The Spin Doctor's Wife

Chapter 1: Warning: Low Battery

Chapter 1

Warning: Low Battery

“The problem is that your eggs are too old,” Dr Christine Farrer said, pointing her pharma-brand pen at a cluster of cells on a slide.

Megan tugged at her necklace. “Couldn’t it be my husband’s sperm?”

Dr Farrer looked at her notes. “We’ve done the tests. There is nothing wrong with his sperm. It’s your eggs; they’re lacklustre.”

“Yes, of course.”

Megan imagined her eggs as a string of vintage pearls, which had lost their sheen. She estimated the doctor was around 50 years old and peri-menopausal. These days Megan automatically categorised women by their reproductive status.

There was a moment of silence and then, as if she had just remembered her recent seminar on ‘building patient rapport’, the embryologist stuck out her hand and smiled. “Please call me Christine.”

They both looked again at the computer image of Megan’s eggs. In the early days of IVF this sight would have filled her with hope. But Megan knew that when the specialists summoned you to a meeting on level five, the news was rarely good. It was a world away from the brightly-lit nurses’ station downstairs, where women came every morning for their routine blood tests, injections and ultrasounds. Up here, there was no friendly banter or pin-up boards with thank-you cards from grateful parents and photos of wrinkly, red newborns.

“I’m afraid the mitochondria in your cells is compromised,” Dr Farrer said.

Megan thought it sounded as if her eggs were spies.

“In other words, their batteries are run down and they don’t have the energy to spark life.”

Megan imagined a wind-up egg slowing down and falling over. She fiddled with her wedding band and looked at the family photos on the desk. In one frame Dr Farrer, smiling and holiday-casual, was flanked by two stocky, blonde children, whose faces bore the same unmistakable stamp of their heritage: large teeth and full lips.

“Do you understand what I mean, Mrs Sutcliffe?”

Megan nodded slightly, her eyes still fixed on the family photo.

“From this last egg harvest only three of your 10 eggs fertilised. If these last three embryos don’t work, I highly recommend donor eggs.”

“Donor eggs?”

“If you have a close friend or a sister who is under 35 and has completed her family, you may consider asking her to donate her eggs. They’ll still be fertilised in a petri dish with your husband’s sperm of course, and then after a few days they’ll be transferred to your uterus. We’ve had a lot of success with donor eggs.”

Megan’s eyes slid back to the photo of the embryologist and her two carbon copies.

“But the baby wouldn’t be my biological child?”

“No, of course not,” Dr Farrer said, flicking through the slides of dividing cells. She looked up and forced a smile. “I know this is a lot to take on at once. Here’s a brochure on donor eggs to take home and discuss with your husband. There’s more information on our website. We can set up the counselling and screening if you want to go ahead. Do you have a sister or a friend who would be suitable?”

“No, I don’t.” Megan fingered the glossy brochure. “What about buying eggs?”

Dr Farrer’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s illegal in Australia to buy and sell gametes.”

“Yes, of course. I knew that.” Megan bit her lip. “What chance is there that I might fall pregnant with my own eggs?”

“No more than one in 10, and then of course at your age there is a higher risk of miscarriage.”

“But there’s still a chance?” Megan crossed her fingers tightly behind her back, a habit she’d had as a schoolgirl.

“Statistically the chances are slim. But yes.” Dr Farrer looked at Megan’s notes again. “You’re booked in Monday for one embryo transfer. We’ll freeze the other two as back up.”

The embryologist looked back at her screen and Megan realised she’d been dismissed. On the way out she picked up the waiting-room copy of Gourmet Traveller with the baby Sherpa on the cover; she slipped it into her handbag and left.