By increasingly dominating the conversation and including Henry in only a small way, Jamie and I were able to get to a point where Dale was happy with only fleeting moments of his dog’s voice. Then eventually the day came when Henry was silent, just like any other golden retriever.
While Dale was now progressing and able to converse with us, there was no denying the void in his life caused by the lack of a real friend. Apart, of course, from his very special canine friend, he had no one to share his life with, and no matter how much he learned, it all seemed so sad and purposeless if he was to remain on his own. Fortunately, our introduction of the Sonic the Hedgehog obsession started to reap benefits, and Dale slowly became more socially acceptable in the school playground.
At around this time, a nice, quiet young boy named Ryan, also aged nine, started in Dale’s group in the unit at St. Anthony’s. Aware of how difficult Ryan would find it to settle in, the staff assigned Dale to be his mentor. Ryan had problems with communication and fell within the autistic spectrum, although he was high functioning, with good language, albeit immature social use of it. Over time, in their own quiet way, Dale and Ryan were to become the best of friends.
We had thought it would take years for Dale to establish a friendship in his own area, and so it was ironic that just after Ryan came on the scene, another chance occurrence boosted Dale’s social life still further.
Sometimes we would try out a new brand of dog food for Henry and Val would arrange to get a big bag of it for us. We would all go along to collect the food and seize the opportunity to see any dogs she had at the time. On one such occasion, Dale told Val’s mum, Sheena, all about Sonic the Hedgehog, which struck a chord with Sheena as her only grandson, Robert, also nine, was really keen on Sonic too. Knowing Dale had no friend to play with at home, Sheena said to him, “Robert could play Sonic with you, Dale. Would you like that?”
The very mention of the word Sonic was enough to prompt the response, “That would be good.”
Soon after, we tried a short visit with Robert at our house, and to our eternal relief, it was a total success. We told Robert that he was in charge, and although Dale was quiet, he accepted Robert’s guidance and played along well. Soon afterwards, it was established that Sunday was Robert’s day; he would come after lunch and stay beyond teatime. He was so patient and very understanding of Dale’s at times bizarre behavior and responses.
When Robert asked what was wrong with Dale, we came up with the explanation that he had language blindness and so was still learning how to communicate as well as Robert. We felt that the concept of autism was too complex to explain and might also be a bit off-putting for a nine-year-old. Robert was happy with our explanation and many a time would pick up on something Dale had said and put him right, which Dale was more inclined to accept than if we had tried in a similar way. Perhaps this was because Robert was his peer, and Dale was showing the natural desire of children to fit in with each other.
Not only was Robert one of Dale’s first real friends, but there was another bond between the two of them, just as important as Sonic: Robert was a dog owner, too. His own dog was a little shih-tzu called Mitzi—not a golden retriever, but at least he was surrounded by goldies whenever he visited Val’s—so he understood Retriever World, as we jokingly called it. Robert didn’t bring Mitzi to our house, but he and Dale always had Henry in the room with them as they played on the computer. For our part, we were overjoyed that Dale now had three good friends—Henry very much included, of course.
With Ryan at school and Robert at home as an ideal role model, these two new friendships really started to reap rewards in terms of Dale’s communication and confidence. We made sure that we regularly took Robert out for an evening meal with us all as a thank-you for his helpfulness and loyalty to his new chum. We went to many different restaurants and places, which both boys enjoyed greatly and which had the additional advantage of opening up another social world for Dale.
During this period, with Dale changing for the better in every way, we decided once again to address the problem of not conceiving. We saw another consultant, Dr. Yates, at the Glasgow Nuffield Hospital and agreed to try an intensive program of intra-uterine insemination (IUI) and ovulation induction. This meant having three cyclical attempts to stimulate my ovaries to produce healthy eggs via hormonal injections. Then hormone blood analysis and internal scans would monitor when two, or at most three, large follicles containing eggs were present, and at the peak of the cycle Jamie’s sperm, specially treated at the lab to select the most viable, would be artificially placed in my womb to try and increase the chance of conception.
The whole procedure was similar to IVF and I had to take the same drugs as for that process and inject myself daily. Despite my determination and perseverance through all this and the many blood samples and internal ultrasound scans, three attempts ended in failure. I was despairing. I had put myself through emotional and physical hell, and yet it now seemed that our infertility was another concrete wall—like Dale’s autism, but one that we might never be able to break down.
As this was a stable time in Dale’s life, the desire to have another baby began virtually to consume me. Apart from my own feelings of emptiness and loss, I just couldn’t bear the thought of Dale being on his own. So even though the chances of success seemed to have slipped further from my grasp, I was determined to go all the way with the infertility treatment. Jamie was fully supportive, and we were prepared to go to financial extremes if need be. I was not going to stop until failure itself was inevitable.
As Dale and Jamie got on with their daily lives, I became a recluse, living from one chance of conception to the next, taking every possible measure to help increase that chance. Just as I had before Dale was conceived, I took all the vitamins and minerals thought to aid the process and even stopped socializing, staying at home with Henry as my only companion.
Jamie would have the occasional night out with his friends, but knew that too much alcohol consumption might adversely affect his fertility. Knowing this and abiding by it, however, were not entirely the same thing, and there were a few instances when Jamie would come rolling home with his pal John Turner, both wasted. They would want one last beer for the night and John would get Dale involved in their antics, which included virtuoso air-guitar performances to full-blast rock music. Although Dale didn’t understand the concept of drunkenness, he was aware of the change in John’s personality and found it highly amusing, doing anything John asked of him no matter how silly. John was so ebullient and animated that whenever we had friends around or went to their houses, he was the only one who could get Dale in full party mode, joining in the dancing or whatever games were going on at the time.
Another member of “the team” also played an important role in Dale’s life at this time. To give me some space, Jamie would take Dale down to visit George and his cool Ford Zodiac. George would take Dale off for a run in the car and let him help fill it up with gas, all of which Dale loved, just the two of them together.
George was a mechanic working for the health board. As another treat for Dale, he would show him the depot where he worked on the ambulances, demonstrating the ramp and all the tools involved. Dale was intrigued to see where the ambulances “lived” and that it was George who fixed them. This might not seem like such a big gesture, but to Dale—and to us—it was. The ambulance depot was just around the corner from our home on Dresling Road, and many a time Dale would suddenly exclaim, “Look, Mum, George is driving the ambulance,” as he saw George setting off on yet another test run. Through his time with George, Dale was not only engaging with another adult, but also acting out his transport obsession in a real context, not just an imaginary world. Most important of all, this was the first time Dale had ever pointed out a family friend by name, rather than just inanimate objects as was his wont.
There is no denying how fortunate we were to have such good friends playing the roles that they did and how much more fortunate we are
that they remain close friends to this day.
In June 1998, following the failure of the IUI treatments, I embarked on my first course of in-vitro fertilization, or IVF. On June 13, Dale celebrated his tenth birthday, but because I was in the middle of the grueling cycle of injections and the commitment this treatment entailed, we did not have a party for Dale. He wasn’t exactly hard up, however, in that Robert came over for the day and they broke in Dale’s new GameBoy together, attended as ever by Henry. This was followed by a gourmet meal, although I wondered at our wisdom in taking them to an expensive restaurant and letting them eat whatever they wished—the pair were developing a taste for the finer foods in life, like steak and fresh scampi.
In stark contrast with that happy day was the reality of my mother’s slowly failing health. She had fought breast cancer when she was forty-two and unfortunately hadn’t got the type of help and support that is available today. Nonetheless, her fighting spirit, which had been so vital in her relationship with Dale, made her an inspiration to others at the time. Due to arthrosclerosis, she had subsequently survived a risky operation to graft her carotid artery, but the weight loss and general health deterioration that followed were now cause for considerable concern. Although virtually housebound, she was at least stable at this time, which is why I had made the decision to go ahead with my IVF treatment.
I felt the pressure mounting as the big day for the egg-retrieval procedure approached, but once it was all done and I came round from the general anesthetic, I was told to my enormous relief that I had produced ten good eggs for fertilization. These would now be mixed with Jamie’s sperm in a test tube, then monitored in a strictly controlled environment while the embryos, hopefully, developed. I was excited and uplifted because retrieving so many good-quality eggs was in itself a great result. Jamie and I then faced an agonizing twenty-four-hour wait for a phone call from the unit informing us how many embryos had resulted.
After a sleepless night, I waved Jamie and Dale off to work and school, and then the phone rang. I picked up the nurse’s tone of voice immediately as she said my name, “Nuala, I’m so sorry to have to tell you bad news.” She sounded genuinely upset as she continued, “We don’t understand what’s happened. All the quality procedures were followed, but you have no embryos.” She tried to offer support and arranged for us to see the consultant to discuss what had gone wrong.
I put down the phone in shock, then wept as the reality of yet another failure started to bite. Everything I had gone through was for nothing. Albeit for different reasons, I experienced a similar sense of loss and grief as when I had found out about Dale’s autism. That night, once Dale was settled in bed, Jamie took me in his arms and did his best to console me. I vowed to treat this setback like all the other obstacles that had been put in my way—I was not giving up.
Although Jamie was also hugely disappointed by what had happened, he was worried for my health and well-being if we continued, but I pleaded for one last chance.
“If the consultant thinks it’s worthwhile,” I told him, “we could always try ICSI.” This was intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection, similar to IVF, but more advanced. An embryologist would specifically inject each egg retrieved with a single “good” sperm. I desperately hoped this would be an option for us, because although I had had no problem conceiving Dale, the doctors were unable to give me a definitive reason as to why I was now suffering from secondary infertility. They offered various theories, but basically it all came down to the same thing: ICSI was a last resort, and if we didn’t meet the right criteria for this procedure, my chances of having another baby would be at an end.
While Mum’s health remained a concern, the community day nurses, whom I knew through my job, couldn’t have been more helpful and ensured that she had all the equipment and home support needed to make her comfortable. My mum was only sixty-seven, but she adapted bravely to the change in her lifestyle, somehow retaining her cheerfulness despite hardly ever being able to leave the house. She and George were happy with the care she was getting from my colleagues and felt strongly that they didn’t want to put the family under any more stress than was necessary.
Reassured that Mum and Dad were settled and coping, Jamie and I set off to see the infertility consultant at the Nuffield to see why IVF had failed. He was very sympathetic, but could only conclude that although healthy in form and numbers, Jamie’s sperm may not have had the “strength” to penetrate the eggs. Then he said the words I was longing to hear, “We could try a cycle using ICSI.”
He explained that, as with IVF, the process was by no means guaranteed and even carried an increased risk of failure. In fact, two-thirds of all ICSI procedures fail, because it is such a delicate process, whereby sperm may become damaged or those selected might not be the best ones genetically that Nature would have chosen.
With the consultant’s advice, we decided to go ahead only after giving my body a rest from all the drugs and trauma to date. So it was that in September 1998, with Dale now in fifth grade at St. Anthony’s and Mum remaining stable, we started a cycle with ICSI. Jamie and I vowed to tell no one. It wasn’t that we didn’t feel anyone could support us, but rather that the stress and disappointment of failure was simply too much to bear. The grieving process was easier if people didn’t know and constantly ask, “How are you?”
As usual, I got on with all that was involved, except this time I felt quite unwell as my abdomen swelled considerably. I couldn’t wait to have the eggs retrieved, I felt so bloated and uncomfortable. By now, I had also reached saturation point, and had menopausal symptoms caused by the drugs involved in the treatments to date.
The day before the retrieval, as I prepared for my trip to the hospital, the phone rang and I received terrible news. My mum was acutely ill in the Glasgow Western Infirmary; she was in renal failure and the prognosis was poor. Struggling to take this in, I called Jamie, who immediately came home, and we went with my dad to see her. Dale came, too, and although he understood in a small way that Granny Madge was ill, he was pleased to be talking to her. In spite of her weakened state, she managed to talk back.
When I spoke to the nurses, I learned that as well as renal failure, it seemed Mum had a recurrence of breast cancer. I explained my situation regarding the pending egg retrieval and went home to tell the rest of the family of my mum’s prognosis.
The next morning, on Monday, October 5, 1998, after yet another general anesthetic, my swollen ovaries yielded twenty eggs. Thirteen were good enough to be injected with a single sperm each, and then we again had to face the excruciating twenty-four-hour wait. Due to the high number of eggs yielded, I felt unwell and had slight signs of over-stimulation. Because of the state my body was in, there was currently no chance that any resulting embryos would take, and so I was told they would have to be frozen. The staff let me go home later that afternoon. Despite the way I felt physically, I asked Jamie to take me to see Mum as I desperately needed to be with her.
Again she was cheerful, but very frail. I told her what I had been through, so that she would know there was a real chance that Dale would have a little brother or sister and that she would hopefully be a grandmother again. She was having to deal with so much and being so brave that I just wanted to give her some positive news to hold on to.
My poor mum’s arms were covered in bruises where numerous blood samples had been taken, and because of her acute state, she had also had a barrage of other tests and biopsies. She hated all that and, I think, knew it was futile. It came as no surprise when she told me what the doctors had said about the cancer and she pleaded with me, “Please, Nuala, tell them no more. I’ve had enough. I want to die in peace.”
Hard as it was, I promised Mum I would ensure that this request was honored and would return in the morning with my sister Linda and Dad. Mum was very cold and I tucked her up in a blanket and kissed her good-bye.
“Don’t worry any more, Mum,” I told her softly. “I promise you’ll get your own room tomorrow and a
ll you need to make you comfortable.”
I watched as she fell into a contented sleep, then told the nurse to phone the family and me if there was any further deterioration, in which case we would come back to the hospital immediately.
When I got home, I felt really uneasy, and the dread of the phone ringing was at times unbearable. I couldn’t settle, but went through the motions of trying to watch television. Physically exhausted but mentally fully awake, I finally went to bed, only to toss and turn and watch the hands of the alarm clock drag round its face.
Eventually, I turned away from the clock, determined to get some sleep. Then my heart jumped as the phone rang. I knew straight away it was the hospital, but I was not prepared for what I was told.
“Mrs. Gardner, I’m sorry, it’s your mum. She needed some pain relief, and when the nurse went back later to check on her, she had passed away.”
In deep shock, I said that we would come to the hospital in the morning as we had planned, only now it would be to collect Mum’s belongings. I felt cold and numb, shattered that I hadn’t been there for her; but I think that after the pain-relieving injection, she would have been comforted to know that her suffering was to end and must have relaxed enough to slip peacefully away. One thing I could still do for her, however, was ensure that there would not under any circumstances be a post mortem. I spoke to Linda and Dad, who agreed that she deserved to be left alone while we prepared a fitting funeral for her.
A Friend Like Henry Page 10