Originally, I thought Chloe would then embark on an IVF program as a single mother and arrive in Burralea pregnant but determined. If you read the book, you will know this isn't quite the way things work out. But I thought you might still be interested in this scene telling how things might have been. I Loved this scene when I first wrote it...
So here's what I deleted...
When
Chloe woke, she was in a smooth white bed with a sheet tucked tightly
over her. She'd been moved to a different room in the clinic and the
handsome Indian Dr Singh had vanished. Now, a lone nurse sat at a
stainless steel bench in the corner of the room, conscientiously
reading some kind of manual.
Chloe
drew a deep breath. She'd been on an emotional roller-coaster over
the past six months since she and Jason had gone their separate ways,
and her highs and lows had escalated since she'd embarked on a
mission to achieve single motherhood.
She'd
worried about having enough money for IVF, of course, but she'd
squirreled away a tidy little sum while she was living with Jason, in
the hope of one day buying their own home. And she had a good steady
job at as a journalist at Girl Talk magazine, with proviso for
maternity leave. So she'd decided that if she lived modestly, she and
her baby should be fine.
The
IVF process had begun with a series of interviews and assessments and
then Chloe had been sent home with a cooler bag of medication and
instructions to inject herself daily – to stimulate her egg
production. Which had posed a major challenge as Chloe was dead
scared of needles and no longer had a partner to help her.
This had also been her reality check, an important test of her motivation.
In the months since she and Jason had split – a very tidy process
on the surface with a great deal of stormy pain underneath –
Chloe's need for a baby of her own had become her entire focus. And
if she wanted a baby, she had no choice but to get used to doing all
manner of things without help.
So
she'd practised by sticking needles into oranges and then, well,
she'd just got on with it.
Today
– egg retrieval day – was the vital next step.
Ever
so slightly phobic about medical procedures, especially those that
involved an entire theatre of medical staff staring at her lady
parts, Chloe had been inordinately grateful for general anaesthetic
while her ovaries were probed. As she'd gone under, her last thought
had been one of hope.
Now
it was over. Her precious eggs had been harvested and she was
supposed to check the back of her hand.
The
lovely Dr Singh, a surprisingly young man with kindly, liquid dark
Indian eyes, had understood the huge importance of this moment and
he'd promised to write down the number of eggs on the back of Chloe's
hand.
Oh,
God.
Who
would have thought that checking her hand could be as nerve-wracking
as looking up final exam results? Chloe closed her eyes and made a
quick wish for plenty of eggs. So much was riding on this.
A
chill flashed over her skin as she slid her hand from beneath the
firmly tucked bed sheet. Just as Dr Singh had promised, the number
was written in blue biro.
Four.
Chloe
blinked. Only four?
Disappointment
exploded hotly in her chest. In her face. The girls on the internet
IVF chat forum had talked of much higher numbers. Fourteen or even
twenty eggs. Certainly more than ten. Chloe couldn't remember anyone
who'd had a number as low as four.
Her
throat tightened and burned. Tears threatened. Last night she'd joked
about this moment with her friend Josie. 'Just my luck they'll
harvest thirteen eggs from me.'
Not
that Chloe was actually superstitious about the number thirteen, but
last night that trivial possibility had seemed the worst that might
happen. It had never occurred to her to worry about a number as low
as four. She was fit and healthy and the women in her family all
seemed to fall pregnant with ridiculous ease.
But
they'd been much younger than thirty-seven when they'd started their
families, she reminded herself now.
Four.
She gave a shudder of deep despair and felt terribly alone. Even the
nurse had disappeared.
She
wished she'd accepted Josie's offer to come with her to the clinic,
but she'd been naively optimistic and confident. This was only the
start of her IVF adventure and everything would be fine.
Now,
though, the journey ahead felt so much more precarious. Her four
little eggs had yet to be assessed for quality and then placed under
a high powered microscope for fertilisation with donor sperm. Chloe
had chosen to use de-identified sperm. She'd wasted seven plus years
with a man she'd deemed perfect, and now her baby's father would be
happily anonymous. No pressure. No disappointments.
Once
the embryos were fertilised, however, they would have to be tested
yet again – fingers crossed that at least one or two would be
viable – and finally, if she was lucky, perhaps very lucky,
a little miracle would be transferred back into her womb.
Not
for the first time, Chloe wondered if she shouldn't have been a
little more adventurous with unprotected sex.
As
she stared at the blue number on her hand, she considered texting
Josie, the only person she'd been prepared to confide in about this
venture. She felt a bit guilty about her secrecy. She would have
liked to have told her family, but her mum was still mad at her for
breaking up with Jason.
'For
heaven's sake, Chloe, how can you break up with him after all this
time? You've left it too late to be choosy about men. Any half decent
fellow will be taken by now.'
As for Chloe's older sisters, she could never seem to find the right
moment to talk. Rachel and Lisa were always so incredibly busy
running their clever little children to an endless round of
activities.
No
one at Girl Talk magazine knew about this either. Chloe hadn't
wanted to risk breathing a word about it in the office and she'd had
to fudge the truth just to wangle today's leave.
If
her editor caught a whiff of a single mum IVF pregnancy, she would
have hassled Chloe to record the whole experience in a serialised
diary format for the magazine. Last year she'd bullied another
journalist, poor Jane Starling, into reporting her stomach stapling
ordeal, for heaven's sake.
No,
thank you.
Chloe
might have given in to tears of self pity, but the nurse reappeared,
bustling through the doorway with a cup of tea in one hand and a
plate of sandwiches in the other. She had a round, freckled face and
short, flame coloured hair and her name badge said Hazel Bird.
'Hello
there. I'm Hazel,' she announced with a mega-bright smile. 'How are
you feeling?'
'A
bit disappointed actually.' Chloe supposed Hazel already knew about
her dismal egg count, but she held up her hand anyway, twisting it to
show the number. 'That's not enough, is it?'
Hazel
frowned. 'How old are you?'
Perhaps
Chloe was super-sensitive, but the question felt brutally
matter-of-fact. 'Thirty-seven.'
This
brought a non-committal shrug. 'In our program, women under
thirty-eight can have acceptable live birth rates with only three to
six eggs.'
'Oh.'
So there was still a statistical chance.
'Over
six is better of course, but it's important to stay positive.'
Hazel's
words were meant to be hopeful, but Chloe was sure she heard doubt in
her voice. 'Right,' she said. 'Thanks.'
'Now,
enjoy this cuppa and the sandwiches.' Hazel was brisk again, like a
nanny jollying a sulky child. 'And then you should be right to go
home.'
Home.
These
days Chloe's home was a one bedroom flat in Glebe with a small study
nook that she planned to turn into a miniature nursery. Not that she
would dream of buying any nursery furniture until she knew there was
an actual baby on the way. She didn't want to tempt fate.
She
was happy enough in this new place. It was only a five minute bus
ride from the Girl Talk office and on Saturday mornings she
could go to the flea markets and stroll past the vintage clothing
stalls, while fantasising about the interesting maternity outfits she
might buy in the months ahead. Some weekends she had coffee at the
café in Blackwattle Bay Park with its views to Anzac Bridge and she
allowed herself to dream fanciful thoughts about bringing her baby
here to this park in a pram, or later, when her little one was older,
going for walks down to the water's edge. Perhaps there'd be ducks to
feed.
Hazel
asked abruptly, 'Is someone coming to drive you home?'
Chloe
shook her head. 'It's OK. I'll get a taxi.'
