Archive for October 17th, 2010

The Moment of Truth by Neil Gupta

“When god created man, he bypassed the emotional gene.” That’s what an ex-girlfriend once said to me.

It’s hammering it down with rain but I’ve hardly noticed. I am crying uncontrollably but these are happy tears. Tears of overwhelming relief and unbridled joy. The months leading up to this moment had been fraught with periods of agony, delight, pain, anxiety and drama. It is difficult to imagine another episode that could deliver this full gamut of emotions.

The builder across the road looks at me with a rare combination of concern and disdain. He has no idea how to console, or whether to console. Despite feeling compelled to help he chooses to bow his head and walk on by, almost apologetically.

“Pull yourself together, chap. It can’t be all that bad”. That’s what he’s thinking. I know this because it’s what I’d be thinking if it was me looking across at this scene unfolding.

Over three years we’d been trying for a baby. The first few months were exciting, carefree – those days seem so long ago. After 18 months and with each period arriving with depressingly familiar synchrony, we had sought help. Medical intervention on the NHS had irked away at our patience and had not worked. We were faced with an expensive helping hand, nothing more than a lottery – an unknown we prepared ourselves to face with steely determination.

My story is one I believe that seldom gets told. IVF is no longer taboo but you rarely here’s the man’s side of the story. I’m not for one minute suggesting that what I experienced was anywhere near as bad as what my wife went through. It was she who faced the prodding and probing, the invasion of her natural space and internal workings. Yet the physical interventions were tangible and often outweighed the emotional stress. For me, the full plethora of emotions were unnatural to deal with. This made the enormity of the final reckoning all the more difficult to bear.

I recount those final moments when the fine line between joy and despair beckons on the horizon and the realisation of months of turmoil reaches breaking point.

It’s the moment of truth. I am caught in a web of desperation, anticipation and trepidation. I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. I feel disembodied, virtual almost, as if I’m staring head on at a car crash taking place right in front of me but in slow motion and I can do nothing to stop it. I am compelled to run, to cry out but I’m rooted to the spot. My stomach is lurching, churning, performing somersaults that Tom Daley would be proud of.

Have I ever been this nervous before? It’s far worse than when I took my driving test. It’s much worse than that sinking feeling I used to get in the pit of my stomach when about to be called in for an important exam or interview. At least I’d had a chance to prepare for those. Nothing could prepare me for the enormity of what I’m facing now. Nothing at all.

I’m not alone but just at this moment it feels that way. We are both dealing with our apprehension separately. We can’t look each other in the eye for fear of betraying a sense of unity or collective strength. We draw this from how we expect each other to feel, not necessarily from how we actually do feel.

We started this journey a few months ago. Three years of trying and nothing. She was late once about 5 years ago but the timing was not right. How relieved I was when the floodgates opened that time. How I have prayed more recently to feel that mix of anxiety and denial again – to free myself from the relentless inevitability that confronts us both like clockwork on virtually the same day every month. The same feelings of disappointment and acceptance, with hope diminished but not lost.

We’d had tests. There was a medical reason. That in itself was a relief as it meant we had something tangible to focus on and to blame it on. After treatment, despite a slim chance of still conceiving naturally, we knew that we had to take this step, to subject ourselves to an expensive lottery in the hope that our dream of being parents could finally be realised.

And so we had begun. Every step carefully mapped out. Medical terminology, so alien until now, thrown at us from every angle until it was part of our natural vocabulary. Through all this, her calm acceptance of prodding and probing, of different drugs playing havoc with her internal workings. Some administered nasally, some intravenously, some by self-injection, all intrusive and difficult to bear. I will forever be amazed at the graceful manner in which she faced this most horrible of periods in her life. I’m not that strong.

So what of my role in all this? A simple donation – it’s not taboo, it’s self gratifying and most men are well practiced. Nonetheless, with so much at stake, this one act is all-consuming. They try their best with music and mood lighting but there’s almost unbearable pressure to perform. The enormity of the occasion hits you hard. Suddenly every pore is filled with dread. The walls are caving in. The clock’s ticking and you just can’t relax.

Through the whole period leading up to this, the sense of foreboding was constantly front of mind. I felt helpless. I felt emasculated. In fact every day in the lead up was filled with opportunities for me to demonstrate my masculinity. Suddenly all those jobs I was leaving for a rainy day got done. I became a DIY expert. She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

I can’t concentrate on anything. I search desperately for ways in which to occupy my thoughts – and in every instance I am subconsciously focused on ensuring that I continually display masculine traits. I am suddenly peacock like, arrogant almost. Work banter has become more trivial, more sexist and I am even flirting more – it’s not how I should behave but I am compensating for the truth of my emotions.

And what of my emotions? I won’t admit to anyone, least of all myself, how affected I am. My main role is to be strong for her, to comfort her, to understand her, respect her and keep her spirits up. But she’s stronger than that. She’s stronger than me. She’s more prepared for what we are both going through. She’s convinced herself she has to be. Through all the pain, the physical suffering, the irrational mood swings, emotionally she is strong.

But right now she is a wreck too. I can barely see it because I am caught up in my own inner turmoil. As the clock ticks down we both come together once more, hands gripped tightly, to discover the answer to the hardest test we’ll ever take and whichever way it goes, our lives are destined to be changed forever.

Our baby daughter arrived in early February 2010. To say she has been worth the wait is perhaps the biggest understatement ever made.