Madeleine (4 page)

In our spare time Gerry and I would go out for meals with friends or run in the fields around Queniborough. Gerry played the occasional game of squash and joined Rothley Park Golf Club. Life, then, was full and busy, and good, apart from the dark shadow cast over everything by the absence of any developments on the pregnancy front. I tried not to talk too much about how hard all this was for me, even to Gerry. I didn’t want to come across as mad or obsessed. In reality, though, I think most women probably become a bit fixated once they have made the all-important decision to have a baby. And in my case, of course, there had never been the slightest doubt about whether motherhood was for me. It had only ever been a question of when.

Eventually I saw a doctor, underwent tests and was diagnosed with endometriosis – a common condition in which cells similar to those lining the womb grow in areas outside it, and which can sometimes cause fertility problems. I embarked on over a year of surgery with laser treatment and hormonal injections, all to no avail. When we still failed to conceive naturally the only option open to us was assisted conception.

As a senior house officer in gynaecology, I’d seen the sadness and desperation etched on the faces of women coming up to the ward to undergo fertility treatment and declared that, in their position, I’d accept what was meant to be rather than put myself through in-vitro fertilization. The whole process seemed too traumatic and fraught with disappointment. Oh, the certainties of youth. I never dreamed then that the same thing might happen to me. And as is the case with so many things in life, it is impossible to predict how you will feel or react in a certain situation until you actually experience it for yourself. When it came to it, I didn’t think twice. Having never for a moment questioned that I wanted to be a mother, to share my life and my love with a brood of children, I reasoned that if accomplishing my goal meant subjecting myself to IVF, so be it.

In a strange way, even taking that decision gave me a huge sense of relief. Suddenly, it seemed, the responsibility for conceiving had been lifted from our shoulders and the pressure on Gerry and me was eased. Our first attempt at IVF went smoothly and the invasive nature of the treatment – the injections, scans and subsequent procedures – didn’t upset or worry me at all. Everything was going marvellously: I was responding very well to the drugs, I produced plenty of eggs and an excellent percentage of those, once fertilized by Gerry’s sperm, resulted in embryos. Not all embryos survive beyond the first few days and opinions on the optimum time to transfer them into the womb were divided. Some clinicians favoured implanting them early, on day two or three, on the grounds that they were ‘better inside than out’. Others felt that the embryos that had made it to the blastocyst stage (five days) outside the womb would be the strongest, and therefore the ones most likely to flourish in the long run. We had thirteen fertilized eggs. We decided to have some of them frozen and to have two blastocysts implanted.

Encouraged by the textbook progress of the treatment and the optimism of the IVF team (‘It’s as perfect a cycle as you can get!’), both Gerry and I were naively confident that it was going to work. Even so, we weren’t prepared to run any risks, no matter how small, and I took every possible precaution. I completely avoided alcohol, exercise and sex. I had showers rather than baths, as if it were somehow possible for the embryos to float off into the bath water. I lived my life wrapped in enough cotton wool to fill an aircraft hangar.

I remember going into the hospital after two weeks for a pregnancy test, very calm on the outside, but very excited. An even more vivid memory is the physical pain of the blow that followed. The test was negative. I simply couldn’t believe it. Back then I couldn’t imagine there could be any pain worse than this. To this day, I cannot understand how I allowed myself to be so certain, especially as I knew, not only as a would-be mother but also as a doctor, how emotionally devastating the peaks and troughs associated with IVF can be. My baseless optimism only made the crash to earth that much harder. I cried and cried and cried.

After breaking the news to Gerry, who was almost as crushed as I was, and my mum, I went for a hard, fast run to try to expel some of my distress, pain and anger. It helped a little. A day or two later, I was back on the bus, as Auntie Norah would say, in control and geared up for the wait until we could try again.

Two months later we were ready for a second shot, using two of the embryos we’d had frozen. This time all I needed to do was to go into the hospital at the right time of the month and have the embryos transferred into my uterus. I was at work when I took the call I’d been expecting from the hospital. But instead of being asked to come in there and then, as I was anticipating, I was told, in very matter-of-fact tones, that unfortunately the defrosted embryos hadn’t survived and we therefore couldn’t go ahead with the procedure. And that, it seemed, was that. Another pallet of bricks dropped on my chest. That night, after the inevitable deluge of tears, Gerry and I went out for a consoling curry and a few beers. At least we had each other, we said. Then we picked ourselves up and prepared to start all over again.

Although the IVF team’s plan was for us to return in six weeks to discuss the next step, after thinking it through, I could see no reason why, provided the facilities were available, we couldn’t start a new cycle at the end of that week. The timing was right and I hadn’t been taking any fertility medication which could potentially interfere with the procedure. It’s baffling to anyone undergoing fertility treatment how casually everybody else can talk about weeks and months, as if you can just go away, forget about it and concentrate on something else. A month is a lifetime to a woman who has already spent years trying to get pregnant. Once you’re on the bus, the last thing you want to do is get off.

We were so pleased when the IVF team agreed. But then a practical obstacle arose: we discovered that at the point when Gerry would need to produce his sperm sample for fertilization he was due to be in Berlin. He had been invited to the biggest cardiology conference in Europe to give a presentation about his research. It was an important stepping-stone in his career, and he was thrilled. My heart sank. It would mean more months of waiting, but how could he miss this conference? That evening, as I was cooking dinner, Gerry came into the kitchen, gave me a hug and told me he’d decided not to go to Berlin. The IVF, he told me, was far more important. I was very relieved and very grateful to him.

This time the cycle didn’t go quite as smoothly. Once again I responded well to the drugs – maybe a little too well, because my ovaries became over-stimulated. I’d swear they were the size of melons. At any rate, I was very uncomfortable. It was agreed with the team that we would go for a day-three embryo transfer. On day two, however, we received an urgent call from the embryologist, who told us the embryos weren’t looking as good as before. He recommended that I come into the hospital for the transfer immediately. Suddenly, we both felt very despondent. If a ‘perfect’ cycle hadn’t worked, what were the chances of this one being successful? Two embryos were placed inside my uterus but this time we did not allow ourselves to get even slightly excited and the cotton-wool coddling went out of the window. I arrived home from the hospital and headed straight into the garden to do some planting. If this was going to work, it would, I told myself. But I wasn’t holding my breath.

Given what had happened after our first attempt, we decided to do a pregnancy test at home the night before I was due to have the hospital test, so that if it was negative we could shed all our tears in private. A faint blue line appeared on the indicator. Gerry and I looked at each other. ‘It’s not dark enough,’ I said, although I knew the instructions advised that any line should be interpreted as a positive result. I just didn’t dare trust it.

I finally fell asleep that night in a strange state of controlled emotion. The next morning at the hospital the positive pregnancy test was confirmed. Everyone was ecstatic but no one, of course, more so than Gerry and me. Inevitably there were more tears, but this time they were happy tears. I felt like a different woman: taller, buoyant, instantly radiant. I could not stop smiling. I thanked God every hour. We didn’t tell anyone, family or friends, for a couple of weeks – we were too concerned about tempting fate and somehow, at that early stage, it just didn’t feel real. For days on end I would repeat to myself, ‘I have a positive pregnancy test, I have a positive pregnancy test,’ rather than acknowledging, ‘I’m pregnant.’ It wasn’t until I had an ultrasound scan at six weeks and we saw a little beating heart that I allowed myself to believe it.

And that was the first time we saw our little Madeleine. Even then she was beautiful.

I remember how lovely it felt telling my mum and dad that they were going to be grandparents. Of course, they were overjoyed. I’m sure the heartache over the problems we’d had conceiving, added to the fact that, as an only child, I was their only chance of grandchildren, made this baby especially precious to them.

My pregnancy was totally without complication. No sickness, no back pain, no bleeding, no swelling. I felt great. I swam at least every other day, right up to the day before I went into labour. And I absolutely loved being pregnant. Rubbing body lotion over my bump was such a beautiful feeling, like touching my baby. In common with most mothers, I’m sure, I will remember for ever the amazing sensation, the pure intimacy, of my baby moving around inside me. Neither Gerry nor I wanted to know whether we were expecting a boy or a girl. I’m well known for liking surprises – one of those people who refuses to open even a single present before Christmas Day. For some reason I always thought of the baby as a boy. I’ve no idea why – perhaps simply because I’d visualized myself in many a dreamy moment with a little boy – who knows? We’d settled on the name Aidan, and although we had tossed around a few options for a girl, there wasn’t one in particular we agreed on.

On 12 May 2003, at a routine antenatal appointment nine days before my due date, I was found to be already in labour. Like many first-time mothers, I’d had it all planned out – the music I wanted to play, the snacks I’d have to hand, the cooling mist spray for my face – but in the event I was whisked straight into the maternity unit and until Gerry was summoned I didn’t even have the customary pre-packed overnight bag. When it came to it, though, I wasn’t interested in any distractions, just completely focused on the job I had to do. As Gerry offered words of encouragement, I rocked from side to side, biting down on the gas-and-air mouthpiece. It occurred to me that I must look like Stevie Wonder. It’s strange the things that go through your head when you’re in extremis.

There’s no escaping the fact that giving birth is bloody painful, but I was a very calm, quiet ‘labourer’, oblivious to everyone and everything around me. Fortunately, it was uncomplicated and pretty quick, as labours go. I remember finally feeling the head crowning and saying something pathetic to the midwife –‘It’s stingy,’ if memory serves.
Stingy?
I never was one to make a fuss, I suppose! And then out popped our baby.

After years of longing for this day, here we were: parents. There can surely be no greater moment in anyone’s life. And here she was: not our little boy, but our little girl. I’m not sure quite why this came as such a big surprise to us – after all, there are only two flavours – but because it was a surprise, the moment was extra special. Our daughter was perfect. A beautiful round head, no marks, and not at all squashed. Big, big eyes and a lovely, compact little body. The most wonderful thing I had ever set eyes on. I loved her instantly. Of course, Aidan was out of the frame now. Of the girls’ names we had in mind Madeleine was my favourite, and Madeleine she became. Madeleine Beth McCann. She screamed straight away (something we’d get used to over the next six months). Gerry’s sister Trish called while we were still in the delivery suite. ‘Is that your wean?’ she asked, with a hint of amusement, on hearing the 200-decibel screeching in the background. ‘Jesus!’

I couldn’t take my eyes off Madeleine. I thanked God over and over again for bringing her into our lives. Every time she looked even vaguely in my direction, the tears welled up. I’d never known before that it was possible to love someone so much – and I love Gerry a lot, believe me. My Madeleine.

I didn’t sleep at all during my first night as a mother. I still couldn’t stop looking at my beautiful daughter. Admittedly, the fact that Madeleine was testing the extremities of her vocal range for a large part of it might have been another factor. I remember one of the midwives coming into my room a couple of times and asking if I would like her to take Madeleine away for a while so that I could get some rest. Take her away? That was the last thing I wanted. I didn’t care about sleep. All I cared about was being with Madeleine.

The next evening, my mum and dad, and my old friend Nicky, arrived to meet our daughter. My dad confessed to pushing a hundred on the motorway to make it down from Liverpool before the end of visiting time – but you didn’t hear that from me. He was an old hand at childbirth, having been one of the first-ever fathers at Oxford Street Maternity Hospital, where I was born, allowed to stay with his wife throughout her labour instead of being ejected from the ward to pace the corridor outside. By all accounts, Granny Healy was shocked at this outrageous newfangled idea.

The new grandparents were besotted with Madeleine from the beginning. Having lost her own mother so early, I think my mum missed having her support when I was small and it had always been a sadness to her that I hadn’t known my nana better. So having the chance to take care of her own granddaughter, and to be there for me, meant a great deal to her. As for my dad, he once told me that if he were able to design his own granddaughter and have her knitted for him, Madeleine would be it. ‘I think I might love her even more than I love you,’ he added. I wasn’t too sure whether that was intended as a compliment but, knowing how much he loved me, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Gerry’s parents, and his brother and sisters, came hot on the heels of mine, all of them thrilled to bits.