The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1)

by Sinéad Moriarty

  That afternoon, as we lounged by the pool, we saw a little boy in the shallow end, paddling around with armbands on. He looked about six and he was bald. He watched in awe as James swam the length of the pool under water. He beamed at him when he came up for air.

  The poor little boy, I thought, my eyes welling with tears. He must have cancer. All his hair has fallen out.

  He’s obviously come to Lourdes for a miracle cure. I felt like a fraud. Coming to Lourdes with my silly problems when this little boy had real issues.

  ‘Hello,’ he said shyly to James.

  ‘Hello to you,’ said James, wiping water out of his eyes.

  ‘My name’s Peter, I’m learning to swim. Soon I’ll be able to swim like you,’ said the little boy, in a strong Scottish accent.

  ‘Good for you,’ said James. ‘Do you want me to help you?’ Peter’s face lit up. ‘Yes, please.’

  A young woman in her early twenties came over to the edge of the pool and told Peter not to bother the nice man. James assured her that it would be his pleasure to help Peter learn to swim. She smiled at him and introduced herself. ‘I’m Peter’s mum, Linda.’

  James introduced himself and I strolled over to meet them too. She was young and attractive, but looked worn out.

  ‘Hi, I’m Emma. Your little boy is lovely.’

  ‘Thanks, he can be a handful at times, but I wouldn’t be without him.’

  ‘Look, we’re going to be here for the afternoon, so why don’t you lie back and enjoy the sun while we keep an eye on him for you? Take a break, I’m sure you could do with one,’ I offered.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘I won’t say no. Thanks,’ she said, her face full of gratitude at my meagre offer of help. I felt truly humbled as I watched her walk away and sink into her sun-lounger. What a brave lady she was.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool as James patiently taught Peter to swim while Linda read and dozed in the sun. My heart melted as I watched them together. James was brilliant with him and Peter worshipped him.

  It was perfect. James was really getting into the spirit of Lourdes. He was helping a sick child. Mary would definitely help us out now. By early evening Peter could do a few strokes on his own and he was chuffed to bits.

  They were leaving at five the next morning so we said goodbye to Peter when Linda took him off to bed. He clung to James and began to cry.

  James lifted him up. ‘Hey, little man, no tears now. I want you to go home and practise your swimming. And when you win a gold medal at the Olympics for Great Britain, I want you to remember that I gave you your first lesson. And the gold medal goes to . . .’ said James, swinging Peter upside-down.

  ‘Peter!’ squealed the little boy.

  ‘You’ve been great,’ said Linda, smiling at me. ‘Thanks for looking after him.’

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ I said. ‘He’s such a lovely kid. How long has he been ill?’

  ‘Ill?’

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘His hair and—’

  ‘Oh, that. There was a lice outbreak at his school so I decided to shave his head so the little buggers couldn’t fester in his hair. Oh gosh, did you think he had cancer?’ Linda asked

  ‘Well, I just thought because you were in Lourdes that—’

  ‘Och, no. We just came with my nan for a bit of a break. She comes every year and my mum couldn’t take her this year so we came instead. Come on, Petie, let’s get you to bed.’

  29

  A week after we got back, I was ironing in the kitchen when I saw something moving at the window. I looked closer, thinking it was a bird or a cat. It was a statue of Our Lady, dancing from side to side.

  ‘Emmaaa, can you hear me? I want you to spread the word about religion.’

  I looked down to see Babs kneeling under the windowsill, giggling hysterically.

  ‘Very funny. Come on in,’ I shouted.

  ‘Well?’ she said, plonking herself at the kitchen table.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Did you see Her? Did She speak to you or at least sway for you?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’

  ‘I won’t know until next week.’

  ‘Do you think you are?’

  ‘Dunno. One day I do. The next I don’t.’

  ‘I can’t believe James went with you. He must think you’re mad. Going to Lourdes for your wedding anniversary! Even Mum thinks you’ve lost the plot. Still, at least if James leaves you, you can move to Lourdes and become a nun.’

  ‘It’s great to see you too, Babs.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what everyone thinks. I even got a call from Sean! The first time he’s ever called me for anything. He thinks you’re losing it too.’

  ‘So you all think I’m going insane?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah.’

  ‘Well, you can go back and tell them all that I’m perfectly sane, and that next time they send an emissary they should choose more carefully.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know about the baby stuff and how hard it is, but you have been pretty moody lately and you’re always going mental for no reason. It can’t be good for you or your marriage.’

  ‘So, you’re a marriage counsellor now?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll butt out. I’m just filling you in on what’s being said about you. To be honest I’m delighted, it takes the pressure off me. Mum’s so distracted about you that she hasn’t had a go at me for weeks. She didn’t even give out when I came home with my belly-button pierced.’

  ‘Really?’ I found it hard to believe that Mum hadn’t hit the roof when she saw that.

  ‘Yep. I’m telling you, her main concern now is you. It’s great, so keep it up, sis. By the way, any chance you could do my makeup this Saturday? I’m going to a ball and I want to look sensational. My next boyfriend is going to be there.’

  ‘Ex?’

  ‘No, next. I spotted him last week. Very sexy and knows it, so I have to look really good and you have to do lots of shading to make my nose look smaller. OK?’

  ‘OK. If I decide to stick my head in the oven before then, I’ll let you know so you can make alternative arrangements.’

  ‘Well, at least you haven’t totally lost your sense of humour. I’ll tell Mum, she’ll be pleased. See ya.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  The next day when I went to open my post, there was a letter from Sean. I recognized his handwriting. He hadn’t written to me since I went on a French exchange to Toulouse, aged fifteen, and hated it. Mum had made him write to me every day to cheer me up.

  The family I was sent to were friends of friends of my auntie Tara’s. They were awful. The girl – Cecile – was a stick insect with no personality. The mother kept telling me I was fat and fed me nothing but steamed vegetables and lentils. I’ve never been so hungry in my life. The undernourished Cecile spent half the day weighing herself and shoving her fingers down her throat after every meal, and the other half lying on her bed and discussing diets on the phone with her equally obsessed friends.

  I hung out with the housekeeper, Dominique: she used to sneak me in chocolate bars to keep me going, until Madame Leroux caught her and fired her. So I ended up starving and feeling guilty because I had lost the lovely Dominique her job. Eventually after I’d cried to my mother on the phone every night for two weeks – even she grew weary of telling me it was character-building – she changed my ticket and I flew home early.

  Sean’s letter said:

  Dear Sis,

  Hope you don’t mind me sending you this. I’m not trying to stick my oar in, but Mum tells me – on a daily basis – that you are having a tough time with this pregnancy lark and I saw this in a magazine in the dentist’s yesterday, so I ripped it out – much to the bemusement of the receptionist. If you are interested I’d be happy to pay for the consultation and treatment. Let’s face it, I can’t even hold down a relationship, so the ch
ances of me being a father are slim to none. Your kids will be the closest thing I get to parenthood, so I’m doing this for selfish reasons too. Anyway, see what you think and let me know. The offer is there. This woman seems to be doing great things and all the stars go to her so you’d be in good company! Keep away from the vodka.

  Sean

  Inside was an article about a woman called Zita West. She was a midwife who had been one of the first people to take acupuncture into NHS hospitals. Her clients included Kate Winslet, Cate Blanchett and Davina McCall – sounded good to me. I was still going to Sheila for my acupuncture once a week and still finding it the only thing that helped me relax. I read on. The article said:

  West is shocked by how few women are really in tune with their bodies, especially their menstrual cycles . . . losing weight can increase your chances of conception as can detoxifying the liver . . . West also asks women to refrain from using tampons, which can alter the mucus in the vaginal tract and keep out of the gym and swimming-pool when they are on their period – when according to Chinese medicine the body should rest.

  I like the sound of resting but, come on, Zita, no tampons? It’s not very practical. All the same, her clients were breeding like rabbits so she must be good. I wondered how much she cost – a lot judging by the people going to her. I was tempted, but it was unrealistic. Flying to London to see her would be a needless extravagance. Besides, I was getting fed up with conflicting advice. Everyone had an opinion and lots of them differed.

  It was really sweet of Sean, but I wasn’t going to take him up on the offer – even though I would have enjoyed hanging out in the waiting room with Cate and the gang.

  Another week of waiting, hoping and praying later – I got my period. The miracle of Lourdes was that I didn’t throw myself under a bus out of disappointment and utter despondency. James had gone to London to try to persuade the London-Irish scrum half to come and play for Leinster, so I decided to call into my mother for some sympathy and TLC.

  She opened the door and as soon as I saw her, I began to wail. ‘Muuuuuum, I’m . . . uh uh uh . . . not pregnant again.’

  ‘Oh, no! You poor old thing. Come on in,’ she said, giving me a hug. ‘Sit down there now and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I sniffled, as she made me a cup of tea. ‘I can’t bear it, Mum. It’s not fair. Everyone else is getting pregnant except me. What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with my stupid body?’ I said, slipping easily into self-pity mode.

  ‘Now, Emma, stop that nonsense at once. There’s nothing wrong with you or your body. You’re a healthy young girl and you’ll have a healthy baby one of these days, but you’ll have to try to calm down. Look at the state of you. It’s not good for you to be so stressed out. You’ll have to try to distract yourself. Take up tennis or join a choir or something. Babies take time, you can’t be impatient.’

  ‘It’s been over a year and a half. I’m not being impatient. I’m sick of waiting. Why isn’t it happening? It’s not bloody fair. I think I’m going mad.’

  ‘Now, listen here, you’ll have to get a grip. All this obsessing, drug-taking and moodiness is not good for you or your marriage. I’m sure James is finding it a strain too. I hope you’re not taking your frustrations out on him. The last thing a man needs when he gets home from work is a nagging wife,’ she said, conveniently ignoring her behaviour towards Dad for the past thirty-five years.

  Every time the poor man walked through the door, he was given odd jobs to do around the house, or ordered to get a haircut, polish his shoes, throw out the tie he was wearing, lose weight, help his children with their homework, feed the goldfish and – if it wasn’t snowing – mow the lawn. But clearly my mother was suffering from the early onset Alzheimer’s as she lectured me on being a good wife.

  ‘What you need to do is be nice and cheery when James comes in. No husband wants to be greeted by a long face. When he gets home show an interest in his life and don’t be always giving him bad news. Mark my words, Emma, James is a very handsome young man and successful too. He’s a good catch and I’m sure there are plenty of young ones who would be only too happy to turn his head.’

  ‘What am I? A useless old bag who no one wants? What am I supposed to do, Mum? Follow James around all day in bright pink dresses, telling him how marvellous he is? What about me? What about my life? My support? Who’s going to tell me how great I am? How brave and uncomplaining I am? What if I never have kids? What if I’m barren and I just keep trying and trying and never get pregnant? I want a family, Mum. I want kids. That’s what life’s about. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. That thought terrifies me. I need your support.’

  ‘You have my support, you silly girl. I’m worried sick about you. I know how much you want children. Aren’t I down on my knees every night praying for you? I’ve even got your father to start praying too. I’m just saying that you need to calm down or you’ll make yourself ill and you’ll put a strain on your marriage. And everyone says that stress is a disaster when you’re trying to get pregnant.’

  ‘But what if I never have a baby?’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘But what if I don’t, Mum? I have to face the fact that I may never get pregnant. I have to look at my options. I’m thinking of adoption.’

  ‘Adoption? For goodness’ sake, Emma, stop running before you can walk. You’re thirty-four, not forty-four. Stop panicking. Now, do you want me to cook you a shepherd’s pie?’

  It was my favourite comfort food and she had always made it for me when I was younger – when I had the flu, or the time I broke my arm, or if I had a fight with Jess or Lucy, or whatever mini-drama was going on at school.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said, tears welling as happy childhood memories flooded back. Oh, to be young and carefree again.

  ‘OK. You pour yourself another cup of tea and I’ll make the dinner. Don’t worry, pet, it’ll all work out. You’ll see,’ she said, getting a bit tearful herself as she pulled a Marks & Spencer shepherd’s pie out of the freezer.

  30

  It was time to go back to see Mr Reynolds. I had been on the fertility drugs for seven months. I had looked at numerous fuzzy screens, showing small, medium and large blobs – all useless.

  It was time for action. James came with me for support. I asked him to bring along some paper and a pen to take notes, so we could discuss our options afterwards without forgetting anything that Mr Reynolds had said.

  Mr Reynolds told us how sorry he was that the treatment hadn’t worked. He said he was surprised as he was sure it would be effective, seeing as how we were both young and healthy. ‘But I think it’s clear that it isn’t working so we need to look at our options.’

  I nudged James to start taking notes.

  ‘I mentioned the possibility of a laparoscopy before and I think at this stage it’s the best thing to do. The procedure is straightforward and relatively painless as you are under general anaesthetic. It takes about twenty minutes so you’ll be home within a few hours.’

  ‘OK,’ I said warily. Painless tests were a myth. ‘What exactly does it involve?’

  ‘We’ll bring you in and once you’re asleep we insert a fine needle into the abdomen, then pump in gas to push away the intestine. The laparoscope – which is a fibreoptic telescope – is then inserted through a small incision under the belly-button and we inspect the inside of the abdomen and pelvis including the outside of the womb, the tubes and the ovaries.’

  ‘Incision?’ I didn’t want to end up with a big scar and no baby to show for it. I was all for Caesarean sections (too posh to push, and all that – it sounded very civilized to me) but I didn’t want a scar for no reason.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s a tiny scar that only ever requires one small stitch. If we find any abnormalities during the procedure we deal with them there and then, thus avoiding a further operation. In your case I doubt we’ll find anything dramatically wrong as we know from your X-rays that all
seems in order.’

  ‘Will it be painful when I wake up?’

  ‘You’ll need to rest for a day after the procedure. I recommend taking some light painkillers and there may be some vaginal discomfort and a little bleeding, but it will be minimal.’

  Minimal my ass, I thought. So far nothing had been painless, despite all promises to the contrary. I sighed as I faced the thought of yet more time spent in the clinic. Still, at least this way they’d know for sure if something was wrong, and I’d be knocked out so, chances were, I’d feel little pain.

  ‘OK, what if you don’t find anything that explains why I can’t seem to get pregnant? What then?’

  ‘Well, then I think we’ll have to look at IVF. But let’s take it a step at a time. I’ll set up an appointment for the laparoscopy and we can look at our options after we’ve analysed the results.

  ‘Any more questions or concerns?’ he said, looking from me to James, who was doodling on the piece of paper he was supposed to be taking notes on.

  ‘Uhm. No, thank you, Doctor, that all seems pretty straightforward,’ said James, delighted the meeting was over so he didn’t have to listen to any more chat about vaginas.

  My appointment was made for ten days’ time. James and I went for a coffee and I asked to see his notes so I could remember exactly what I was in for. He reluctantly passed over the sheet of paper.

  Laparospuppy – Gas pump, No pain. No scar. Call Glen Redgrave – offer him five grand more. Need his skills. Scrum half – key position. Check budget with Eddie.

  ‘James! Did you listen to a word he said?’

  ‘Yes. The information is there, it’s just a summary of it.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you were supposed to be taking detailed notes.’

  ‘Well, he said it was all very straightforward so I just jotted down key points – like the name of the procedure so you can look it up later on the Internet.’