The Two Week Wait (29 page)

But I’m thinking things through, another inner voice protests; always better to be prepared.

Oh, piss off, she retorts, cross at giving in to pessimism. She decides to play a small trick on herself, even though her alter ego is busy arguing the notion is pathetic, mere pop psychology.
She visualizes an ancient trunk. She opens the lid, picks up the gremlin of negative thoughts, and pops him – arms and legs beating in rage – inside. Then she slams it shut and locks
it.

There, she says to herself, that’s sent you packing.

She turns to Karen’s son. ‘Luke, why don’t you join me and Molly?’

‘I’m fine here,’ he says, and thwacks the ball especially hard against the gate. The wire mesh rattles violently.

Karen glances at Lou and shakes her head in despair.

Oh dear, thinks Lou. He reminds her of herself as a child. ‘I’d really like your help,’ she cajoles. ‘Look, we’ve no one in the middle. I can reach up high and
Molly’s down there, but with you we could get a proper conveyor belt going, and there is so much fruit they’ll only go to waste otherwise.’

‘You can pick them another day,’ says Luke.

‘They’ll go rotten.’

Luke hesitates.

‘Here.’ While he’s in two minds, she picks up an empty ice-cream container from close by. ‘Catch!’

Automatically Luke reaches into the air and seizes it. Grudgingly, he makes his way round the brassica bed and over to join them. Soon his fingers are stained purple with juice and his arms are
scratched by brambles, just like Lou’s.

*  *  *

Several hours later, Cath has the body of the quilt sewn together. It took a while for her to sort the tension; having to adjust the dials this way and that was a test of her
patience and determination, but eventually she got the machine working properly. She started by sewing six squares into a strip, alternating floral, striped, spotted, checked, plain and paisley.
The next row she started with striped and finished with floral, and so on, using seven strips in total. And so she’s watched it grow, square by square, finding it a good distraction from her
preoccupation about what might – or might not – be growing inside her. Whilst there’s more to do, she now has a real sense of how the quilt will look when it’s done.

As she stands back to admire her handiwork, she can feel the presence of her grandmother and her mother standing by her shoulder. My grandmother taught my mother, and mum taught me, she thinks.
She can recall Judy making curtains when she was a girl; she had an electric machine, would pretend the long seams were a train journey. ‘Now we’re going up to Scotland,’
she’d say, as Cath looked on, and she’d push the foot pedal down hard, so the motor made a
whoosh
sound as it stitched, fast as an InterCity 125.

It’s a shame so many people don’t know how to sew any more, Cath thinks. If we have a child, I’ll make sure to pass on what I’ve learnt.

‘You can drop me off here,’ says Cath. The traffic is at a crawl; it’s a good opportunity to jump out.

Rich pulls up the hatchback outside Starbucks. As she opens the door he says, ‘I thought you were going to the supermarket.’

‘I fancy a coffee first,’ she says.

He eyes her suspiciously. ‘You’re not doing another check in the Ladies, are you?’

‘No!’

‘Good. I’m not sure it’s helping.’

But instead of going into the smartly done-up red-brick cafe, once the car is out of sight down Headingley Lane she nips across the street.

The parade of shops on the Otley Road is a reflection of Headingley’s mixed customer base: chichi gift emporiums and trendy hair salons butt up against cheap sandwich bars and charity
shops. It’s studentsville meets suburbia, where youths with a zeal for maximum alcohol intake and minimum expenditure bump shoulders with Leeds’s upwardly mobile professionals; and
dyed-in-the-wool elderly residents live alongside large, loud Asian families. As such it resists gentrification, and the branch of Boots Cath heads towards is no exception. Its navy glass frontage
looks inappropriately modern and cumbersome set into the ancient bricks of grey Yorkshire stone; inside the store is scruffy, in need of a makeover.

Cath picks up a wire basket and goes to the pharmacy section. The woman behind the counter appears tired, in need of some sunshine. As Cath picks over the display, she can feel her watching. She
has a sudden urge to poke out her tongue at her but resists. Instead she selects four packs, each a different brand – you never can be too sure – and takes them to another till, by the
door.

*  *  *

Hi Cath and everyone again, I came across these five tips online today, so I thought I’d cut and paste them for all of us to share:

1. Keep busy.
How about arranging a date with friends or relatives? Meet
them for a cuppa or a meal out, go to the movies, take up a hobby – anything to distract yourself.

2. Schedule ‘Obsessing time’.
We pretend we’re not, but
we’re anxious. So schedule 15 minutes twice a day to obsess and make a promise you’ll only be ‘Two Week Wait Crazy’ during that time.

3. Get support
. Infertility is very difficult emotionally, and it’s
great to find kindred spirits who’ve been through it too. So connect online, join a live support group, find a therapist who specializes in infertility.

4. Use relaxation techniques.
There are many ways to deal with anxiety,
from breathing exercises to meditation. I am a great advocate of yoga and acupuncture.

5. Write out your ‘what-ifs’
. Ask yourself one of your what-if
questions, and then answer it yourself. The idea isn’t to talk yourself out of being afraid, but to get to the core of what’s worrying you. It’s like playing therapist with
yourself – you’d be amazed how wise you can be if you take the time to respect yourself. Mia

Afterwards, she returns Adam’s call – he left a message earlier.

‘You were asking about doing a test? I thought next Monday,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you come here, and we’ll do it together?’

‘I thought the clinic said to wait fourteen days.’

‘You can do a test earlier. Other women do, I’ve seen online.’

‘Though you know the longer you leave it, the more accurate it’s likely to be?’

‘I do. Still, what do you reckon?’

‘OK, let’s give it a go. You’re best off doing it in the morning, so I’ll come on my way to work. Eight a.m.?’

‘It’s a date,’ says Lou. ‘I’ll see you then.’

She rings off, pleased. Hopefully scheduling definite action will keep Adam at bay. He has been texting and calling her an awful lot. She knows he means well, but she’s been trying
not
to focus too much on pregnancy, which is hard enough anyway, and his anxiety only makes her worry more herself.

*  *  *

‘So what do you think?’ Cath leads Rich into the lounge. She’s thrown the quilt over the sofa. ‘I know it doesn’t go in here,’ she says,
before he can say he doesn’t like the pastel shades. She is aware that the rich terracotta colour scheme of the room drowns them. ‘I just wanted you to see. I finished it
today.’

‘Oh.’ Rich twists his lips; shifts, awkward.

Cath can read him so well: immediately she is hurt, defensive. It’s taken her such ages: she had to bind the edges, then turn it inside out to attach first the wadding, then the reverse.
She’s hand-stitched the opening, trimmed it with ribbon and finally used a contrasting bright thread to create diagonal crosses right across the quilt. She’s taken enormous trouble, not
permitting herself any short cuts, and she’s proud of her creation. ‘Don’t you like it?’ She bites her lip, keen for his approval.

‘No, love, it’s not that, of course I like it. It’s really nice.’

But she knows he is holding something back. ‘What’s the problem, then?’

‘I’m just . . . ’ He glances away, as if searching for a response that won’t injure her. It only makes Cath feel more crushed.

‘Yes?’

‘I – er . . . I’m worried, love, that’s all.’

‘Worried?’ However worried he is, he can’t be as bad as me, thinks Cath. I’m the one who’s dancing to the toilet every hour, who’s filling my days with
displacement activity so I don’t spontaneously combust.

‘Mm.’ He looks at the floor. Not for the first time she is struck by the likeness to her brother: they deal with difficult conversations in the same way.

‘Why?’

‘Well . . . it’s for a baby, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily,’ she says hotly. ‘We could use it anywhere.’

‘But you just said it doesn’t go in here—’

‘On our bed, in the spare room—’

‘Ah, OK.’ His features relax. Then his brow furrows once more. ‘Though it’s not remotely big enough for a full-size bed, is it?’

‘We could lay it along the foot, I don’t know. Does it matter?’ She can hear her voice rising with frustration.

‘I just think you’re getting your hopes up, love, that’s all,’ he ventures.

The remark stabs at Cath with the precision only the truth can. ‘I am not!’

‘I don’t want you to get ahead of yourself. Please try and, you know, take this a day at a time. It’ll only make it worse if we’re disappointed.’

Cath fights a sudden urge to cry. She pictures the carrier bag of pregnancy tests she bought from Boots earlier, upstairs in the bathroom. She’d been going to suggest they do one together,
that evening; there’s a packet that claims it will give an early result, six days sooner than the fourteenth day, which would make it worth using right away. She doesn’t want to do it
on her own. If it’s good news she wants to share it; if it’s bad she’ll need support. But now she is convinced Rich will baulk at the suggestion, there is no point in even
asking.

Hi everyone, I could scream! I just spent days making this gorgeous quilt so as to take my mind off the 2WW, and my husband was so unappreciative of it.
Normally he’s so understanding, and I don’t know what on earth he expects me to do with my time. It’s all very well for him – he works ludicrous hours and it’s not his
body that all this depends on. He’s not the one constantly feeling his boobs or wondering if he’s got the first waves of morning sickness. I’m stuck at home crawling the blooming
walls, and when I finally find something to take my mind off waiting – a hobby, just like you suggested, Mia – he has a go at me. I was just going to suggest we do a pregnancy test too,
even though it’s a few days early. He won’t go for it now, I just know it. Hmph! CathM

Dear Cath, No wonder you’re frustrated by your husband. I do think he is right though: my advice is to go easy on tests. Some women develop a virtual
addiction to them during the 2WW. So if you are thinking about taking a test
way
too early, like five days before the fortnight is up, hold your horses. I understand the idea behind taking
early tests – you’re hoping that maybe you’ll get a positive result, and then the rest of the 2WW will be easier to get through. But it doesn’t work that way! The odds of
getting a positive result before two weeks are slim. Instead you take a test, get a negative, and feel disappointed – even while telling yourself that you know it doesn’t count as it
was too early. Best to wait the full fourteen days from ovulation, take it from me. Patience is a virtue, as they say. Mia.

‘Right, you ready?’ says Adam.

They’re sitting alongside one another on Lou’s sofa. Who is more anxious it’s hard to say. Adam has picked up croissants for them both from a delicatessen on St James’s
Street, but neither can face eating.

‘As I’ll ever be.’ Lou takes a deep breath and removes the plastic stick from its cellophane wrapping.

She’s about to get to her feet when Adam grabs her wrist. ‘You do know we’re more likely to get a false negative result by doing it a couple of days before the clinic said we
should?’

‘It’s been fourteen days since ovulation.’

‘Still, I’m just warning you.’

‘So if it says negative I still might be pregnant?’

‘Possibly. It can take a while for the hormones to build up enough to show. Do you think we should talk about what we’re going to do if it is negative?’

‘No.’ Lou can’t discuss anything; she’s needed the loo since she woke up half an hour before and has held off specially so they can do the test together.

‘Do you want me to read you the instructions?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Again she feels a touch irritated; again she reminds herself he means to help. ‘I looked before you got here.’

She takes the stick and goes to the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

‘Hold it in the stream for at least six seconds!’ calls Adam from the sofa.

‘I don’t know if I’ve got six seconds of pee in me,’ worries Lou, but unsurprisingly she has.

‘Make sure the tip is pointing down!’

Oops, it wasn’t. Maybe he is of use after all. ‘Now what? I’ve finished.’

‘Seal the absorbent window with the cap.’

She edges her way from the toilet, pants still round her knees, and leans round the door so she can see him. ‘Done that.’

‘And pull up your knickers,’ he says.

She comes back to sit down next to him and puts the stick on the coffee table. ‘How long have we got to wait again?’

He squints to read the tiny type on folded paper. ‘Five minutes, they advise.’

‘I can’t bear the suspense!’

‘I know. Me neither.’ And he flips the stick the wrong way up so they can’t stare at it meanwhile.

*  *  *

‘I swear my boobs are a bit swollen today,’ says Cath, standing naked before her husband. ‘What do you think?’

Rich grins. ‘Whatever, they look pretty good to me.’

‘Could mean either thing,’ she says.

‘Eh?’

‘Period due because I’ve been taking medicine to thicken the lining of my womb, or pregnant.’

‘Ah.’