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Pen and her husband, Paul, have been trying for a baby since she was twenty-eight. After two unsuccessful years, they finally decided it was time to get help. Tests revealed nothing apparently wrong with either her eggs or his sperm. First they tried ovulation induction, and when that was unsuccessful, they had four cycles of IUI. Finally, when that didn’t work, they moved onto IVF. The first two cycles resulted in miscarriages, but she told me a week ago that she felt different with this cycle—more positive and hopeful, and I thought maybe it was a good sign. My heart breaks to think her dreams have been dashed once again. And for some reason it’s even worse that nobody seems to have any idea why it’s happening. It’s just one of those unexplained mysteries.
“I’m so sorry.” I kiss the top of her head and rub her back. Her sobs are already dying down. I’m guessing she’s all cried out.
“Every time we’ve tried something, I’ve done my best to rein in my hopes,” she whispers. “We’ve both tried to be practical. But this time… I really thought it was going to work. I was absolutely convinced, third time lucky. And then a couple of days ago I began spotting, and yesterday I started bleeding heavily, and Paul took me to the clinic, and they confirmed I’d miscarried.”
She was only seven weeks’ pregnant, but I know there’s no point in saying it was only the size of a blueberry and wouldn’t have looked much like a baby. She knows all that, and it doesn’t matter. It’s about the destruction of a dream and the loss of hope. And it’s incredibly cruel.
I pull the roll of kitchen towel toward me, tear off a sheet, and hand it to her. She wipes her face and blows her nose.
“Go and sit on the sofa,” I tell her. “I’ll get the coffees and join you.”
Pen nods and goes through to the living room, Nymph following her as if she can feel her pain and wants to help. I quickly pour the hot milk onto the espresso, then bring the cups through, sitting beside her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “Are you in pain?”
“A bit achy. A few cramps. Not too bad.” She blows out a long breath, then picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip. “Ah, that’s good.”
I have a mouthful of my latte. “How’s Paul?”
“Tired. Upset. Angry.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for asking, though. People tend to forget about the guy. It’s a physical and emotional strain on both of us.”
“Yeah, well, it’s his dream too, right?”
She doesn’t reply, and meets my eyes for a moment. “It was,” she says slowly. “But last night he said he didn’t want to go through it again.”
My lips part, but words desert me. “Fuck,” I say in the end.
Her lips twist. “Yeah. The thing is, I get it. It’s been such a strain on our relationship.”
“Aw, but he loves you so much.”
She wipes under her eyes again and leans her head on her hand tiredly. “Yes, he does. But everyone has their limits. It’s so hard to describe how this dominates your life. It’s the first thing we talk about in the morning, and the last thing we discuss at night.”
I feel a big twist inside. I’d be lying if I said Pen’s experiences haven’t influenced my decision to try for a baby. I know I’ll only be twenty-nine in May, and that’s not old at all to start a family in this day and age. But a small part of me wonders whether the reason she can’t get pregnant could be hereditary. It’s probably not; it could be a problem with Paul’s sperm that they haven’t found, or maybe she’s got an autoimmune disorder, or literally any one of a hundred other factors. But there’s a chance it’s an issue that I have too. And I don’t want to wait until I’m thirty-five to start trying, then discover I have years of IVF ahead of me with my fertility rate dropping like a stone.
“Paul’s reaction was probably knee-jerk,” I say. “As you said, he’s upset and angry, and at the moment the thought of going through it all again is just horrendous. But give him some time to calm down, and I’m sure he’ll feel better about it all.”
She blows her nose again. “Maybe. But there’s also a small part of me that wonders whether it would be better to accept it’s not going to happen.”
I feel as if someone’s punched me in the stomach. “Aw, Pen… You’ve still got lots of other treatments to try. What about donor options? Or surrogacy?”
“After the first couple of years, we began to understand that pregnancy was going to be a bit harder for us than for a lot of people. We realized it was rarely the idyllic experience it’s portrayed as in the media, and that there might be miscarriages, nausea, the stress of being tested, issues with the pregnancy or the baby, pre-eclampsia, all those things. We felt like it was a trial we were being put through, as if we were being tested to see how serious we were. You only get given what you can cope with, right? We were convinced we’d get there in the end.”
“And you will, I know you will.”
But she shakes her head. “It’s not just about having a baby. It’s about having that connection with your partner. Don’t get me wrong, I do want a baby, but what I really wanted, more than anything, was a little piece of Paul that will always be mine, you know? I wanted to share myself with him in that way. To have a baby that was part of us both. And I don’t know if I want a baby enough to use a donor egg or sperm.”
She swallows hard. “The thing is, it’s not just about having a baby anymore. It’s about our marriage, too. We’re struggling. Mainly because our sex life isn’t great and hasn’t been for some time.” Her eyes water again. It’s a tough subject to discuss, but we’ve always been close and talked about everything.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
“I don’t enjoy it anymore,” she says honestly. “And I know he’s just going through the motions, too. He’s still relatively young, and he has a high sex drive; he should be with someone who wants it five times a week, who can’t wait to get him into bed. I love him so much, but when we’re making love all I can think about is if it’s going to make a baby. And so… if he suggests anything else, you know… I just think what a waste…” She stops, fighting tears again.
“I understand.”
