The Baby Trap
Based on her own experiences with infertility and two attempts at IVF, Sibel Hodge’s new novel The Baby Trap will have you laughing and crying at the ups and downs of modern baby-making…
When Gina turns thirty-three her body clock unexpectedly begins clanging in her ear with annoying persistence. The only problem is, having a baby isn’t as easy as she thought. Whether she’s feng shui-ing the house to death with fertility symbols, throwing out her husband’s tight boxers in favour of baggies, swapping wine and chocolate for green tea and yams, popping fertility drugs like M&M’s, or having sex so precision-timed it makes international warfare manoeuvres look unorganized, her life is turned upside down. And when nothing seems to be working, her quest for the B-word turns into an obsession.
Can Gina stay sane, get pregnant, and keep her marriage together? Or will her baby trail become a baby trap?
Praise for Sibel Hodge
"Yet
another winner by Sibel who is fast becoming my favourite 'chick-lit'
author" -- Wistful Kimmie's Book Reviews
"Sibel
Hodge has perfect comedic timing" -- Lisa Lim, author of
Confessions of a Call Centre Gal
“Ms. Hodge is rapidly becoming a favorite of mine" -- Coffee Time Romance & More
“Sibel Hodge does it again!” -- Geeky Girl Books
“Sibel Hodge has a way of writing that really makes the characters come to life” -- Can’t Put It Down Review Blog
Also by Sibel Hodge
Fourteen Days Later
The Fashion Police
My Perfect Wedding
Be Careful What You Wish For
Voodoo Deadly
How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories)
Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave
About the author
Sibel Hodge has dual British/Turkish Cypriot nationality and divides her time between Hertfordshire and North Cyprus. Her debut romantic-comedy novel, Fourteen Days Later, was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. My Perfect Wedding is the sequel to Fourteen Days Later, although it can be read as a standalone novel.
The Fashion Police is a chicklit comedy-mystery novel, the first in the series featuring feisty, larger-than-life, Amber Fox. It was runner-up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. Other Amber Fox mysteries include Be Careful What You Wish For and Voodoo Deadly.
Her novella Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave has been listed as one of the Top 40 Books About Human Rights by Accredited Online Colleges.
For more information, please visit http://www.sibelhodge.com/
The Baby Trap
Sibel Hodge
Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License notes
The ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
“Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. And today? Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” -- Babatunde Olatunji
Prologue
Why is it that you spend most of your young adult life trying not to get pregnant, and yet when you actually want to get pregnant, you can’t? How annoying is that? Not to mention frustrating, depressing, soul-destroying, and numerous other feelings that I’ve experienced at one time or another in the last two years. I know I’m in danger of losing myself in a never-ending round of fertility treatment, wishing this time it’s going to magically work. No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost myself already. I’ve become a neurotic nutcase who’s bored with life, boring, unsociable, and turning into a frump. What happened to the happy, carefree woman I used to be? The woman who used to enjoy life, have a laugh, appreciate her lot, and drink one too many bottles of wine at the weekends? Obsessed. Yes, that’s what I am, but it’s not my fault. It’s this feeling that I can’t explain. This desperate need inside me to have a baby. This urge that has completely turned my brain to single-train thoughts: Baby, baby, baby.
And as the years have gone on, I’m morphing into the ghost of myself. Someone who can’t enjoy life because I’m too busy worrying and wondering when and if it’s going to happen for me. I don’t even recognize myself most of the time anymore. I’m constantly wishing for the end of my cycle to hurry up and arrive to see if I’ve hit the jackpot this time, and when it doesn’t work, I’m constantly wishing for the middle of my cycle so I can ovulate and try again. I’m unable to feel whole and complete unless I have a son or daughter to hold.
So this year I have to take drastic action before I get sucked into a giant abyss of despair and can never get back. I’m going to give it six more months of trying, and if I still can’t get pregnant…well, that’s it. I’m giving up. This is the last year I’m going through it. I’ve absolutely, definitely, positively made my mind up. I know I said that the last time, and the time before that, oh, and the time before that, but I really mean it this time.
Really.
Maybe really.
Nope. Really and truly, this year is going to be my year to give up trying for a baby.
I’m sick of people looking up my lady garden, prodding me, poking me. Doctors and nurses at the Assisted Conception Unit and friends looking at me with sympathy. I’m also sick of the following:
1) Having no spontaneous sex. It’s not the same when you have to have precision-timed nookie. I’m also having to give precision-timed wanks to Karl in aid of sperm tests.
2) Leaving my legs hanging in the air after sex for ten minutes – although have been known to do it for up to forty as there are varying opinions on the length of time necessary.
3) Being obsessed about babies all the time.
4) Not having time for Karl and me anymore as always obsessing about babies. I’m worried we’re drifting apart.
5) Being hormonal and moody from all the fertility drugs, and sometimes wanting to kill perfectly innocent people for no reason.
6) Bawling my eyes out every time I have my period (and countless other times, too).
7) Eating healthy organic food and giving up alcohol and smoking.
8) Constantly texting tarot card hotlines to find out if and when I will get pregnant (my mobile phone bill is the same as a small country’s debt!).
9) Trying every alternative fertility treatment under the sun.
10) Isn’t that enough reasons?
I always said I’d never write down my infertility journey, but I’ve changed my mind now. Actually, it was Poppy, whom I met online at the Fertility Friends website, who suggested it. We’ve got to know each other pretty well through emails and phone calls in the last two years. How can I describe Poppy? Hmm…if I’d met her in any normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been my type of friend. She’s a floaty, New Age, holistic type, who says she can see auras and talks about cosmic energy, Karma, and projecting positive thoughts to the Universe. Now, normally I’d burst into uncontrollable laughter if someone told me I had to imagine a bright white light of happiness radiating through my body to my ovaries, but I’ve done some pretty bizarre things in my quest to get pregnant, so maybe it’s time I started listening to her and took her advice. What the hell, why not? What have I got to lose? I mean, the drugs and IVF don’t seem to be working, so if I can finally have my little bundle of joy by chanting a few words and hugging a tree, why not give it a go? Although Karl will probably freak and think I’ve lost my mind completely after all the “ridiculous ideas” (as he calls them) I’ve come up with so far. I’ve gone from being someone totally unsuperstitious to someone who looks for signs everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Not to mention the fertility symbols and spells.
Anyway, Poppy told me that writing my story down is the first step to cosmic enlightenment (not entirely sure what that is, but it sounds nice). She explained that if I keep this journal, I’ll be letting the Universe know exactly what I want and she (or he, not entirely what sex the Universe represents, although I think it’s a she and will name her Zelda, which is a Universe-ish kind of name) will help me get rid of any negative energies surrounding me, unblock my chakras (whatever they are), and help me let go of my grief about being unable to get pregnant. OK, in a tiny little way it makes sense, but, of course, I can’t tell that to Karl. He doesn’t understand. And I can’t help thinking that if all this stuff she talks about could really work, then why isn’t she pregnant yet, either?
But I’m game, and this is the last sliver of hope I can cling to. So on the first day of a brand new year, which Poppy said is the perfect time for cosmic alignment, you, my little pink diary with the silver clasp, will be my new friend. And if you can find time to poke the Universe and get her to grant my wish, then I’ll be eternally grateful. Because if I can’t get pregnant this time, I’ll need to do something radical to fill this gaping hole in my life, and I’m scared of what that radical thing might be.
My Body Clock
It all started when I turned thirty-three. I woke up one Sunday morning and I could’ve sworn I heard a clock ticking. I prised open one sleepy eyelid, stuck together with caked mascara that I’d forgotten to take off again after another mad party. Maybe it was my head banging with a humongous hangover that was making the noise. I turned towards my husband Karl, snoring softly beside me with his mouth open, and groaned. Oops, big mistake! My head felt like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a sledgehammer. Probably not a good idea to actually move. Maybe I should just stay in bed all day. Yep, good idea.
Except the bloody ticking wouldn’t shut up.
I knew it couldn’t be the alarm clock on my bedside table because that had run out of batteries months ago. And it couldn’t have been Karl’s because he had a digital clock next to the bed. So what was it?
God, how much had I drunk last night? Was I hallucinating sounds? Whoa, I really needed to slow down on the wine next time.
I rolled out of bed, clutching my head in my hands, and wandered downstairs into the kitchen that overlooked the garden. Pouring a hefty glass of water to combat brain dehydration, I glugged it down in one go as I stared through hangover-induced blurry eyes at an oak tree outside.
What was that out there?
Instantly alert, my monster headache disappeared. I narrowed my eyes at a peculiar site in the garden. It was…what the hell was it? No, it couldn’t be.
I unlocked the back door and tentatively crept towards the vision.
As I got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was a baby! Complete with a pink babygro and a pink dummy, sucking on it with glee as it stared up at me with chubby cheeks and huge blue eyes.
What had I been drinking last night? Has someone spiked my drink at Amelia’s party?
What kind of person could abandon a baby in someone’s garden? This was unbelievable!
‘You poor thing.’ I reached out to pick it up and bring it inside the house and it disappeared.
Pfffft! Just like that. Vanished.
Karl found me two hours later, sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table, still in my fluffy pink pyjamas and giant slippers that looked like cows’ faces, staring blankly at the garden.
‘God, what a great night!’ He kissed the top of my head and yawned. ‘Want a coffee? I feel like I’ve swallowed a Brillo Pad.’
‘Huh?’ I said, not really hearing what he was saying.
‘Coffee? Want one?’ He rummaged around in the cupboards, pulling out mugs and a French press.
‘Mmm.’ I nodded absentmindedly.
He flicked the kettle on, lounged on the chair in front of me, and started chuckling. ‘Do you remember dancing on the table last night? That was hilarious! You, Amelia, and Kerry doing a Coyote Ugly impression, flashing your knickers.’
I didn’t answer. I was too busy worrying I had a brain tumour. That’s what happened, wasn’t it? I’d seen a programme about it once. People started hearing things and seeing things. Freaky things. Things that couldn’t possibly be explained. Omigod, that was it. I was going to die! I was still young. I had my whole life ahead of me. Fun, mad shopping sprees, exotic holidays, lots of alcohol-induced partying (I’m not an alcoholic, honestly!). Except…I was getting this weird feeling. Suddenly all that stuff seemed inconsequential – childish, even. I was thirty-three years old, and now I wanted…
‘I want a baby!’ I blurted out, not really knowing where the thought had come from. Maybe we’d been abducted by aliens on the way home last night and one of those sneaky guys had implanted a weird chip in my brain. It could happen. I watched the X Files, you know. Or was reaching thirty-three the new forty? Did you start having a midlife crisis, or, even worse, a nervous breakdown?
Karl’s dark brown eyes sprang open and his jaw dropped. ‘What?’
I adjusted myself in the chair, elbows on the table, leaning forward with an excited feeling simmering away beneath the surface. ‘I want a baby.’ A large grin had suddenly implanted itself on my face.
He ran a hand through his short dark hair. Now it was his turn to do the blank stare bit. ‘Oh, right.’ He rose from the table as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘Well, I need a coffee.’ He poured the boiling water into the French press and brought it to the table with two mugs. As he flopped back down again, he said, ‘Er…did I just hear you right?’ He poked his fingers in his ears, as if someone had suddenly shoved Blu-Tack down them and he couldn’t hear. ‘Either I’m having the most bizarre dream in the world, or you just said you wanted a baby.’ He pressed the plunger, poured out two steaming mugs of strong coffee, and pushed one towards me with a puzzled look.
I nodded. ‘Yep, that’s what I said.’
‘But you said you never wanted kids.’ His eyebrows furrowed together so he looked like he had a unibrow.
I laughed. A slight chuckle at first. Then it turned into a giggle, then side-splitting, hilarious, uncontrollable laughter. I slammed the table with my hand. ‘I know! How weird is that? I’ve gone through my whole life being adamant I don’t want kids. Not a maternal twinge in my body. Until today.’
He threw me a who-are-you-and-what-the-fuck-have-you-done-with-my-wife? kind of look.
‘Gina, are you ill? Have you got a fever?’ He reached out and touched my forehead.
‘No. It’s just the most bizarre thing. All of a sudden, the only thing I know is I want a baby. Your baby.’ I reached forward and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. ‘So, what do you think?’ I jumped up from the chair and leapt onto his knee, wrapping my arms around his neck. ‘It’s a great idea, isn’t it? You’d make a fantastic dad. Look how good you are with Jayne’s kids.’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, I guess I’ve always wanted to have kids one day. I just thought it would eventually happen when I was in my thirties.’
‘You are in your thirties.’ I grinned.
‘Oh, God, you’re right. When did that happen? In my head I’m still twenty-one.’ He grinned back.
‘So this is perfect timing,’ I said. ‘I mean, we can afford a baby now you’re doing so well at work. We’ve got a three-bed house so it’s big enough. I can still do my beauty business from home. And our kids would be adorable.’ I clapped my hands together with excitement. ‘Just think, they’d have your thick, dark hair, my green eyes, your calm-in-a-crisis, gentle nature, and my determination. What a perfect combination!’
‘I need some caffeine to let this sink in.’ He took a huge gulp of coffee, swallowing thoughtfully. ‘I suppose they’d also have your dirty laugh, sense of humour, and fun-loving spirit. And they’d have both my practical ability to do DIY, and my business brain.’
‘Oh, yeah, what else?’ I grinned, getting into the swing of things. ‘My organizational skills.’
‘As long as they don’t get your map-reading skills. They’ll get lost on the way out of your womb if they do.’ He chuckled.
‘Or your leave-dirty-socks-around-the-house skills.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘So, what do you think?’ I looked down at him expectantly.
‘Does that mean we can start trying now?’ he raised a seductive eyebrow at me.
I leapt off him and grabbed his hand, pulling him up. ‘Hell, yeah!’
Sex, Sex, and More Sex
I’d been taking the pill ever since I was fifteen for heavy periods that felt like Freddy Krueger was trying to rip his way out of me, and since then I’d been as regular as my credit card bills. Every twenty-eight days, voila! I could almost time it down to the correct hour.
So the first month after I stopped taking it, when I didn’t get my period at the allotted time, I thought, bloody hell, that was quick! I’m pregnant already. Out with the pill, nookie a couple of times a month, and hey presto – Mum’s the word!
I rushed off to the chemist to buy a pregnancy test with a goofy grin plastered all over my face, grabbed the first one I saw, and zoomed back. Throwing my bag on the floor, I ran up the stairs to the bathroom like an Olympic-medal-winning hurdler and tore open the protective cellophane wrapper, ripping the box in my excitement.
I pulled out one of the two sticks, peeled off the outer foil, and was about to pee on it when I realized I had to actually read the instructions to make sure I was getting it right:
1) Wash your hands with soap and water before removing stick from foil wrapper.
Oh, crap, too late! Well, I only touched the holding end, not the bit you pee on, so that should be OK.
2) Remove testing stick from foil wrapping.
Yes, I know about that part.
3) Sit on toilet.
Well, duh! I’m not going to wee on it in the middle of the bathroom floor! Hurry up, get to the good bit.
4) Ensuring the stick is pointing downwards, urinate directly on the end of the plastic stick using a midstream sample.
What does that mean?
Note: Midstream sample means you should let out a bit of urine first, then collect the sample mid flow.
Right. Got it. I think. How do you know exactly when midstream is? It’s not like I’ve got an invisible bladder wall I can see. This is getting complicated.
5) Urinate for 5 seconds only.
Easy peasy.
6) Place the test stick on a flat surface. You will see a line in the control window. (See figure 2.)
OK.
7) Read your results after 2 minutes. If you have two vertical blue lines in the test window, you are pregnant. If you have a single vertical line, you are not pregnant.
And I was off. Hopefully collecting midstream flow, although it wasn’t until I’d finished my wee that I realized I was a bit on the early side, but I figured I was close enough.
Knickers and jeans pulled up, I stared at the stick with my heart threatening to explode out of my chest.
Maybe I shouldn’t look at it. Was it the same as a watched kettle never boiling? Did a watched pregnancy test never shout PREGNANT! I gnawed on my lower lip and looked away, but as if by some kind of magnetic pull, I felt my neck pinging back round to stare at it.
I checked my watch.
One minute.
I tapped my nails along the sink. A faint blue line appeared in the test window.
Come on, come on. OK, maybe I should explain now that patience has never been my thing. I was even born early.
Right, not looking now.
I turned my back on it and stared at the wooden floorboards so hard my vision blurred.
I checked my watch again.
Two minutes.
Hurrah!
I swung back around and stared at the stick.
Bollocks, crap, fuck!
A single blue line. That meant I wasn’t pregnant. Unless…
Unless I’d messed it up somehow. Yes, that was it. I’d messed it up. I’d need to use the other test stick to try again, but I was all weed out.
Damn.
Six glasses of water, forty-five minutes, and a test stick later, the result was the same.
So I wasn’t pregnant this month, but that was OK. Whether it took one month or two months didn’t really matter. I mean, it was going to be pretty easy to get pregnant, wasn’t it? After all, when I was around fifteen my mum was always telling me how easy it was, and how I should make sure I used a condom, as well as the pill (in those days there wasn’t so much info about STDs and safe sex, so the additional willy armour was only required to ward off unwanted sperm). And, if possible, she said I should use a chastity belt, too. According to Mum, you just had to touch a boy’s bits and you’d get pregnant. That little saying was drummed into me constantly. And that’s pretty much what the sex education teacher told us at school. Although now I know they were trying to scare our young, sexually active minds, which is a good thing, but honestly, how hard could it actually be to conceive? Millions of women around the world must be achieving it every second.
Karl breezed in from work that night and gave me a kiss on the cheek as I was in the converted garage that I used for my beauty business. ‘Thank God it’s Friday.’ He tugged at his tie to loosen it. ‘This week at work’s been manic.’
Karl had recently been promoted to regional sales manager for Cussler Telecommunications, a company that supplied phone lines, internet, and satellite TV.
‘So what shall we do tonight? Meet Amelia and Dan down the pub or get a greasy Chinese takeaway with a bottle of wine?’
‘Don’t mind,’ I sighed, busying myself as I tidied away wax applicators, nail varnish, and massage oil.
‘You’re quiet. What’s up?’ he said.
‘I’m not pregnant.’ I pulled a face at him.
He looked at me, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. ‘It’s only been a month.’ He held his arms open and I stepped into them.
‘I know. But I was convinced I was pregnant because I was late. And those skinny jeans I bought last month were getting tight.’ Although that could be from scoffing too many chocolate Hobnobs. Since our corner shop had a special offer on at the moment of buy one packet get one free, I’d kind of overindulged a smidgen. In my defence, I’d like to say that I’d thought it was a food craving at the time and perfectly acceptable, instead of downright gluttonous.
‘It’s not going to happen overnight.’ Karl rested his chin on my head. ‘So what if it takes a few months? It’s not the end of the world. You’ll see, this time next year we’ll probably be celebrating Cecil’s first birthday.’
‘Cecil?’ I snorted, managing a smile. ‘We’re not calling our kid Cecil!’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Cuthbert is much better. Or Tarquin.’
I gave him a playful punch to his arm. ‘Esmerelda.’
‘No way! Guinevere.’
‘Marlene,’ I giggled, then sighed into his shoulders. ‘OK, you’re right. So what if it takes a couple of months.’
‘That’s because I’m a man and we’re always right.’
‘Don’t push it.’
‘Anyway, we’re both young and healthy. Probably all you need to do is relax and stop thinking about it, and it will just happen.’
‘Well, that’s easier said than done,’ I huffed. ‘And what if something’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong! In fact, why don’t we get a quickie in now to prove it?’ He slid his warm hands up the back of my jumper, stroking his fingers up and down my spine.
‘Ooh, I like your style!’ I said as his fingers probed the underneath of my bra, and our clothes were suddenly a jumble on the floor. ‘Wait!’ I pulled apart before things got too heated. ‘We need to do it where I can put my legs comfortably in the air afterwards.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I was talking to Amelia the other day and she told me her sister said you need to stick your legs in the air after sex so that the sperm has a better chance of swimming up your fallopian tubes.’
‘You’re going to do a handstand after we have sex?’ he chuckled. ‘Kinky! That puts a new slant on bedroom acrobatics.’
‘And no oral sex anymore,’ I said, pulling a disappointed face.
‘For me or you?’
‘Me. Apparently saliva can negatively affect sperm.’ I tilted my head, thinking. ‘On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t have any, either, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Damn.’
‘Double damn.’
****
But deep down I couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion something wasn’t all it was meant to be in fertility land. I knew the instructions on the pill said to always use additional contraception until you started your next month’s dose if you were sick, had the squits, or accidentally missed one. In fifteen years, I’d had food poising several times (with both projectile vomiting and squits involved – a double whammy), I’d missed a lot more than one dose of it in all that time, and one month I’d even missed a whole two weeks’ worth when Karl and I went on holiday and I forgot to pack them. And never once in all that time did I use a condom.
For the next six months we were having so much sex I thought his willy might actually fall off from overuse. Lounge, kitchen, bedroom, hallway; plus an adventurous phase in empty fields and woods, which soon stopped when I ended up getting a tick on my bum. (That was highly embarrassing going to Accident and Emergency to get it removed, especially when the first doctor had never been faced with a bum-tick before and had to consult a plethora of doctors before I could finally get it extracted. And it was bloody painful!)
The only trouble was, the more we had sex, the more my periods were getting further and further apart. Sometimes it would be every two months, sometimes four, so I didn’t have a clue when and if I was actually ovulating.
There was only one thing for it: the Internet. Google became my new best friend. Every spare chance I got I was on there looking up fertility stuff. Some of it blew my mind...
Cervical Mucus:
Cervical mucus is a good indicator that ovulation is about to take place. In order to maximise your chances of getting pregnant, timing intercourse around ovulation is essential. Your mucus lets you predict your most fertile time.
As you reach ovulation, your cervical mucus changes in consistency so that it is much more sperm-friendly. During your monthly cycle the mucus changes from dry and sticky, to creamy, to wet, to a raw egg white consistency, then back to dry and sticky again.
When it reaches the raw egg white stage ovulation is approaching. This is the most productive time to have sex.
You can check your mucus by inserting a clean finger into your vagina. If it is very wet and stretches between your fingers and resembles raw egg white, ovulation is just around the corner.
What the fuck! How had I been walking around for thirty-three years with egg white up my fufu and never even noticed? Did every other woman in the world know this secret except me?
Basal Body Temperature:
Charting your Basal Body Temperature can determine if you’ve been missing the ideal time to get pregnant. Examples of charts can be found on fertilityfriend.co.uk.
Once you have a chart, you need to get a digital thermometer designed to measure your Basal Body Temperature.
1) You need to take it at the same time every morning (give or take 30 mins).
2) Very important! You need to take your temperature before you do anything else. You cannot walk around, sit up, drink, eat, talk. The minute you wake up, you need to put the thermometer in your mouth.
3) Very important! You need at least 3-4 hours constant sleep before taking your temperature. If you’ve had interrupted sleep, or a late night, it may make the results inaccurate.
4) Record your daily temperature on your chart.
Ideally, you should record your temperature throughout your entire cycle.
This method is a great way to see when and if you’re ovulating, but it doesn’t predict ovulation. Your BBT will only rise and remain higher after ovulation has taken place.
Ideally, you should make love every other day around ovulation.
OK, I got that. It kind of made sense. So all I needed was a thermometer and I was good to go.
Ovulation Predictor Kit:
There are only a few days in a woman’s cycle when she can conceive. Ovulation Predictor Kits are used in the same way as a pregnancy test and work by detecting the Luteinising Hormone levels in your urine. When ovulation approaches, the LH levels spike, which is called an LH surge. Approximately 24-36 hours after the surge, ovulation takes place.
When you detect the surge, you will probably ovulate within 24 -48 hours. To maximise your chances of getting pregnant, you should ideally have sex within 24 hours of detection. Sperm can survive for 1-5 days, depending on conditions.
Omigod, this was getting harder and harder. I didn’t know I only had two fertile days every cycle. How did anyone ever manage to get pregnant at that rate?
Female Biology:
When a woman is born, she has over 1 million eggs in her ovaries. By puberty, she’ll only have around 300,000 left. Only 300 of these will mature and be released during her reproductive years.
Uh-oh, this is getting worse and worse. What was the point in having 1 million eggs when you’re born if you’re not going to use them then? How stupid was that? It was like winning the lottery but never being able to spend the money until you reached ninety. I stared at the screen as a sliver of dread danced down my spine. The chances of getting pregnant were getting slimmer and slimmer. Had my ovaries already shrivelled up like a couple of dried old prunes?
I switched the computer off then before I found out something even more depressing.
****
In between a pedicure on Mrs Omeroyd, whose feet looked like pigs’ trotters, and a Brazilian wax on Stella, I rushed off to the chemist for supplies.
I spent an hour perusing the different kits and thermometers. Was one better than the other? Should I get a more expensive kit? How many would I need? Worst case scenario, if my period was coming every four months, I’d use around sixty strips per cycle.
I loaded up two boxes containing thirty per box and took everything to the checkout.
I nearly had a heart attack when the checkout girl said, ‘Sixty pounds, please.’
‘What are they made of? Gold?’ I asked, handing over some crumpled notes. Still, I’d only need this lot. Now I had the tools to predict ovulation, I’d be pregnant in no time. Simple.
Green Tea and Baggy Boxers
I was shopping with my best friend Amelia in town just before Christmas, stocking up on last minute pressies, when I had my first proper freak-out moment about the lack of action on the baby front.
The shopping centre was swarming with mothers and children. Toddlers, teenagers, babies, everywhere I looked. I swallowed down a hard lump in my throat and blinked back tears as I pretended to be interested in Body Shop gift sets for Karl, socks (again) for Dad, and a new broomstick for my snooty stepmum, Lavinia.
Who cared about all that material stuff anymore? I knew what I wanted for Christmas, but it just wasn’t happening. If I heard “Little Drummer Boy” blasting out of the shops sound system, along with all the other crappy Christmas songs, I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.
And why had all these calendar shops sprung up in every available empty space? All I’d done for the last eight months was chart things on calendars – daily body temperature, possible ovulation dates, egg white, when my bastarding period arrived, and how long my cycle was. I didn’t need a bloody reminder, thanks very much! It was like fate was taunting me. What if I was in the same position this time next year?
‘So what happened at the doctor’s yesterday? Did you get the results of your blood tests?’ Amelia asked as she perused a boxed set of beers for her husband, Dan.
‘Yes.’ I nodded glumly.
She glanced up with expectation, her hazel eyes fixing on mine. ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Is it good or bad?’
‘Bad-ish.’ I exhaled a deep sigh. I’d been taking my basal body temperature for six months now, and it was up and down more times than the price of petrol. Along with my irregular periods, and blood tests on days four and twenty-one of my cycle to check my hormone levels, it all confirmed I had an ovulatory dysfunction. ‘I’m dysfunctional,’ I said.
‘Oh, Gina.’ She put the beer back on the display shelf and wrapped me in a hug. ‘But they can do something about it, right?’ She pulled back, searching my face for signs of good news.
‘I have to have some more tests done. A scan to see if I’ve got polycystic ovaries, and an HCG test to check if my fallopian tubes are OK. Then they’re probably going to give me Clomid, which is some kind of drug to trigger ovulation.’
‘And what’s the success rate with it?’
‘Apparently it can start ovulation in about eighty percent of women, and about forty percent of women get pregnant within six months of treatment,’ I said.
‘Well that’s great, then.’
I nodded again and sniffed. I’d always been a glass is half-full kind of girl, but now I was starting to doubt everything. What if I fell into the sixty percent category who didn’t get pregnant?
In the distance, I spied a cute baby girl in a buggy, dressed up in a reindeer outfit, complete with a reindeer headband that had waggly antlers poking out on springs. Her cheeks were pink from the stifling heat of the shop. As she threw a stuffed teddy bear out of her pram, giggling at it, her mum looked down at her with such an expression of pure love I had a sudden stabbing pain in my chest. I had to get out of there.
I pushed my way through the crowds to the entrance and leaned my back against the cold brick wall outside, taking deep gulps of air.
Amelia appeared by my side within seconds, a crinkled frown on her face. ‘It will work. I know it will, Gina.’ She nodded so much her black bob escaped from being tucked behind her ears and fell forward, framing her face. ‘You just have to be positive and relax. Stop thinking about it so much.’
Yes, but that was easy for everyone else to say. It was all right for her and Dan – they’d never wanted kids. They were perfectly happy together with no new additions to the family, instead doting on their three cats, and nieces and nephews that they were glad to “give back” to their parents at the end of the day. Why couldn’t I be like that? Well, actually that was the old me. I was always adamant I never wanted kids. If any of our friends got pregnant in the past, Amelia and I used to have smug conversations about all the things we’d rather do than have kids…
Me: I’d rather have an affair with Gordon Brown than have kids.
Amelia: Or David Blunkett.
Me: Most definitely.
Amelia: All they do is poop and cry. I can’t see the attraction. I’d rather get my leg chewed off by an alligator than change dirty nappies.
Me: I’d rather live on a desert island for a year with no wine than deal with screaming babies.
Amelia: And no chocolate.
Me: Yep. I’d rather have all my teeth extracted with no anaesthetic.
…But now maybe it was too late. My body clock was clanging in my ear with annoying persistence, and I couldn’t help wondering what would’ve happened if we’d started trying sooner. I envied Amelia and Dan. I wished I could go back to those days, where it was just Karl and me, and the only thing I had to worry about was what to cook for dinner that night, which film we were going to watch, or which party we were going to. Now it just seemed like my brain was wired up wrong and all I could think about was getting pregnant. Even a simple shopping trip just rammed down my throat that I was still very un-pregnant.
‘Oh, God, I forgot to give you this!’ She rummaged around in her bag. ‘I found this article in the newspaper the other day so I thought you should take a look.’ She thrust it in my hand.
I tried to look at it but my eyes were blurry with tears.
‘Here.’ She handed me a tissue.
I glanced up and gave her a weak smile as I wiped my eyes. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ignoring the crowds who were busy rubbernecking at me as they walked past.
The article was written by a female nutritionist called Dr Julia Jones, who had lots of credits after her name, saying how diet was really important to aid fertility.
As I took in every word slowly, I read three women’s success stories. One of them had been trying to get pregnant for six years, and after following Julia’s advice, she fell pregnant within six months. Another woman had gone through three IVF treatments and had given up hope when she bought Julia’s book and started implementing her recommended dietary changes, then she had twins within nine months. The last woman had been told by all the doctors she’d never have kids and got pregnant a year after following Julia’s advice. The title of the book and website was listed at the end.
‘Come on.’ I grabbed Amelia’s arm and dragged her towards the nearest bookshop with a new bounce in my step. This was it. All I had to do was change my diet and it would work.
****
Five hours later, I’d read the book cover to cover and was feeling more positive. If I followed her advice, I had a fantastic chance of getting pregnant. Dr Julia Jones didn’t get to be a bestselling nutritionist by talking crap, or eating crap, for that matter, so what she says goes from now on. She would be my new healthy-eating guru. All I had to do was follow her advice:
Out with the caffeine; in with the green tea, peppermint tea, nettle tea (blah! Sounded gross. Who wanted to drink a cup of scratchy weeds?).
Sugar and refined carbs were not my friend, apparently. (Damn, chocolate was definitely my friend!) Whole-wheat grains and oats were recommended. (Right, so gloopy porridge for breakfast instead of Coco Pops. Yum. Not.)
Pulses like lentils and quinoa (never heard of it), were good sources of protein instead of meat.
Everything should be organic to reduce the amount of pesticides and hormones that could be messing up my system.
Fresh fruits and veggies were the name of the game.
Nuts (not Karl’s for once) and fresh, oily fish were a must. (Ew, mackerel made me feel nauseous at just the whiff of it.)
Sodas, artificial sweeteners, and E numbers were worse than cyanide.
Plus, a list of vitamins, minerals to combat any deficiencies, and the herbal supplement Vitex, which was good for rebalancing hormone levels and normalizing ovulation.
Severely reducing, or cutting out alcohol completely (Not too keen on that part. I loved wine, but I wanted a baby more, so, I guess I’d have to do it.)
No problemo. I could do this!
As soon as Karl came home from a bike ride with Dan I said, ‘We’re going shopping,’ with a huge smile on my face.
‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, sitting on the bottom step and pulling off his trainers. ‘Haven’t you been shopping all afternoon with Amelia? I bet it’s murder out there with the Christmas rush.’
‘No, we’re going food shopping. To the supermarket.’ I grabbed his coat and thrust it towards him.
He glanced down at his cycling shorts and sweaty top. ‘I need a bath first! I can’t go out like this. And didn’t you go food shopping the other day? We’ve got loads of stuff in the house.’
‘Well, first of all, you can’t have a hot bath anymore because it’s bad for your sperm, and second, we have to stock up on loads of healthy food.’ I filled him in on Julia’s book. ‘Oh, and after your lukewarm shower, not bath, you have to wear these.’ I opened up a bag full of new baggy boxer shorts I’d bought in town after reading that tight ones can cause bollock asphyxiation and damage sperm.
He looked at me like I’d just suggested a threesome with a cyborg, then peered in the bag. ‘Are you having a laugh?’ He pulled out some oversized, baggy boxers that, OK, I admit, looked like something a seventy-year-old granddad would wear.
‘If it helps increase those little swimmers, who cares? Practical, medical advice overrules vanity from now on. You’ve got to do the sperm test on Monday morning so I can take it to the hospital, and I want those little guys to pass with flying colours. At least it will be one less thing to worry about.’
‘Do you know how uncomfortable these are going to be? I love my tighties, they keep me all compact and cosy. I’ll be flopping around all over the place in these.’ He put his hands in one of the short legs and pulled the material apart to see how wide it was. ‘Fucking hell, I could fit a jumbo jet in one of these legs. You’ll be buying me a kilt next.’
‘Hey, great idea!’ I made a mental note to order him one online. ‘And you can’t go cycling anymore.’ I bit my lip, waiting for the next outburst. ‘It constricts the blood flow to your nuts, apparently.’
‘But I’ve been cycling for twenty years.’ He threw up his hands in a defeated gesture. ‘What am I allowed to do now?’
I just smiled sweetly. ‘Come on, then, hurry up and get in the shower so we can go.’
****
‘So what are we having for dinner?’ Karl dumped the last food-filled carrier bag on the kitchen worktop two hours later.
‘Vegetarian shepherd’s pie with spinach, lentils, red peppers, tomatoes and carrots, with a sweet potato topping, and a leafy green salad on the side. Then for an evening snack you can have pumpkin seeds.’
He pulled a horrified face, like I’d just suggested feeding him kangaroo’s bollocks. (I had nuts on the brain!)
‘They’re all good for both your sperm and me,’ I said, reading the instructions on the packet of dried lentils. Soak overnight before use, it said. Damn. I could see this was going to get complicated. ‘Minus the lentils,’ I added, thinking I could use them for something tomorrow, that was if I ever managed to get off the Internet because I’d be too busy looking up new recipes to make dinners with all this new stuff.
‘Right. But please don’t tell me I can’t have a beer tonight. That’s going to just about finish me off.’
‘Er…I hate to break it to you but alcohol is out, too,’ I said, thinking I could kill a glass of wine right about now. Or a bottle. I glanced over at the wine rack in the corner of the kitchen. A nice Chilean red was seriously calling my name.
No! Don’t look at the wine. Focus. Wine’s nice but a baby is better. Stop looking!
He followed my gaze. ‘What about wine? Wine’s OK, isn’t it? Red wine’s good for…’ he tilted his head, looking like he was racking his brain to come up with something it was good for. ‘Your heart!’ he finally said, looking pretty pleased with himself.
‘According to Julia, any alcohol negatively affects a woman’s eggs, and it can increase oestrogen in males, which might interfere with sperm production. It’s also a toxin that kills off sperm-generating cells in your nuts.’ I threw a last longing look at the wine.
‘So we have to turn into teetotal vegetarians to get pregnant, otherwise I’ll end up with toxic nuts and manboobs?’
I gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘That’s about the size of it. Although, we can still have organic meat, but it’s pretty expensive so we’ll be having lots of healthy protein things like quinoa.’ I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him.
‘I don’t even think I want to know what that is.’ He rested his chin on the top of my head and groaned. ‘OK, babe. Anything I have to do to get our Cecil, I’ll do.’
Just Relax!
‘Come on, we’re going to be late round your dad and Lavinia’s,’ Karl whispered while I was on the phone to Poppy.
I’d met Poppy online at the Fertility Friends website about a month before and we’d started messaging each other. Then it progressed to phone calls. From her profile picture on the website she looked like an original hippie. Tie-dye clothes, a silver hoop through her nose, and about a million on each ear, blonde dreadlocks.
‘So Karl’s got to do his sperm test tomorrow, and I’m having my scan and HCG test next week,’ I told her.
‘Well, that’s good,’ she said. ‘At least you might get some more idea of where you are next week. But you really need to stop worrying so much about it and have some fun.’
I snorted. I was sick of people telling me that. It was like telling someone trying to give up smoking not to think about cigarettes. It just made you think about them even more.
Poppy laughed. ‘I know, it’s easier said than done, believe me. But if you constantly obsess about it, you’re likely to self-sabotage.’
I frowned. ‘Huh? What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know when you really, desperately want something in life, it just never seems to happen, but when you’re not that interested in something you seem to get it easily. It seems to just come to you without even trying.’
‘Yes.’
‘I think a lot of the time we self-sabotage when we desperately want something, because deep down we’re afraid what will happen when we get it. If we don’t care too much about something, it doesn’t matter whether we get it or not, but when we care deeply, there’s a huge risk in getting it. What if it doesn’t work out, will I be unhappy, then? What if I get it and I love it, but then it’s taken away from me? What if I get it but there’s another cost to having it – one I haven’t thought of yet? What if I lose something else along the way in trying to find it? Do you see what I mean?’ she asked.
‘So you’re saying we unconsciously put obstacles in the way of getting what we want because we’re afraid of what will happen when we get it?’ Wow, I’d never thought about it before. Did it make sense? I wracked my brains, trying to think back to things I’d really wanted in life. When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut and that didn’t happen. What else? Oh, yes, there was the time in beauty school when I wanted to win the award for the best French manicure, but that didn’t happen, which was a shame because the prize was a twenty-quid voucher for the cinema and I had a huge crush on Patrick Swayze who was starring in Dirty Dancing at the time.
‘It could be because of your mum,’ Poppy’s voice interrupted my brain-searching as Karl paced up and down the kitchen, doing flapping hurry-up motions with his hands.
I glared at him and tuned back into Poppy. This was just getting interesting.
‘Your mum died when you were seventeen, which was right about the time you were blossoming as a woman. Maybe you’re worried that if you have a baby, somehow you’ll be taken away from it, or it will be taken away from you, and so inadvertently your brain or body is putting obstacles in the way of getting pregnant.’
Oh, God, maybe she had a point. ‘I’ve never heard of that before, but maybe you’re right.’
‘Your mind is a powerful tool. When you hear the phrase “mind over matter,” it’s true. Your subconscious actually holds more power than your conscious mind. Even though you’re telling everyone that you want a baby, if you have a subconscious belief that it’s unattainable, you’re likely to be using yourself as an obstacle.’
I took a deep breath and let that sink in. Could she really be on to something about my mum? I mean, I was an only child so we were very close, and even now, I still felt the emptiness of not having her here. I knew she would understand what I was going through and be my rock of support. I guess seventeen is a pretty bad age to lose your mum, when you need to turn to her for guidance on relationships, broken hearts, new jobs, and generally flourishing into a woman. Could I really be self-sabotaging because I was scared of losing a baby somehow when I got it? Possibly. Did I have a really have a fear of succeeding in having a baby? A dread that somehow I might be a failure as a mum, or that he or she might be suddenly whipped away from me in the blink of an eye, like Mum? And if so, what could I do about it?
‘OK, so what can I do to change that?’ I said. ‘If that is what’s going on.’
‘Well, acknowledging it is probably the first step. Maybe you should try and repeat some mantra every day to introduce positive thoughts.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Something like, “I can be happy as a mother,” or “the past will not become the future.” If you say it often enough, it might get through to your subconscious. I’d also recommend doing some relaxation CDs. There’s a new one out especially for fertility that you can order,’ she said as Karl poked me to hurry up.
I stuck my tongue out at him. ‘OK, that’s really helpful, Poppy, thanks. I’ll think about what you said and get the CD.’
‘And don’t forget to call me any time.’
‘Right back at ya!’ I said and hung up.
‘Come on, we’re going to be late,’ Karl said as I flung on my coat. ‘I don’t want to risk the wrath of Lavinia.’
I curled my lip up and groaned. Dad had met Lavinia six years ago, and she was the complete opposite of my mum. How can I describe her without sounding like a complete bitch? Hmm…Lavinia was the most difficult woman I’d ever met. Nothing was ever right for her, and she complained constantly about everything. God knows how Dad put up with her, although he was so placid, he probably just went along with her for a quiet life. Whereas mum had been full of fun and life and the kindest person I’d ever known, Lavinia was…well, a self-centred, snooty witch. But somehow, and I haven’t got the foggiest idea how, she seemed to make Dad happy, so I vowed ages ago to be the perfect stepdaughter and not upset the applecart. Along with Lavinia came a stepsister called Jayne, who was pretty much the spitting image of Lavinia, in looks and personality. She was married to Wayne, and I still couldn’t say Jayne and Wayne in the same sentence without chuckling to myself. OK, childish I know, but I couldn’t help myself.
‘Shit! I forgot to bring the wine!’ I said as we pulled up outside their house across town.
‘Good, it’s not like we’re drinking it anyway,’ Karl said. ‘I might be tempted to smack Lavinia over the head with it if it’s in my reach. Well, after being tempted to drink the whole bottle.’
Since Karl’s parents lived in Spain, we hardly ever got to see his side of the family, and even though he loved my dad like a second father figure, he felt the same about Lavinia as I did, tolerating her for Dad’s sake.
‘No, I’d bought some non-alcoholic elderflower wine to bring.’ I opened their gate and walked up the driveway.
‘Yum.’ He gave me a look that said it sounded anything but yum.
‘Lavinia will be in moany mode now. Why don’t you nip down to the corner shop and grab a bottle?’ I said. ‘I’ll just have water.’
‘OK.’ He kissed the top of my nose as I rang the doorbell, probably grateful for a few more minutes of non-Lavinia time.
Oh, and speak of the devil…she swung open the door and gave me a tight smile. ‘Gina, how lovely of you to make it.’ She glanced at my empty, non-wine bearing hands and her mouth pinched slightly. ‘Come in.’ She stepped back and let me enter.
‘So how’ve you been?’ I asked as she closed the door.
‘Wonderful, thanks. Everyone’s in the lounge.’ She disappeared as I slipped off my coat and hung it on the hook by the door.
Well, I’m good, too, thanks for asking!
‘Aunty Gina!’ Rupert and Quentin, Jayne and Wayne’s (ha ha!) two sons came bounding over to hug me.
Rupert was seven and hugged me tight around the waist, resting his head on my stomach and gazing up at me like a long-lost friend. Quentin was nine and nestled his head into me until I put my arm around him. I kissed the tops of their heads. They smelt of grass and toothpaste.
‘How are you both?’ I said, smiling down at them.
‘Now, now, boys, let Gina go.’ Jayne clapped her hands to get their attention like they were a couple of dogs she was trying to distract. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t want to be hassled by you as soon as she walks in the door.’
‘Of course I do!’ I said, ruffling their hair. ‘What have you been up to? How’s school? How’s the football team going?’ I asked them.
‘Do you want to see the drawing I did?’ Rupert asked, pulling me towards the coffee table.
‘No, Aunty Gina wants to see the new model dinosaur I made.’ Quentin pulled me in the opposite direction.
‘Boys, go outside and play,’ Wayne barked at them. ‘This is adult time now.’
They both screwed up their faces. ‘Awwwwww, we want to play with Aunty Gina.’
Lavinia clapped her hands together briskly (like mother like daughter). ‘Off you go, before you make a mess in here,’ she said to them.
‘OK, I promise to play Monopoly with you after dinner.’ I winked at them and they gave me an excited thumbs-up before disappearing.
It was the same every time I saw them. Jayne and Wayne were both barristers with a thriving practice in London, and never seemed to have any time for their children. An endless round of live-in au pairs looked after them most of the time.
‘Gina!’ Dad entered the room with an apron round his waist that said Top Chef on it. He loved to cook, and I’d bought if for him for Christmas last year, although if I were married to Lavinia, I’d spend most of the time away from her in the kitchen, too. It was Dad’s little haven since she never even made so much as a cup of tea. He crushed me in a hug. ‘How are you? Any news on the baby front?’ He pulled back, searching my face for good news.
I shook my head, determined for once not to get upset about it.
‘Jayne got pregnant instantly both times,’ Lavinia butted in. ‘Didn’t you?’ She glanced over at Jayne who nodded with a smug smile on her face. ‘I must say it runs in the family.’ Lavinia propped herself on the edge of the sofa that had perfectly arranged and plumped cushions, smoothing her tight black pencil skirt over her knee. ‘All our side are incredibly fertile.’
I fought the urge to growl at her. Or worse, batter her over the head with…I searched the room for battering equipment…the Monopoly board would do for starters.
Jayne guffawed. ‘I just had to look at Wayne and I got pregnant. Both times.’
Yeah, hilarious!
‘Oh, well.’ Lavinia waved her hand. ‘If you just stop worrying about it and relax, it will happen.’
OK, I think I let out a slight growl at that.
Dad pulled me tighter in a supportive embrace. At least he seemed to get it. ‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes.’ He thankfully changed the subject before dashing off back to the kitchen because something smelt of burning.
‘Oh, I do hope you don’t burn the roast potatoes again,’ Lavinia called after Dad.