The longest cuppa

I was freelancing in a very small office with four other women – just after my second (and final) IVF cycle.

With it being so tiny, we were all automatically involved in whatever conversations were going on. At times this could be very uncomfortable for me. My last IVF round resulted in a failed transfer and no blastocysts to freeze. I was feeling extremely vulnerable, so every day was a case of slapping on a smile and faking it to get through the day.

One day I was in the office alone, as the others were out at lunch. Suddenly, a woman with a pram turned up asking where my colleagues were as she wanted to show off her new baby. My stomach lurched. There was literally nowhere to hide. “They’re out on their lunch breaks” I told her, hoping she would go away with this news. “Oh, ok, I’ll come back in an hour or so” she replied.

My colleagues soon returned. I kept my fingers crossed that the new mum would be waylaid and would not. The next hour dragged on with a growing feeling of dread. I had to listen to my workmates excitedly chatting about meeting the baby. When the woman arrived my colleagues crowded round the pram ooohing and ahhhing in the familiar, expected fashion. I could barely crack a smile. I’d never met this lady and would likely never see her again so I wasn’t concerned about making a good impression.

“Anyone want a cup of tea?” I asked; the perfect excuse to leave the office as the kitchen was in a different part of the building. The more hot drinks I had to make, the better. “No thanks” everyone chimed. Argh! I couldn’t believe it. My heart sank and I sloped off to try to make the longest cuppa ever. I texted my friends in the IVF support group “can’t believe it – there’s a new baby in the office :( ”

On my return, things only got worse as the mum was now sitting on a chair immediately next to my desk. Feeling completely obligated, I shoved down my grief and pasted my smile back on. “Awww, she’s lovely” I said whilst dying/crying/screaming inside. “She’s looking at you”, the woman gushed, and she was right. As I tried to focus and get on with some work I was aware that the baby was staring at me and I felt it rude not to smile back. I don’t know how I managed it.

I endured a chat about baby routines. Listened  to her birth story. Sat there politely as she shared her fascinating views on what she’d do differently with her second (confidently assuming she would and could have a second.)

Once the agonising visit was over, my work colleagues started discussing their views on having babies. They were in their early 30s (whereas I was 40) and had the luxury (perhaps) of declaring they weren’t ready, but one day. I stayed silent, my thoughts on the years of trying to conceive, hope and despair, IVF cycles at home and abroad, crushing grief and depression, suicidal ideation, losing most of my peers to motherhood, losing my sense of who I was and what my place was in the world, and the knowledge that it was highly unlikely that I would ever hold my own child.

“Lucy?”

“Sorry”

“I said where do you stand on having kids?” asked one of the women.

Desperately trying to look unaffected by the afternoon’s events I answered “Oh, I’m not sure that I’m bothered.” The lie stung me. It still stings today. But I had to survive in that moment. Conversation moved on and I got through the next few weeks of my contract there. Whenever chat took a turn that I didn’t like, I left the room to go to the toilet or make a cup of tea.

I remember this experience now as highly uncomfortable and excruciatingly difficult. Would I now be confident enough to say “that’s a really difficult question for me, can we change the subject?”

I hope so. But I chose to work from home from that moment on, to make sure I wouldn’t be put in that position in the first place. No more work pregnancy announcements, baby showers, discussions about children or new mum visits – but one more option taken away from me...

Lucy North

Photo by Ilya Pavlov on Unsplash