by Adele Parks
I can’t bear being in this room. True, we have never visited Dr Martell before, but we’ve been to enough similar clinics that it makes me feel tired and sad. I reach over to Millie and brush her hair out of her eyes with my hand. I want to lean into her, cover her in kisses, but I resist. I have to try very hard not to smother her in love. There’s such a thing as too much. She’s confident, content, happy practicing her points. I leave her to it.
When we were going through IVF, I started to think of my body as the enemy. As I mentioned, I’ve never had the sort of body that filled me with pride, but it had, up until the infertility point, been functional. I’m not often sick, I’ve never broken a bone, but suddenly it was failing me. Even after four financially and emotionally costly bouts of IVF, my body failed me.
People kept telling me that I should think about something else. ‘Don’t worry, it will happen!’ my friend Connie would say cheerfully. She’d then tell me a story about someone she’d known for years who had given up trying altogether when bang, it happened, she conceived. My mum kept telling me to, ‘Take up a hobby. Forget about this business for a while.’ Rose suggested a holiday. ‘Relax!’
They meant well.
Simon and I would smile, nod, agree. We didn’t point out that we didn’t have any spare cash to spend on a holiday, repeated rounds of IVF had cleaned out or savings. Rather than taking up hobbies, we were giving them up. Simon played less golf, he’d left his club, the fees were expensive. He said he’d go back to it, but it never happened. It was put on hold. Many things were. We were in limbo. Waiting. The advice was hollow, irritating. Alone together, Simon and I didn’t bother to pretend to believe in it. Simon knew my cycle as well as I did. On the day my period was due our house was awash with a terrible expectancy and fear. When I came on, which I did with cruel regularity, I’d simply say, ‘Not this month’, and he’d say, ‘Next time.’ Neither of us believed him.
At that point I think we were close to giving up, not only on conceiving, but maybe even on our marriage too. Wanting something that much is damaging. Longing nudges so easily into despair. I didn’t know what to do. I was prepared to do anything.
But then everything changed. It happened, just when I thought I had no more reserves of hope. Millie was a miracle. Conceived without any medical intervention.
A miracle. She saved us.
4
Chapter 4, Simon
Habit meant that Simon glanced around the office with an interior designer’s eye. He could see where the exorbitant consultancy fees were going. Dr Martell sat behind a huge mahogany desk with a superb, mellow antique patina. It wasn’t his specialist area, but Simon would date the desk at about 1880. French. It was well figured with a brass inlay, brass mouldings and beadings and shallow bun feet. You wouldn’t get much change from £3,000. Behind Dr Martell was row after impressive row of expensive-looking shelves that housed fat, daunting leather-bound medical books. Simon would bet money on them being first editions in many cases. The floor was a polished parquet, his trainers landed on a rich, woollen Persian rug. It was of incredible quality; all the natural dyes had held their exquisite jewel colours. The pile was thick and soft; it was like stepping on velvet. It was about the same age as the desk. You didn’t step on a Saruk Ferahan rug in the NHS, thought Simon. The doctor stood up, shook hands and then gestured towards one of the two seats that were placed side by side, facing across the desk.
‘Your wife joining us?’ The consultant’s voice tolled like a bell announcing his expensive education at Westminster, then Cambridge.
‘She’s just out there with our daughter. We didn’t want to bring Millie in here.’
The doctor nodded, an efficient bob of the head; he understood and didn’t want to spend any more time on the matter. He opened the file on the desk and started talking.
Simon had heard a lot of the words before. They burnt his ears; the heat of the sting hadn’t gone away even after all these years. Even after Millie. Asthenospermia, motility, zona pellucida binding. He had been quite good at science at school, but he quickly became lost. He was trying to concentrate, although annoyingly he found he was drifting in and out, hearing the words but not absolutely one hundred per cent making sense of them. Not quite able to string them together. This did happen to him from time to time. Occasionally in client meetings, after a lunchtime jar, or when Daisy was telling him something about his mother. He didn’t mean to lose track. It just happened. Percentage motile concentration, average path velocity, non-progressive motility. He wanted to get to the bit where the doctor asked if he had any questions, because he did. One. ‘Would there be another miracle?’ That was all that mattered, that cut through all these big words and small percentages.
Non-progressive motility though? That couldn’t be good. It had the damning prefix ‘non’. The doctor continued to intone, Simon reminded himself just how much this consultation had cost and redoubled his efforts to concentrate, to take it in.
‘It is estimated that one in twenty men has some kind of fertility problem with low numbers of sperm in his ejaculate. However, only about one in every one hundred men has no sperm in his ejaculate.’ The doctor used these words without a trace of embarrassment, of course he did. It was exactly like Simon using the words ‘colour palette’, ‘tactile fabrics’, or ‘commanding wall feature’.
‘So, you have non-progressive motility, which is as I mentioned, defined as anything less than five micrometers per second. That combined with your low sperm count presents us with some difficulties, I’m afraid.’
‘What is the motility rate of my sperm then?’ Simon asked.
‘One point five.’
Oh. It sounded bad. ‘And the other thing? The sperm count. What’s the range there?’
‘WHO normal range is 15 to 213 million cells per ml.’
Simon nodded but it meant nothing to him. 15 to 213 million. That was quite a range.
‘And mine is?’
‘Two.’ Martell had the decency to meet Simon’s eye. Two million. Not hopeless then. You only needed one, didn’t you? Were cells the same thing as sperm? He didn’t know. He should ask. The expression on the consultant’s face was one of stern concentration. Simon searched it for optimism, assurance, there was none. Martell continued, ‘I understand that this is not news to you, Mr Barnes. I realise that our tests simply confirmed what you discovered ten or so years ago. The difference being, we can give you more reliable data on the exact numbers now. We can be more precise about the diagnosis.’
‘But things can be done, right? There are advancements,’ Simon asserted. ‘Cooling the testicles, separating out the good guys. I’ve read about it.’
‘There are cases where things can be done. I’m afraid your readings don’t place you in that bracket.’
‘What are my chances? Put a percentage to it. Go on, don’t worry I won’t hold you to it. It won’t be legally binding.’ Simon laughed at the phrase as though the very suggestion was ridiculous. He knew he had to make the consultant feel at ease. He was surprised the man was being so cautious. His previous experience had been that if there was any hope at all the doctors would push ahead. Often, they were always doom and gloom, always presenting the worst-case scenarios but they still took your money. ‘What are we talking about? A four per cent chance? Two, one?’ Simon watched as the doctor became increasingly awkward. He dropped his gaze, tapped his fingers on the ostentatious desk. He was able to say ‘ejaculate’ all day long, but he couldn’t talk about this percentage. ‘We can pay,’ Simon added. It wouldn’t be easy but they’d find the money, he’d already decided that.
The consultant sighed quietly and leaned forward in his chair. ‘Mr Barnes, you cannot impregnate your wife. You are sterile.’
The word was a fucking weapon. He was no longer capable of fathering a child. The thought exploded in Simon’s head. Why? What had happened? Had his sperm quality, or quantity, or mobility or whatever deteriorated?
Before he could form th
e words to ask, Martell said brightly, ‘There are options. If you want to extend your family, I would recommend you consider sperm donation, as you did before. That worked out splendidly last time, didn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry I don’t understand.’
The consultant reached for the file. ‘It says here you had four rounds of in vitro fertilization. I assumed Millie was conceived that way, correct? I assume with a donor.’
‘No.’ Simon brightened, realising the doctor was missing an essential piece of information. Despite the odds, Millie had been conceived naturally. He was also irritated; he was paying enough, the least Martell could do was get the facts straight. He tried to be patient as he explained, ‘You see that’s where you’re wrong. She was conceived naturally. Against the odds. Which goes to show I can do it. We can. We had been doing IVF. Yeah, like you say, four attempts but—’. Simon stopped talking. There was something different in Martell’s face. Not just seriousness, now there was a flash of unease, alarm.
‘I had thought a donor, but if not a donor then maybe a lab mix-up. These things do happen, I’m afraid. They are rarely acknowledged but they do. That would have been regrettable, an inquiry would have been necessary, but you are telling me that she wasn’t conceived by IVF.’
‘Yes, that’s right. She was conceived months after a failed attempt. We weren’t even sure we were going to try again.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’ Simon demanded.
Dr Martell sighed slightly. It was a breath that offered a level of apology, or regret. ‘All I can say, Mr Barnes, is that with the results here in front of me, it is my professional opinion that a donor would be the only way your wife could conceive.’
Simon began to feel the irritation grow into something bigger. Resentment. Anger. ‘Well the results are wrong.’
‘We can re-run the tests. Certainly.’ The doctor said it like a man who was confident that the results were correct. He brought the tips of his fingers together and placed his chin in his hands. He waited a moment until Simon understood.
‘No, no you fucking idiot. I’m her dad.’ Dr Martell didn’t say a word. ‘Fuck you, you quack. You’ve got it wrong. Do you hear me? You’ve got it wrong!’
Simon stood up and stormed out of the office. The violence with which he flung open the door meant it swung back on its hinges and banged against the wall, causing the pictures of ancient frigates to shiver.
5
Chapter 5, Daisy
Friday, 17th June 2016
Millie’s recital starts in ten minutes, 5.30 p.m. A time that does, I suppose, acknowledge that the vast majority of the performers are under the age of nine, but does not take into account that the vast majority of the performers’ parents work, and commuting isn’t easy at this hour. Millie and I came straight from school. I’m lucky that my daughter attends the school I teach at. I’ll need to do a heap of marking later tonight, and I had to swap my after-school club duties, but we were able to have a quick tea on the high street and still get here in plenty of time. I’m on the front row. There’s an empty seat next to me that I’ve saved for Simon. I’ve had to guard it quite ferociously. One woman even had the audacity to point out that the dance teacher’s rules (sent out prior to the concert) specifically stated that the saving of seats was prohibited. I pointed out that I wasn’t saving seats, simply a seat and therefore didn’t feel the spirit of the rule had been broken. I felt the tips of my ears burn as I said this, yet I held my ground. I then called Simon, again, to chivvy him along, but it went straight through to voicemail. I hope that means he’s on the tube, on his way.
Before Millie started primary school Simon and I debated whether it was a wise move for her to attend the same school as the one I teach at. We debated the issue for many months. He’d read some report or other about children being either bullied or spoilt if their parents went down this route. He said it might be suffocating for her and tricky for me. True, it can be embarrassing for a child if they bring home a friend for a playdate and that friend is confused to see their teacher out of the classroom and in the home, but I teach Year Six, not reception. By the time she reaches Year Six all her friends will have adjusted to the fact that I’m their teacher and Millie’s mother. I also understand that there could potentially be a problem if some of her teachers found it uncomfortable knowing I am in such close proximity, but I’d never dream of interfering. I know the boundaries. I told Simon that I’d always put school trip money in an envelope, put forms in her book bag like other parents. I didn’t plan on collaring her teacher in the staffroom and asking for a progress report.
For me, the plus factors regarding her attending the same school were overwhelmingly positive and outweighed any potential negatives. Firstly, I love my school. Newfield Primary is friendly, small enough to be manageable but big enough to be inclusive and representative. The staff are dedicated and approachable. It always scores pretty well on the Ofsted report (good rather than outstanding, but that’s more than respectable). Millie and I sharing a schedule makes things easier when it comes to drop off, pick up and school holidays. I immediately get to hear if she’s sick or hurt and I never miss her school assemblies or sports day. Besides, quite simply, I like having her close by. That’s the most important thing. I waited long enough for her. Now I drink up every moment. I promised Simon I’d be vigilant to bullying, alert to any favouritism, and I put Newfield Primary as my first choice on the application form. Then I crossed my fingers. We are in the catchment area. We got lucky.
On days like this I’m so glad I pushed for us to be at the same school. Since Millie has started to dance I’ve come to understand just how serious her performances are, at least to her, her dance teacher, and a fair amount of the attending parents. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not that I’m enjoying myself today, at least not yet. I sit, stiff-backed and self-conscious. I wish Simon would get here soon; my handbag looks bolshie on the spare seat. I wonder where the woman who asked me to give it up is sitting. I daren’t turn around to locate her. I nervously check my phone every ten seconds, hoping for news from Simon. Once the performance starts I’ll have to turn it off, not put it on silent, because if a message flashes up on the screen, the light is incredibly bright and can be distracting to other audience members, possibly even to the dancers on stage. It said so on the rule list. In capitals. The list terrifies me. I read it and memorised it as though it’s been brought down the mountain on two tablets of stone. Generally I really am a rule follower. As a teacher I know rules are set for a reason.
I’ve left Simon’s ticket at the box office for collection. We’ve been informed that the recital is designed to flow seamlessly between performance pieces and so we were firmly instructed not to enter or exit unless it is an emergency. To give some clarity to what constituted an emergency, we were briefed that if there is a ‘fussy child’ in the audience, said child was to be exited as quickly and quietly as possible. The rules list actually used that phrase, ‘fussy child’, like something out of a nineteenth-century novel. We were also advised (warned) that the intermission was the opportunity to chat or eat. Considering all this, I can’t imagine that Simon will be admitted once the curtain rises. There was an instruction that we aren’t to take photos, although there is to be a professional DVD made that can be purchased at a later date. I think he’ll have to make do with that.
Despite the rather draconian list of rules, people around me seem genuinely excited. Many parents are clasping bouquets of flowers or single stems of roses. I have a small bouquet made up of six fat, soft pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath. It’s a tradition to present your dancer with flowers to recognise the effort and achievement of having performed in front of a large audience. Besides, everyone loves receiving flowers.
The lights dim, and the music starts up. I feel a surge of excitement that the show is about to begin and a sting of disappointment and irritation that Simon is going to miss it. A chain of little girls dressed as dai
sies scurry onto the stage. They are all about three years old and what they lack in ability, they more than make up in sheer cuteness factor. The audience ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ volubly, the girls can barely hear the music over the audible swooning. This lot are too little to manage anything more than a bit of twirling, even the planned simultaneous raising of their arms ends up looking like a Mexican wave, but that in no way diminishes the pleasure the audience derive from the performance. When the daisies finish and dip into sweet little curtsys or simply wander off the stage because they’ve had enough, we burst into raucous applause. Some parents even stand up. A few flashes pop, the rapturous delight has emboldened one or two parents to break the rules. I look to the door and will Simon to slip through it. It stays resolutely shut. I wonder whether he’s the other side of it. Trapped. Or somewhere else entirely. A pub. Maybe.
The next group runs onto the stage. Most are dressed as icicles; silver and white, they sparkle and shine. The word ‘Frozen’ shimmies up and down the rows of spectators. Sometimes it’s said with a self-satisfied enthusiasm – a treat delivered – sometimes it’s said with a hint of boredom. I have to admit to having seen hundreds of performances of Frozen, it’s a stalwart favourite in most dance teacher’s repertoires. The cute factor intensifies. These little children (mostly girls but two boys) are still fairly unskilled but they are trying so hard. Their faces are scrunched in concentration as they point their toes or bend their bodies to one side, it’s impossible not to melt. I risk sharing the observation with the woman sat next to me – well, it’s tricky attending these things and not having someone to enthuse with. She nods and comments, ‘Good pun.’