Hopeful Bea has already started rehearsing her script. She clears her throat theatrically, and takes one last look at her lines, mouthing them to herself rapidly before nodding as if ready to begin. A pause for the start of the scene, and then, "Oh!" she gushes, trying to make the water well up in her eyes. "Oh my- oh my g- Oh!" She fans her face and looks upward, gasping for air, and then collapses forwards, overflowing with tears of joy. The loosely assembled audience claps half-heartedly, and she breaks character to take a bow.

Logical Bea takes the opportunity to peel away from the crowd, looking soundly unmoved by the performance. Soon she spies Anxious Bea, at her desk in the corner, nervously chewing the end off her biro and oblivious to the ink stain spreading around her mouth. "Thought I'd find you working on an alternative," says Logical, giving Anxious a start. "What've you got so far?"

"Well," Anxious begins, looking embarrased, "the scene is this: ultrasound shows minimal growth of the gestational sac, and no heartbeat. We rush a blood test through the lab, which confirms the end is inevitable. Then I, sort of, well I can't work out whether to go for stony-faced stoicism or disruptively noisy grief."

Logical nods. "Want my advice? Focus less on the emotional aspect. That'll happen by itself, and you can't plan for it. What you need to be writing down are constructive questions, things like, What are our options? Can we do tissue testing on the embryo?"

"Should we schedule an endometrial biopsy, and when?" suggests Anxious, but Logical shakes her head.

"Too much at once. There'll be time for that talk when this pregnancy's over and a new cycle has begun."

"You mean "if", don't you?"

"Sure. If. That's only logical."

Anxious nods thoughtfully, and sets to work. Soon the script is ready for rehearsal. She stands, and delivers her lines woodenly. "Can we do tissue testing on the embryo? What will that involve, and when can we discuss the results? Can you explain the pros and cons of each of our options? What signs of complications should I look out for? How will it happen?" She faulters. "I mean, exactly how - where will I go, who will I speak to at each stage, what will I say? What..." She breaks off, sobbing quietly. "I'm sorry - this isn't in the script."

After an awkward pause, Logical walks over and puts an arm stiffly around Anxious's shoulder. "Try not to be upset," she says, feeling futile. "Hey - I still think it's going to be ok in the end."

"You do?" Anxious looks pleadingly into Logical's face.

"Sure," says Logical, and she is. "Whatever happens tomorrow, try to remember we're not out of options yet. Things still have a good chance of working out in the end. It's only elementary logic."

--
Don't forget to leave your thoughts over at IIFF. As of yesterday, there is a new post, discussing the next festival.

"I'm sorry to dump all this on you," said Maternal Bea, looking weary and overwrought. But Inner Therapist Bea gave a dismissive wave of her hand as she plonked the teacup on the table in front of her.

"Maternal, I've seen just about every one of this lot," she replied. "I'm amazed you're not round here more often. Now tell."

"It's those two again," Maternal said. "Willing Bea, and Able Bea. They've been at each other's throats, and you know what that does."

"There's no happiness for anyone unless both of them agree," Inner Therapist replied knowlingly. "And they used to, mostly. But Able hasn't come on board with this whole having a baby business, and there's been no peace ever since."

"Exactly. We got a short reprieve after the last cycle, when Willing was all for a break. Able leapt on the opportunity to shine, and it was really nice for a couple of months there."

"Let me guess - Willing to get on with FET#5 now, are we?"

"But not Able. FS holidays. Dates all wrong. And every day - every day - Willing comes to me in tears, saying, 'Able won't help me,' and 'Able kicked me,' and, 'Able sprung a lethal trap for me involving pits and knives and heavy, falling rocks, and if Anxious Bea hadn't made me carry equipment for my own protection I would have died!' I mean, it just doesn't end.

"Of course, I take Willing aside and I point out there's plenty of things we'd be Able to do, if only we were Willing, and perhaps it's not all one way. It doesn't help."

"Will can be strong," Inner Therapist agreed.

"And I don't mind her being strong. Sometimes I look at her and think she's not strong enough. I just wish she'd stop throwing these useless tantrums, they give me a headache. What do I do?"

They paused. Maternal rested her elbows on the table and rubbed her fingers over her temples, and Inner Therapist gave a long, thoughtful sip on her tea.

"I know this will go against your nuturing instinct," said Inner Therapist, eventually, "but sometimes when you're not getting anywhere it's ok to just make the problem go away temporarily - for the sake of your sanity, and that of the others around you."

"What are you suggesting?" Maternal enquired.

"Give them lollies. At least it will make them shut up for a while."


---
"Lollies" ended up being a book-buying spree. Nothing fertility-related, I'm afraid. This part of the cycle - the part where I could be ovulating any day now drags almost as much as a 2ww, and sometimes it goes on for as long. Sigh.

I want to talk about my mother's breast cancer. That's not true. I want to talk about me. But bear with me whilst I come at it via the topic of my mother's breast cancer. It started when I was fourteen.

At the time, it was everything - our whole world. We ate it, slept it, watched TV around it, came and went from the house according to its will. My mother wasn't one to bore people with the gory details - even though she arguably should have because, just a heads up, gory details are a lot easier for your children to deal with than unexpected violent and seemingly irrational mood swings - but nevertheless it was there. Always there.

And now? Well, it doesn't come up that much anymore. Don't get me wrong - if the Cancer Council come around, our family donates. If my mother hears of someone who's been diagnosed she might say a word or two, and we all know it's not just ordinary sympathy. It happened, there's no denying, but it's not happening. It's one of life's traumas, like high school or that time you broke your arm, but it's finished, it's over. There's little else to say.

I was thinking about this because of all the infertility blogs out there by all the people who've tried and failed and tried again. And don't get me wrong - inspiring stuff, but frightening at the same time. I'm reading all these stories about people who've done huge numbers of cycles, had multiple miscarriages, spent years pursuing treatment, and still can't see a light at the end of the tunnel. But what I tend to forget are all the blogs that went bust along the way. All the people whose stories I started reading, who got knocked up and subsequently stopped telling the tale. And what about those who never had a blog, because their journey didn't get that far? How many of us blogged from the very beginning?

Logical Bea wants me to write this down. Because she's said it before but it's not getting through, and she's tired of seeing me worry out of proportion to my actual situation. So here it is: the blogosphere contains a selected subset of infertiles. And those with the longest, most heart-rending stories are over-represented. Because the rest? Most of them are like my mother. At some point they find themselves with little else to say.

I wonder if that'll make me feel better.

---
Two more sleeps til Fly Day.

Ooh! See - that was a suggestive cramp.

Yes, Obsessive Bea. It's called progesterone pessaries. It happens every month. Remember?

But do I always feel nauseous?

An hour or two after giving yourself an hCG injection? Yes. You do.

Oh but, but... I'm not spotting yet. Last cycle I was spotting by this time.

So you were. But not the doomed cycle before that, or the doomed cycle before that...

It's all going to shit isn't it?

That's not what I meant.

I should be feeling something by now. I should be feeling different. Even my cervical mucous has dried up. Although that information is now two hours out of date... maybe I should check again.

Sigh.

Wait here a moment. I'm just going to go to the toilet, check my mucous, palpate my breasts and analyse my pores minutely in the mirror. Because my pore size varies according to my hormones, you know.

That's great to know, Obsessive. You have fun now.

This is how the Bible tells us it was done: first, He built the man out of red earth. Then He took a rib from the man's body and fashioned it into a woman.

I trawl through my mind, looking for spare parts. If necessary, I will take them by force.

When I prepared for this mission, I put together a small kit. It contains scalpel blades, a hacksaw, several mosquito forceps, metzembaum scissors for sharp and blunt dissection, and my favourite set of gold-handled needle holders. There are several packets of suture material with the needles swaged on. Sterile gloves. Antiseptic wash. And because I am a woman of mercy, there are drugs - local anaesthetic, opioids, and a stash of non-steroidals to take away. All this and a little jar of red dirt, just in case. The kit hangs lightly now, against my back, cushioned inside sterile drapes.

Over my shoulder is slung a quiver, blowdarts resting against my breast, tips capped. I have measured each dose carefully, underestimating slightly out of caution. I may have to track my prey for hours, and subdue her by hand. I hope I have trained carefully enough. My muscles tell me yes, but my mind is uncertain. I breathe slowly to recapture my focus. There is no time for anything else. Soon it will begin.

I wonder which of my potential targets will cross my path first.

From high up on a burnt-out first-story windowsill, I see the answer to my question. Anxious Bea scurries along, eyes furtive, path hugging the wall of the alleyway. Breathlessly, she ascends a stone staircase, thick with graffiti on either side, and enters into her Church Of Despair. I follow, scaling the church wall with the help of a mouldy, cracked, devotional statue and entering into the space above the ceiling via a hole in the roof.

Here I must move stealthily, lest my movements betray me. There is a beam of light rising through a crack in the plaster, and I edge towards it, and look down. The chapel is empty, but I spy a confessional in the corner and after a moment its door opens, and Anxious emerges to walk down the central isle, immediately below my peephole.

Quickly, I uncap a blowdart and shoot it forth. It hits. Anxious pulls the spent weapon from her flesh, and a look of confusion and fear explodes on her face. Unsure of whether or which way to run, her wildly searching eyes fix on a figure in the doorway. And she runs into the arms of Maternal Bea, who has arrived to perform her daily mission to rescue the followers of Despair, who worship under Bitchface, its High Priestess.

All thoughts of stealth removed, I slam my heel against the ceiling, adjacent to the peephole, and soon there is a rift large enough to drop through and onto the floor. By the time I bend over Anxious she is unconscious, but I can feel her pulse and it is strong. Deftly, I flick my kit onto the ground, and begin to unpack the needed equipment for the surgery. But my preparations are interrupted by the booming footsteps of Bitchface who approaches from inside the church, robes flowing, hands raised in the rapture and ecstacy of worship, ready to bring down the wrath of Despair on those who have dared sully its most holy of places.

But before I have time to cower in fear, there is a streak and a whoosh, followed by a damp thud, and Bitchface is looking in stunned silence at a crossbow bolt protruding from her chest.

"Now I know what you're thinking," says Hopeful Bea, swaggering out from behind a crumbling headstone. "Did I bring one crossbow bolt, or two? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. So I guess you've got to ask yourself one question..."

"What, in heaven's name, is going on here?" interjects Maternal Bea.

"That wasn't the question."

"Hopeful! You sit down. You're as much the zealot as she is," Maternal says sternly, gesturing towards Bitchface. "You and your Path Of Eternal Optimism. And if you know what's good for you," she adds, turning to Bitchface, "you'll do the same. That's only a flesh wound. Keep calm, and we'll make it all better. As for you -" I flinch, suddenly ashamed. "I think you've got some explaining to do, young lady. And I want it to start now."

"It was for our own good," I begin, half-heartedly.

"That's no surprise," Maternal replies, folding her arms. "You're acting very much like someone trying to pave their own road to hell."

"There's not enough of us, of me," I explain desperately. "Before, we had Mr Bea. What happens when he's gone? Away? I don't think we can do it on our own."

"And so you...?"

"I was trying to create a new Bea. An Independent Bea. Take a rib, and fashion it into a new being - one with strength, and fortitude, and grace, and other superpowers. It was going to be painless. I was going to do it gently. I was trying to help."

There is a pause, and Maternal reflects deeply, before coming to her conclusion.

At last she smiles kindly, and says, "Did you ever think to ask for volunteers?" Then she sighs. "Come on - you've gone this far. And who knows? It might work. Hopeful, Bitchface, you're both going to help. Together we'll try to perform this miracle."

"Now? Here?"

"Yes, Bea - and it makes me cringe to say this because it's so very corny - but yes, now and here, from the bones of our Anxiety, aided by our Hope and self-loathing, in the doorway of the Church Of Our Despair."

I awoke, that sunny morning, and had my breakfast. I kissed Mr Bea on the cheek, asked him if he'd be home when I returned from my blood test, and when he said no, I asked casually if he'd like to meet for lunch, in the gardens, in the city. Yes, he said, that sounded nice. And he kissed me back, and I left.

On my way home from town, I gathered a few things. Fresh scones. A little jar of fig jam and some thickened cream. Shaved champaign ham, fresh croissants, some sort of exotically-flavoured juice to wash it all down. At the last minute I added a rocket leaf salad and a couple of cheese-stuffed peppers in olive oil.

By the time I came home and packed it into the picnic basket, the results were in. A nice high beta.

Filled with the boldness of our achievement, I took a sports bag into which I smuggled the dog for the duration of the train ride. It felt like a family occasion, after all.

I remember the river - it sparkled. And the dog sitting angelically on the edge of the picnic mat, patiently waiting for her treat. I remember the look on Mr Bea's face when I told him the news, and how it echoed that look he gave me at the altar, almost exactly seven years ago, just before we kissed as husband and wife. Even the simple rememberance of that look melts my heart away.

It was the most perfect day of all.

The most perfect of all the days that never happened. And never will.
---

In the archive of my mind, I wipe a few tears and shelve volume 29. And then I leave, locking the wire cage door. Because the time for nostalgic indulgences has once again passed by, and there is work to do.

Last Friday, the 18th of August, I went to bed having spent the day weeping on the shoulder of my good friend, N. And I thought I would sleep until morning. But I didn't. Uncanny Intuition woke me sometime around two, and I couldn't get back to sleep.

Because I knew.

I knew I was pregnant.

Logical Bea was the first gainsayer. "Where are our symptoms? What of the bleeding? And that terrible embryo? How can you possibly think we're pregnant when even our specialist doubts this cycle will work?"

"But," explained Intuition gazing, starstruck, at the universe on the back of her eyelids, "it's not that I think. It's that I know."

"It doesn't make sense!"

But Intuition just opened her eyes languidly, and fixed them on Logical in a way that bestowed silence.

Anxiously Superstitious Bea was the next to weigh in. "You're not going to tell anyone, though, are you?" she wanted to know. "I mean, Mr Bea would probably actually believe you, bless his little heart, and as for your blogfriends... why, I think it's one of the ten commandments of infertility blogging! Thou shalt not compare a fellow blogger's pain to thyne own... Thou shalt not announce that you think you're pregnant until one hundred percent sure, or at least until you've pissed on a stick and maybe racked up a list of symptoms. Etcetera. And verily, it was said."

"Besides, I'm a little concerned about your thought processes," Inner Therapist interjected. "I mean, doesn't it all smack a little too much of the fairytale ending? 'Facing a hysteroscopy and curettage, the prospect of tests for untreatable conditions, and her husband's relocation to Singapore in less than four weeks, Bea overcomes the incredible odds of a low-quality three-cell embryo and a luteal phase spent spotting and cramping in a way that squashes the optimism of even the sunniest fertility specialist to achieve that elusive, ongoing, healthy pregnancy to which she and Mr Bea have so long aspired.' I mean, I can see how that might work for Batman..."

"We just don't think it's good for you to be thinking like this," Maternal Instinct said gently, rubbing Intuition on the shoulders. "We just don't want you to get hurt."

"That's what you always say. All of you." And when Hopeful Bea stepped forward from the shadows, everyone saw the tears on her cheek. "I know you hate me sometimes. You hate my sunny voice, and my rousing singalongs. You hate my smiling face and my refusal to see Logical's point of view. You've all thought it. You've all asked yourselves why I stick around. Why I don't just go away. Because, you say, at the end of the day, all I cause is hurt.

"But it's never been my fault. We're hurting anyway - this shit. And now Intuition has brought us this crazy, beautiful dream, which doesn't make sense, and sounds exactly like a fairytale, but I'm going to believe her anyway, because if you do - if you can, just for a moment - try it. The hurt all goes away."

And they paused, and there was the gentle atmosphere of happiness. In the morning, Uncanny Intuition was gone, but she left a sense of peace.

Then, on Sunday the 20th of August, she returned. "We're not pregnant anymore," she announced in a loud, etherial voice. There was a stunned silence. Everyone turned to Hopeful, but Hopeful slunk away. And Maternal Instinct started to gently sob.

But there was nothing to do but sit. And wait. And sit and wait.

---
Today, the 22nd of August, the clinic sides with Uncanny Intuition. I was pregnant, but that pregnancy is fading fast. They'll double-check on Thursday, but nurse says she doesn't want to give me hope, when really there is none.

"It's a long way, from here to baby!
It's a long way, to go....

"Bea! Do come in! We're having a singalong!"

"Hey Hopeful, guys. A singalong? Really?"

"Yes! Absolutely! You know - something to keep our spirits up in the trenches! It's all terribly, terribly rousing!"

"I'm roused. Do I not look roused? I am, though."

"First we sung 'When Baby Comes Marching Home To Us, Hurrah! Hurrah!' then 'Pack Up Your Memories of Failure and Pain, Your Hatred of Life, and Your Uncertainty Regarding the Future In Your Old Kit Bag And Smile, Smile, Smile'! Although we couldn't quite get that one to work..."

"Well, I can see you're having fun."

"Oh, Bea! We're having just the jolliest of times!"

"Well that's great, Hopeful. Don't let me disturb you at all."

"I do hope you'll join in, Bea! Everybody - from the top, now!

"It's a long way, from here to baby!
It's a long way, to go....
It's a long way from here to baby -
But we'll get there, I know!
Goodbye, trouble-free conception!
Farewell making plans!
It's a long, long way from here to baby
But get there? Yes we can!"

It's the start of The Crazy.

Here's how it goes...

Inside my head, I am putting my feet up. All of me. There's Logical Bea, and Inner Therapist Bea, and Bea The Tiny Child Who Just Can't Take Things On The Chin, and - well, you get the idea. We're knitting, or dozing, or reading, or just plain staring into the fire. After all, the work's done now. Nothing to do but wait.

Then, all of a sudden, there's Bitchface.

"Move," she says, going over to Hopeful Bea, who is snuggling with the dog.

"I don't see why she should have to," says Inner Therapist. "She's been sitting there for a while now."

"Yeah, I know. I'm not sure why," Bitchface says icily, and stares Hopeful hard in the face til she bursts into tears and runs from the room.

"Why don't you run after her?" she asks Maternal Bea, pointedly nonchalant and settling herself in.

"Now look here, young lady-" Maternal begins, but Bitchface cuts her off.

"Where's Logical Bea?" she demands, looking around. There is a brief pause with much looking backwards and forwards whilst Logical tries to disappear behind a book. "There you are. You're with me, aren't you?"

"Well, er... it's um..."

"Of course you are! Our best embryo this time is our worst embryo yet. It's worse than the one they said was too crappy to worry about in the first transfer. The nurses were biting their tongues to keep from spitting out a cheery, 'See you next time!' as we walked out along the corridor.

"And as for her!" Bitchface swings to glare at Hopeful, who is timidly trying to re-enter the room. "Little Miss 'I'm not going to buy feminine hygiene products - no!' I saw everyone gather round, cheering, 'Good for you!' when the reality is we'll have a full two days' warning between pessaries and period. Oh yeah - that's bravery! We stare menstruation in the face and laugh! You're all pathetic."

"That's enough!" Inner Therapist stands to her full height.

"I knew we hadn't heard the last from you. What will you do? Mount an intervention?"

Inner Therapist and Maternal Instinct exchange the briefest of looks before springing into simultaneous action. There's a flurry of arms and legs, and Bitchface is hurled bodily from the room. They drag Hopeful inside and slam shut the door.

There is silence.

"I didn't know you could do kung fu," ventures Bea The Tiny Child Who Just Can't Take Things On The Chin.

"Well, I guess we've got tough," says Therapist.

Everyone stands, awkward. Logical clears her throat, and hesitates.

"Well, what is it?" asks Maternal.

"Oh, nothing. Just... well, she wasn't entirely wrong about everything."

"Come now," says Therapist. "I know you can do better than that. Work on it."

"Yes, absolutely. What about that definition of best I came up with?"

"Perfect."

So, gradually, we return to our previous occupations.

And we all pretend we can't hear the scratching and the sniggering at the door.

And no-one looks at anyone else when the voice comes through the keyhole.

"I know you can still hear me..."

Bitch.

Taoist Tai Chi has recently brought me a new persona. I like her. I think she's good for me.

From time to time she asks me to perform the set for her.

I make my bow and, in the pause before Commencement, she leans in and asks me what I'm thinking.

"I'm thinking of the set," I reply. "Of all the moves I have to do."

"Then you're doing it wrong," she chastises me gently. My arms drop to my side in a posture of defeat as she continues. "The whole set is made up of one hundred and eight moves. But you will complete it more perfectly if you forget about one hundred and seven of them."

"Right..." I respond, blankly. The expression on my face adds, "What the fuck?"

"To perform each move perfectly, you must let it fill your mind completely. Like this...

"Left Grasp Bird's Tail.
Grasp Bird's Tail.
Single Whip.
Step Up And Raise Hands.
White Stork Spreads Wings.
Left brush knee.
Strum the Pei Pa."

I try:

Left brush knee... Chop with fist... Step up, deflect, parry, punch...

"Better," Master Bea says, watching me keenly. "But your movements are still full of fret and distraction.

"Listen and watch: this move, and now this move, now this move, now this move... The rest is too far in the future. How can we worry about Cross Hands, before we Appear To Close Entrance? Who knows what will happen in between?

"Of course there is a bigger picture - an underlying aim. But having resolved ourselves to it, we must cease to think about it. There is no need to calculate how many steps lie between Grasp Bird's Tail and Strum The Pei Pa. Let your mind focus on Grasp Bird's Tail, and when you have finished, let it focus on Single Whip. This move, now this move, now this move... and - well. The set completes itself.

"Try again."

I Carry Tiger to Mountain.
Then Diagonal single Whip.
Now Fist Under Elbow.
And Go Back to Ward Off Monkeys.

"Good. In this way, we can perform even the longest set. We need never be afraid to charge ourselves with such great and daunting tasks. The end will always come to us, one move at a time.

Now Slanting Flying.
Now Step Up and Raise Hands.
Now White Stork Spreads Wings.
And Left Brush Knee.
Needle at Sea Bottom.
Fan Penetrates through the Back.
Turn and Chop with Fist.
Step Up, Deflect, Parry, Punch.
Step Up to Grasp Bird's Tail.
Single Whip.
Wave Hands Like Clouds.
Single Whip.
Reach Up to Pat Horse.
Separate Foot to Right.
Separate Foot to Left.
Turn and Kick.
Left Brush Knee and Turn.
Right Brush Knee and Turn.
Step Up and Punch.
Turn and Chop with Fist.
Step Up, Deflect, Parry, Punch.
Right Foot Kick.
Hit Tiger at Left.
Hit Tiger at Right.
Right Foot Kick.
Strike Ears with Fists.
Left Foot Kick.
Turn and Kick.
Chop with Fist.
Step Up, Deflect, Parry, Punch.
Appear to Close Entrance.
Cross Hands.
Carry Tiger to Mountain.
Whip Out Horizontally.
Left Part Wild Horse's Mane.
Right Part Wild Horse's Mane.
Left Part Wild Horse's Mane.
Right Part Wild Horse's Mane.
Left Part Wild Horse's Mane.
Left Grasp Bird's Tail.
Step Up to Grasp Bird's Tail.
Single Whip.
Left Fair Lady Works Shuttles.
Right Fair Lady Works Shuttles.
Left Fair Lady Works Shuttles.
Right Fair Lady Works Shuttles.
Left Grasp Bird's Tail.
Step Up to Grasp Bird's Tail.
Single Whip.
Wave Hands Like Clouds.
Single Whip.
Creeping Low Like a Snake.
Golden Cock Stands on One Leg.
Golden Cock Stands on One Leg.
Go Back to Ward Off Monkeys.
Go Back to Ward Off Monkeys.
Slanting Flying.
Step Up and Raise Hands.
White Stork Spreads Wings.
Left Brush Knee.
Needle at Sea Bottom.
Fan Penetrates through the Back.
White Snake Turns and Puts Out Tongue.
Step Up, Deflect, Parry, Punch.
Step Up to Grasp Bird's Tail.
Single Whip.
Wave Hands Like Clouds.
Single Whip.
Reach Up to Pat Horse.
Cross Hands to Penetrate.
Turn and Kick.
Chop with Fist.
Brush Knee and Punch.
Step Up to Grasp Bird's Tail.
Whip to One Side.
Creeping Low Like a Snake.
Step Up to Seven Stars.
Retreat to Ride Tiger.
Turn Around to Sweep Lotus.
Draw Bow to Shoot Tiger.
Chop with Fist.
Step Up, Deflect, Parry, Punch.
Appear to Close Entrance.
Cross Hands.
Closing of Tai Chi.

Bea, you need some rest.

Tell me a story to help me sleep?

A story? Well, alright then.

Once upon a time, there was a girl called Bea. She had met and married the man of her dreams, but they couldn't make a baby together.

That's so sad.

It is sad.

What did they do?

What didn't they do? In the end, after they'd talked and talked, they decided to go to a doctor. The doctor said he could make them a baby, one way or another.

And did he?

Well, it was hard. Months went by. First, Bea got sick, then she ovulated irregularly, and when she did, the little embryo failed to implant. Even Mr Bea started to wonder if it was ever going to happen. He started to seem scared, and that made Bea scared, too.

So then what happened?

They kept trying, of course. And one day, just as they thought all hope was lost, what do you know? They fell pregnant. And do you know what happened then?

No, what?

They had a baby, and lived happily ever after. But that's a story for another time.

Goodnight, Bea.

Thanks. Night night.

I have called an emergency meeting with my Inner Therapist.

She sits primly on a straight-backed chair that looks like it came from St Vinnie's, with every good intention of re-upholstery, and was quickly demoted to the spare room. I sprawl on the carpet.

"Don't I get a couch?" I ask.

"You don't pay me," she answers, without looking up, "and I don't buy couches. Now. Why are we here?"

"It was the text message."

"Ah yes. The one where you got invited to coffee on Sunday with those friends you've barely seen all year. You know - your best ones. People go to therapy a lot because of that sort of thing."

"It's not just the coffee."

"The cake, too, huh?"

I leave a dignified silence where, otherwise, an undignified reply would be.

"It's your pregnant friend, isn't it? When you started trying, she hadn't even conceived her first. Now she's six months pregnant with her second." Inner Therapist is getting a bored, kind of glazed expression and I can see her mentally reshuffling her "dealing with other people's pregnancies" tape into the machine.

"I don't think it's that."

"You don't? Are you sure? I've got a really good broken record about it?"

"I know. Look... there's a different pattern here. Last night: Mr Bea's friend comes to town. Skipped it. No children involved. Well, I'm using a rather strict definition there based solely around physical age..."

"But you digress."

"Yes, um. Tonight: housewarming. Not going. Next weekend: work colleague's birthday. Declined. Cake in the tearoom last Thursday evening at work - couldn't make it. Too busy staring at the wall in front of me."

"So you're worried you're becoming antisocial."

"No!"

"Sounds like you're becoming pretty antisocial to me."

"Well yes, I am. But it doesn't worry me."

"I'm lost."

"You're my therapist! I'm lost! You help me find my way!"

"Bea, I've had a hard week. If you don't like it, you can make your own narky comments."

"Look, sorry. Ok, here's the thing. I'm feeling fine again now. I'm not depressed - I'm totally handling it. I'm just exhausted. I just want to be left alone."

"Just want to be with yourself?"

"Yes."

There is a long silence whilst we look at each other. I nod. I shrug and nod. I waggle my head and eyebrows slightly to indicate how completely it's all been summed up. I break eye contact. I look at my hands. I pick at my fingernails.

"Ok... no."

"I didn't think so."

"How do you do that?"

"It's my job. It's what you don't pay me for."

Inner Therapist sighs in a way which indicates truce and plops herself onto the carpet in front of me. "There are people you don't mind hanging out with, aren't there? Even look forward to socialising with?"

"Yes."

"And they are?"

"J, and S. Mr Bea. My sister. The people in blogland and on the internet."

"I'm sensing a common theme here."

"They know."

"Could it be you're just tired of lying? Of shrugging and telling people there's nothing going on? No plans for the future?"

"Yeah, probably. But the thought of explaining myself to all those people makes me more weary than ever. J, S, Mr Bea and the internet folk know and understand."

Inner Therapist nods, and stares into the middle distance.

"You're not replying."

She sighs. "I'm tired too, Bea. I don't have the answers tonight. Give me a raincheck?"

"Sure. Raincheck. Maybe the answer will just materialise..."

I am having a round table, inside my head. It's being attended by various speakers, but two in particular are causing the most stir. First, there's Donor Bea - the Bea who had more embryos than she could use and decided to donate them to another couple, then went on to donate some eggs as an encore. Then there's Recipient Bea - the Bea whose ICSI failed; who turned to consider donor sperm.

Both of them are Thinking Of The Children.

"But there's not just The Children to think of," says Recipient Bea. "I mean, let's not be ageist. People over eighteen still count for something, don't they?

"You know - I'd love it if everyone's life here was simple and uncomplicated. Mummy and Daddy could have a 'special cuddle' which makes a baby. Then another - and hey presto, we're all growing up like the Brady Bunch. Except the Brady Bunch was a blended family, which is a whole complication in itself. And I guess that's my point. Things are always complicated. You do the best with what you've got.

"This is what we've got. We've got adoption, gamete/embryo donation, or giving up entirely.

"Give up? Well, frankly I can't see how that benefits anyone - especially not the donor kids. How can it be a benefit for a child to not exist?

"And adoption doesn't give me a pregnancy. I'm sorry, but pregnancy reduces my risk of contracting a highly unpleasant and life-threatening cancer, for which I have a family history. Allow me to be selfish enough for a moment to not want that. Allow me to be selfish enough to want to reduce my risks in any way possible. And if I can pretend to not be selfish for a moment, I also don't want it for Mr Bea or The Children. It's not nice for them either. I've been there.

"Which leaves us with donation. You know, I don't believe it will be the easiest road for any of us. But I believe we'd get there in the end. Me, Mr Bea, Little Bea, and Our Donor/s.

"Donor Bea - I know you understand me, or did once. Remember what it was like, and donate."

Donor Bea frowns. "I want to, but I'm worried."

"Worried about yourself, or are you Thinking Of The Children?"

"Perhaps worried about our existing children. How would it feel to have a sibling or half-sibling out there somewhere, being looked after by someone else? Perhaps worried about Mr Bea - but he's a big boy, and can speak up for himself. Certainly worried about people's expectations. What would The Parents expect of me? What would The Children expect of me?

"But these are issues I think I can muddle through. I guess mostly I'm Thinking About The Children themselves. You were the one who said it, Recip. We have a family history of cancer. We used to have issues with creating children out of our genes at all. Do you remember those times?"

"Yes, Donor, I do. But we were young, then, and overly dramatic."

"No we weren't. It was a serious concern. But facts are facts. We're probably not going to get cancer. We might not pass on any predisposition. And even if we were to get sick - we're sure we'd never regret existing. And we concluded our children wouldn't either. In spite of all.

"And in any case, we figured our possibly-cancer-predisposed genes were a long way from being worse than average. We were bright, we were, if not stunningly beautiful, at least naturally slim. On balance, we thought our genes were ok. Remember, Recip? We Thought Of The Children. And we decided to have them anyway. And Mr Bea agreed.

"But here's what we promised them, that they wouldn't suffer our anguish. We promised to be open, no matter what. We promised to tell them our whole family history. We promised they wouldn't find out, as we did, when we were already in our late teens. Because that was no time to find out. That was too hard."

"I remember, Don. I remember how angry we were, and for how long. I remember wondering how our parents could have thought they were doing the right thing. And I remember forgiving them, at last - even understanding them a little. I remember realising we wouldn't want to swap them for the world, but promising not to repeat their mistake."

"So how can I donate my genes, knowing that others may not share my view? Knowing that, even if they did, law may prevent them from accessing that information before The Child turns eighteen? How can I donate under those conditions? How can you receive?"

Recipient Bea pauses. There is the sound of a whole audience not breathing, as they wait for a reply. When Recipient draws in, finally, a long, slow breath, it echoes all the way from my head to my bowels, and even my heart stops and waits for her reply.

"I don't know. Maybe we can't."

There is an awkward silence.

"Maybe we need to change the conditions."

"I'm afraid," says Donor gently, "to remove a donor's right to anonymity. I'm afraid the donations will dry up. What would that mean for you?"

There is another pause. Then Recipient nods quietly.

"But there are more like you," she says, at length. Then she smiles, and winks. "You're just not that special, Don. There are others - more each year. We just have to find them."

"And they are...?"

"The new generation of donors. Those who are willing, not just to perform the act of donation, but also to take on the responsibilty. To be invisible, but available."

"And where does that leave the recipients - the Parents?"

Recipient Bea shrugs. "I'm not so special either. When it comes to the crunch - we'll be Thinking Of The Children."



----
This post in honour of Richard, whose blog you should visit if you haven't already.

Ok, settle down class - come on, stop making that racket. Concentrate. Thankyou. Let's begin.

Now, can anyone tell me what's happened here?

Have a guess. Anyone? I won't bite your head off... yes, Bea.

"I'm not sure. Is it a chemical pregnancy? Or a miscarriage? When does a chemical pregnancy turn into a miscarriage?"

Well, to answer that question, we first have to know the definition of those terms. Can anyone define miscarriage? Ok, let me.

The most common definition of miscarriage is simply the loss of the products of conception before 20, or some say 24 or 28 weeks gestation. But there are many different kinds of miscarriage. You can have early miscarriages, late miscarriages, complete and incomplete miscarriages... Some people even use the term 'menstrual miscarriage', which is the same as a chemical pregnancy - ie a loss before implantation. So you see, the word 'miscarriage' can be quite a broad term, ecompassing many different situations. So let me go back to my original question: can anyone tell me what's happened here?

Silence? No-one. I see. Ah, over there - yes?

"I just don't feel comfortable using the term 'miscarriage'. I mean, it seems kind of dramatic."

Well that's ok. I don't think you have to use the term if you don't want to. Maybe you can think of another term you'd rather use?

Take a little time to think if you need to.

"Miss, was I pregnant? Because if I was, you could call it a 'Very Early Pregnancy Loss'."

You could indeed. Well, let's answer that first question, then, shall we? What do you think?

"The clinic said I was pregnant."

Very good! Anything else?

"Well, I had symptoms of pregnancy. I felt pregnant."

Ok, so what do you think?

"I think I was pregnant. For a little while. And then it was lost."

So shall we call it an 'Early Pregnancy Loss'? Yes, ok, I think we all agree on that one.

So we've had an Early Pregnancy Loss, or Very Early Pregnancy Loss, as Bea put it. Can anyone explain why? Bea?

"No."

Very good. That's the correct answer. What would be a better question?

"How?"

That's right. There are many different ways in which a pregnancy can be lost at this stage. The most common method is through some sort of chromosomal abnormality. The embryo develops as normal until it needs the faulty gene, at which point everything falls apart. What's by far the most common reason for a chromosomal abnormality?

"Chance event."

Very good, Bea! So it's almost always a random mistake, made somewhere along the line. Of course, there are tests which can indicate a high level of DNA fragmentation in the sperm, which may show an increased chance of this sort of thing happening, but recent studies show the test is more difficult to interpret than previously thought. And since the problem can show up in both normal and abnormal semen samples, there's no real reason to assume that this is a problem for you, just because your sperm is abnormal in other ways.

Can anyone tell me another way in which a pregnancy can be lost this early? Yes?

"Failure of implantation."

That's right - and what's the most common cause of a failure of implantation?

"Chance event."

Correct. Ok.

There are lots of other 'hows' in the question, 'How did this happen?' but many of them are quite rare disorders or problems we know don't apply to us. Statistically speaking, unless this happened several times in a row, there would be no reason to suspect any kind of underlying pattern to these events. So wrap it up for me now, what's the main lesson for today?

Come on, you were doing so well. Alright - yes?

"What happened was a Very Early Pregnancy Failure, probably due to some Chance Event."

Very good. And what does that mean?

"Well, it means we're no better or worse off than we were this time last month. We just need to pick ourselves up and roll the dice again."

Right. So that's what I want you to do for your homework. Any questions? Good. Class dismissed.

I wrote out the invitations to my 2WW sleepover party weeks ago, and I invited a whole lot of people. But they never turned up. Even when it started getting late.

I felt sure "Obsessing Anxiously Over Every Twinge" would be here. And especially "Frustration About Having To Wait". I've never seen her miss ANYTHING like this before. But the only person who turned up was Maternal Instinct, who I'd never really talked to in the past. In fact, I wasn't sure I could remember asking her to come...

"I know you didn't want me here," she said after an awkward period of small-talk about the asparagus rolls and my general concerns re overcatering.

"It's not that I don't like you," I explained, after an embarrassed pause. "I think you're great. It's just..."

"I'm sometimes superfluous," she finished, letting a wry smile play across her lips.

"And SOME people might have inferred that they find you a TEENSY BIT overbearing - at times. If you're sensitive to that kind of thing."

"You know I held back their invitations."

"You...?"

"Work at the post office." She waved her hand dismissively. "Anyway. It was me." There was a stunned silence whilst I digested this information. At length, she added, "I'm sorry about all the asparagus."

"It's not the asparagus," I replied, shaking my head in bewilderment. "Or even the miniture quiche lorraines. It's just... but... why?"

She heaved a great sigh and ushered me into a seat.

"It's like this," she began. "You didn't want me here. Felt maternal instinct had no place in a two week wait for embryos which probably wouldn't survive. Thought it would be easier to think of them as "things" and not "babies". Thought it would be easier to take the clinical point of view - how many days left to wait? How many signs and what do they mean? Didn't you? Isn't that what you thought?"

I nodded dumbly.

"Well, you were wrong. These embryos are individual. They're the closest thing you've got to children. They're important. And when the doctor did the transfer, he didn't just transfer a few cells. He transferred the responsibilty for taking care of them. No-one else can do that at the moment. No-one except you. That's why I'm here, whether you like it or not."

She was right. I'd been naive to think she wouldn't come. "But why send the others away?"

"Because we don't have time for them."

Maternal Instinct looked at me steadily. I stared back, striving for comprehension.

"You have the rest of your life to analyse signs, to wait in frustration, to worry, to despair, to hope, to grieve, to want. To cry. To heal. You have maybe only a couple of days left to care for these children. So for the next couple of days, it's all you have time for."

I knew she was right.

I didn't even have time for another asparagus roll.

We had a family sleep in on Saturday. Then we watched a children's cartoon movie and ate Thai takeaway.

On Sunday we listened to music and played with the dog. And we smiled. And we laughed. And we sung happy songs, and sad songs, and told stories together.

Because soon, it seems, it will be too late.



Two days til followup beta...

"It's normal to wake up in the middle of a panic attack because you know you'll be starting again soon." My inner psychoanalyst says so, and she's always so calm and rational and, well, right.

"Things have been peachy whilst you've been on break. Why wouldn't your subconscious be freaking out at the thought of going back there? Why wouldn't you feel like you are being sucked whole into a vortex of doom?"

This is why I keep this woman on. Vortex of doom. I hope she's going somewhere.

"But you see, you're not going back."

I'm not?

"You're going forward."

Hmm. Intriguing, if slightly too much like something trite my high school English teacher would have come out with. And to complete the impression - an assignment. I busily write down the ways we have progressed in our adventure to parenthood so far:

1. Have shaken that silly notion that sex leads to children. Took a while to kick that, too, having been fed the tripe since approximately age seven.

2. Will never have to go through any low-tech ART again. Stuff's for pansies.

3. In effect, have stopped TTC using any method other than IVF.

So you see, not so much a break as a big goodbye to a doomed project and a big hello to one that's much more likely to succeed. As a bonus, we've

4. Stimmed for the last time in a long time. Although if this results in a long, drawn-out pattern of failed FETs, chemical pregnancies or miscarriages, I'm not sure it'll be much of a consolation.

5. Sorted out any future contraceptive disputes once and for all. I was not looking forward to having that "vasectomy" discussion and now I don't have to.

6. Got a really nice dog.

I had to do this roleplay where I walked out of a room which represented our pre-IVF TTC efforts and into a new room which represents our future post-IVF TTC efforts. So instead of a whirling, screaming, sucking vortex, I now have a sunny new infertility office. With a view. Of a lake.

My inner psychoanalyst had one more task. I had to tidy up the new room. You see, when I arrived it was strewn with books. One was a story about how our BFPs all turn into blighted ovums. The next, not to be outdone, was filled with ectopic pregnancies and tubal resections until eventually there's nowhere for an embryo to implant but inside my uterus which one after another stubbornly refuses to do. There was an even more gruelling tale of ovarian cancer, picked up on our first routine scan at our first FET.

I had to burn them all. I just don't need them at the moment. Maybe in my next office, if I get one.

So here I sit. There's a phone with a direct line to my FS. There's a list on the wall of Things To Do Instead of Obsessing About TTC. And there's a cute little teleporting device which I can use to get back and forth from the real world when I need to. My inner psychoanalyst encourages me to use it frequently, and with enthusiasm.

Maybe tomorrow.

Just now I'd like to sit. Waiting for the next part.