Now, for you, back to that other Saturday, some years ago.  I woke up, and still felt normal.  We had been given an appointment in the morning, so caught an early train.  There was a bitingly cold wind as we went from the car park to the station, and R left me inside the waiting room while he bought a car parking ticket and nipped back with it.  It wasn’t a cosy waiting room and the main doors to the outside world and to the track opened straight into and out of it, so it was more of a foyer than a waiting room, but at least it was not so icy.

I knew that this blood test was going to be a waste of time, and really would much rather have stayed at home and done some housework before the awful cramps and pains that I was now expecting hit me.  I estimated that this would be some time tomorrow.  But we had decided that we would find something of interest to do; there’s always something inLondon, after all, and we would make a day of it.

R came back in, muffled up in his scarf, gloves and hat, with just his dear, bearded face visible.  I looked at him.  That man still hoped that we had a child.  I knew that he was not going to be a Daddy this time either, and I knew that he would have the scientific proof later today.

My heart was a mixture of emotions.  Sadness, because this man that I loved, who would be a Great Dad, would be so sad; grief, for the tiny little embryos that two days ago already had heartbeats which had now ceased, and who would very soon be leaving me for ever; anger, because – well, because it just wasn’t fair, I suppose.

Their sex would have been determined the moment that the sperm had been chosen by the ICSI specialist’s tweezers.  Had they been boys or girls?  We would never know.

R walked to the little shop at the end of the room in order to buy a newspaper to read on the journey.  I watched him walk to the counter – and immediately felt as though I had been slapped in the face.

There was a revolving magazine rack to the left hand side of the counter, displaying among other things a car magazine.  On the front cover it was advertising a new, smaller model of some type of car.  I think that it might have been a Fiat Cinquecento, but am not sure.  It was celebrating the arrival of their “New Baby” car.  In big letters.  Big letters that I could see right across the room.  Big letters making words that seemed to mock me.  Was their no escape from the B word?  Why today, of all days?  Why did the magazine rack have to be turned so that that particular headline was facing me?

It mesmerised me for a long moment.  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it, and yet I couldn’t bear to sit looking at it any longer.  My legs made the decision and stood up and then took me outside into the freezing air.  I think that I must have been holding my breath for a while because the freshness of the winter air in my lungs came as a surprise, and after a while I felt steadier.

R came to join me; I nearly told him about the headline, but it was stupid of me to get upset about seeing the B word in print.  It was only print, after all.  Soon our train arrived, and we crammed ourselves on to it.

R read and I spent the time watching the countryside flash past my window, with eyes that only half registered what they were looking at.  I tried to remember all the things that other women, mothers, told me that they didn’t like about having children.  I tried to convince myself that I didn’t want a baby, didn’t want a child.  I fitted the words to the beat of the wheels on the track.  I don’t want a baby, I don’t want a baby, I don’t want one.  Over and over and over again.  Maybe I would start to believe it.  Maybe Fate would even hear me and believe it, and make me pregnant, because it thought that I didn’t want to be!  (Ha – some hope!)

Well, I knew that that wouldn’t happen, but all the same the repetition of the words in my head was some kind of calming influence.


About Linda Weeks

About my life with the daughter I thought I'd never have - but I did, thanks to a wonderful anonymous egg donor, to whom I will be forever grateful. xx
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