nokids

Over the next day or so, I busied myself about the shops, museums and art galleries, always waiting for The Call – my mobile always on, charged up and with credit. Trying to distract myself, and failing miserably. Eventually, I could stand it no more. I remember the scene vividly. It was pouring with rain. I was walking behind John Lewis, in a road parallel to Oxford Street, I could not think of anywhere dry that I could make this most private of calls to the clinic, so I took a seat in an empty small public park, and crouched under my umbrella for protection from the rain, and for some privacy against passersby.

I rang the clinic. I got through to my doctor there. She sounded embarrassed that she had not been the one to call me. The results of the egg collection? Three follicles had ripened, but one was empty, so they only managed to retrieve two eggs. The results of the mixing with the sperm sample? My little fishies, in their little dishy? Neither egg had fertilised. I could feel myself dissolving, into the rain, the rain, the rain. I pulled my umbrella lower and lower, and curling underneath, there was weeping, and weeping, and the weeping was me.

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