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When Sandy came along, quoting poetry and wooing her, was it so wrong that Evelyn let herself have just the tiniest bit of fun? Liz didn’t think so. But it broke her heart that Evelyn had – possibly – paid such a heavy price for her brief happiness.
Had Evelyn had the baby? And what had happened to it, if so?
It was more than curiosity for Liz: she had to know, for her own peace of mind.
Liz got the letter from the fertility clinic out of her handbag and unfolded it once again. She didn’t need to read it again: by now, she knew it by heart. She had been mulling it over and over again, but for some reason, reading Evelyn’s diary had made her feel more decisive. Evelyn had had terrible choices when it came to having a baby, but Liz had the power to take her destiny into her own hands. Just like Gretchen had: Gretchen Ross had not wanted to be married, but she had wanted a child, and so she had adopted one. Gretchen’s story gave Liz hope.
Going to the clinic meant that Liz was making a positive choice. She still wasn’t sure if this was a path she wanted to go down, but she had realised that she should at least make an appointment and have the conversation.
If she pursued it and if it worked? Sure, she’d be a single mother, but millions of women did it and their kids turned out just fine. Gretchen had raised her daughter.
Evelyn had been forced into whatever circumstances she’d ended up with, and she’d been labelled an Old Maid. That didn’t have to happen to Liz. The outcomes of sperm donation were as ambiguous as everything she’d done so far, because she was battling her own fertility issues. But she could try. She could give them a call.
Liz tapped the clinic’s number into her work landline and listened to the phone ring at the other end. It felt good to be taking another small step forward; slowly, she felt as though she was taking back control of her life. And that was good.
THIRTY-ONE
‘So, Liz. You understand the process?’ The doctor handed her the same leaflet that had been sent in the post, and which she’d already read and re-read obsessively. ‘You can choose a sperm sample from the bank we hold, and that sperm can be used to fertilise your last egg. You had a number of viable eggs, I believe.’ The doctor frowned, looking at her computer screen.
‘Yes. They’ve been used in the last rounds of IVF.’
Liz sat opposite the doctor in the clinic office, gripping the handle of her handbag tightly.Take deep breaths, she told herself.In, out, In, out.
Visiting the fertility clinic hadn’t always stressed Liz out. When she and Paul had first visited, when they’d decided to start IVF, they had been full of enthusiasm and excitement. Paul had held her hand through that first appointment when a different doctor had talked them through egg viability and all the stages of what was going to happen.
That first time, Liz had felt like she was stepping into her new life. She hadknown, deep in her heart, that she was getting her baby.
That picture she thought about – the gaudily-lit prize in the baby game show she felt she was a contestant in – the one of her as a happy mother, seemed so close that she could hold it.
But she had been wrong. And it had broken her heart.
‘So, this is…’ the doctor trailed off, politely.
‘Probably my last chance with my own eggs. Yes,’ Liz answered, more curtly than she’d intended. ‘Sorry. This is just quite stressful.’
Every time that Liz had come to the clinic after that first unsuccessful round, she’d felt worse and worse. Paul had tried to cheer her up after the appointments: he bought her flowers, cooked her dinner, talked her round.It would work this time. It would be all right.
Liz knew that she couldn’t have asked for a better, more committed partner than Paul when it came to IVF. But, eventually, Paul’s – patience? enthusiasm? love? – had just run out.
So, now, despite the fact that the clinic was a tranquil place, with vases of fresh tulips in the waiting room, clean white walls with tasteful art on the walls and you got a nice cup of coffee while you waited, Liz’s legs turned to jelly whenever she walked into it. Because, no matter how nice the décor, this was the place that reminded her of her two miscarriages, and of Paul leaving, and of every time she’d had to sit down in the doctor’s office and talk about whether she wanted to try the process again.
‘Not at all. I quite understand how difficult this all is,’ the doctor replied kindly. ‘You have endometriosis and polycystic ovaries, it says here. So that’s the reason for IVF so far.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you get a lot of pain with the endo? I know it can be very difficult for many women.’
‘Some. Not debilitating. But when I had my scan, it showed that it’s messed up my fallopian tubes. And the PCOS is messing up my ovaries.’
‘Hmm. Both conditions are so common, too. I wish there was more medical research being done.’ The doctor shuffled the papers on her desk. ‘So, have you looked at the donor catalogue?’
‘Yeah,’ Liz sighed. When she’d looked at the letter from the clinic again, she’d seen that there was a link to an online catalogue of 500 sperm donors. She’d looked through it, but come away strangely uninspired. ‘Look, I haven’t decided, as yet. It’s all a bit strange, looking at these anonymous descriptions. Like dating, but for bodily secretions.’
‘Yes, it is a little odd, in its way.’ The doctor smiled. ‘It’s not for everyone. But, if you no longer have a partner who wants to go forward in the process with you, then it’s an alternative.’
‘Hmm.’ Liz made a noncommittal noise. ‘I’m just not sure. I mean, I thought I’d come along and talk about it, but I’m not ready to proceed just yet.’
‘Of course. I’ll do an examination while you’re here, and you can go away and think about whether you want to go with a sperm donor. Some people prefer to go with a known donor – a friend, perhaps, someone they feel comfortable with.’
