
She’d parted her fringe in the middle and it framed her forehead in two curves, like drawn curtains.
She hadn’t seen me, and I considered continuing towards the door.
Then I felt my feet turn towards her. ‘Robyn?’
She glanced up from her reading and gave me a toothy smile that told me she recognised me.
Still, I reintroduced myself, just in case : ‘It’s Cathy – from the open evening.’
‘Of course, Cathy, good to see you!’ She closed her book without marking the page and came to standing. ‘Does this mean you went ahead with the egg freezing?’ As she said the word ‘this’, she held out her hands, palms facing the ceiling, which I took to mean my being here at the clinic.
‘That’s right,’ I said, trying to match her smile. ‘I just had my first scan.’
‘Oh, you’re a few days behind me then. I’m here for my second. And how are you feeling?’ She tilted her head to one side, as if she could already tell.
Before I had time to answer, Doctor Day appeared and called her name.
‘Hey, do you want to hang around and grab some lunch?’ she asked, giving him a wave, and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She half laughed as she added, ‘We can compare notes.’
I wasn’t sure whether that prospect made me feel anxious or less alone, but either way I heard myself saying, ‘Absolutely.’
‘Great, I’ll be as quick as I can.’
By the time she was done my stomach was growling and I was conscious of the time – I really should have been getting back to work.
‘There’s a Vietnamese around the corner, if you fancy it?’ she asked, as we walked out of the clinic. ‘Or we can get a sandwich or something?’
Then again, it wasn’t like anyone would notice my absence. ‘Vietnamese sounds good.’
We set off at a brisk walk. As she talked, I felt a tingle of nerves on my skin. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a new friend, and for a moment my thoughts returned to Anna and those other mums. I wondered what she would think of Robyn.
It was a tiny café, with a handful of clothless tables.
Robyn nabbed the last free one, which was wedged into a corner by the window.
Half the glass was covered with printed menus and handwritten specials intended to entice passers-by.
I looked down at my own menu, which a harried man had placed in front of me before we’d even had a chance to sit down.
It was laminated and featured numbered photos that corresponded to the dishes listed on the left-hand side.
‘Any recommendations?’ I asked her.
‘Let me see – the fried rice noodles with prawns and vegetables are a must. And maybe we should share some pork spring rolls?’
‘Works for me.’
She caught the same waiter’s eye, and we placed our order.
‘So, how are you?’ I asked, as he took our menus away and disappeared through a beaded curtain.
‘Busy, but good,’ she said, smiling and nodding. ‘I work for a homeless charity, and there are more people sleeping rough in London than ever, so … it’s a lot.’
‘Because there isn’t enough social housing?’
‘That, but also, before that, because there’s no chance of these people being able to afford rising rents.’
I exhaled, and a look passed between us – the same look we’d given to one another at the open evening when talk had turned to price packages. Before we found ourselves down another tunnel of hard truths about the commodification of fertility, she shook her head and said, ‘What about you?’
I told her about my work at the museum, and about the painting waiting for me back in the conservation studios.
I realised halfway through the story of Hendrick and the whale that I was doing what I often did – talking about my work as if it were my life, my love.
‘It hardly compares on the scale of doing good,’ I added, a little sheepishly.
As she sucked some Diet Coke through a straw, her blue eyes blinking at me from behind her fringe, she said that wasn’t true and that art and culture were important. ‘Plus, it sounds fascinating.’
‘It makes me happy,’ I conceded, moving my hands off my plastic placemat as the waiter hurriedly set down our noodles before taking the order of the next-door table.
As we ate, we moved on from small talk, which I belatedly remembered she’d said she was no good at, to the subject that had brought us together.
‘How are you feeling about everything?’ she asked, raising her skinny eyebrows. As she waited for me to reply, she dipped a spring roll into some sweet chilli sauce that was unnaturally saturated.
‘I’m feeling … OK.’
‘It’s kind of lonely, isn’t it?’
All at once I felt happy to be seen, and sad to acknowledge that, yes, lonely was exactly how I was feeling. Sad, and also guilty. Robyn was literally going through this alone, while I was married. Happily married.
As if she could read the thoughts roiling in my mind, she asked, ‘You don’t feel able to include your husband?’
‘It’s more that he doesn’t want to be included.’ Conscious of not wanting to paint an unflattering portrait of Noah, I quickly added, ‘He is supportive.’
‘Do you think you would want children if you weren’t with him?’
I half laughed, half exhaled.
‘You don’t have to answer.’
‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘I just can’t imagine it – not being with him.’
She studied me for a moment, then she asked, ‘Have you taken them up on that free counselling session?’ I must have given her a blank look because she clarified : ‘The one they offer to all patients. They should have given you a leaflet.’
‘Oh, that.’ I’d forgotten. ‘No, have you?’