One morning at breakfast our daughter, Laila, looked up from her cornflakes and said: “Why am I the only child in this family?”
We had always known we wanted more than one child. Laila was born in 2011, a year after Bridget and I married. I loved being a dad. Children are hope in human form and while parenthood was often challenging, it also gifted us an addictive joy.
Soon after Laila turned one, Bridget suggested we try for a second baby. We wanted another child because, to us, having only one made us feel as if our family were incomplete. We wanted Laila to have a sibling and felt we would be failing her if we did not give her the chance of being someone’s big sister.
Bridget got pregnant easily the first time, so we assumed she would do so again. To begin with, we did not pay much attention to the monthly disappointments. But, in time, I came to dread the sound of heavy footsteps as Bridget returned from the bathroom having spotted the blood that indicated her period was coming and a baby was not. She would curl back into bed with me and I would hear her quietly crying.
We moved from trying and then struggling and then failing to fall pregnant. The more we tried, the less fun it became. Sex went from pleasure to duty, from spontaneous to scheduled. It did not matter if we had had a fierce row earlier in the evening – by the time we got to bed we would somehow need to kiss and make up. Meanwhile, friends’ pregnancies produced new siblings for Laila’s friends.
After more than a year of failure, we saw our doctor. No single factor appeared to explain why Bridget was not getting pregnant. It had never occurred to us that we might have fertility problems – we already had a baby – but having failed to conceive naturally, we were advised to consider IVF. The fact that we had Laila meant the NHS would not pay and that we would have to go private – at a cost of thousands of pounds. It would eat up my savings, and there was no guarantee of success, but we felt we had at least to try, so that Laila could have her longed-for younger sibling.
We agreed to start on IVF and a few days later two large cardboard boxes arrived at our home filled with drugs for Bridget. There were also fearsome-looking syringes for injecting drugs into her stomach. Meanwhile, I signed up for weekly acupuncture sessions that aimed to boost the mobility of my sperm, and started taking special sperm-enhancing vitamin tablets. The drugs worked: within a couple of months, Bridget had produced a cluster of eggs, two of which were then fertilised. On 26 June 2015, the two embryos were transferred into Bridget’s uterus.
We then had to wait two weeks for the all-important pregnancy test. We hardly slept the night before. That morning, with Laila still asleep in her bedroom, I pulled out a framed photograph of our wedding day. We stared at it. What we were going through was nothing compared with those having IVF who did not already have children. Whatever the result of the pregnancy test, we had a huge amount to be grateful for.
A blood test revealed that it was good news: Bridget was pregnant. We were elated: all that money and all the pills and needles had been worth it.
The following weekend, I headed off to the Latitude festival, while Bridget was booked in to have some blood tests. On the Sunday, I noticed a missed call from Bridget. She had heard from the clinic: her pregnancy hormones were not increasing as fast as was expected. It could be ominous or it could be nothing – the only way to know was to book in for a scan.
The scan revealed that there was a gestational sac – a first sign of early pregnancy – but in order to tell whether it was still growing, a follow-up scan was needed. At the second scan, the nurse said, “I can see the heart beating.”
Bridget burst into tears of happiness and we hugged each other as the nurse said we should book for a third scan to track the rate of the embryo’s growth. It felt like a formality. The scan was scheduled for 10 August, the day before Laila’s fourth birthday. It would, we thought, make a perfect pre-birthday present if she came with us and got a glimpse of her future sister or brother.
That summer morning, we walked into the room full of sunny confidence. I sat next to Laila holding her hand and Bridget lay on her back as the nurse examined her. She worked in silence, studying the cloudy images on the monitor. We had become used to the routine. The nurse completed her tests and then said, “I’m so sorry but it’s bad news: there is no heartbeat.”
I thought I had heard wrongly but Bridget understood. I was mute from shock – I could not believe what I had heard. Laila was wondering what had happened. “Are those happy tears, Mummy?” she asked.
When I recall the days after the news, what I most remember is Bridget and me weeping, sometimes together and at other times apart while trying to keep our distress from our daughter.
Bridget felt it was worth having one more attempt. She didn’t have the desire to keep going endlessly, failed round after failed round. It would be too hard on her body and mind, but she wanted to have one more try. The failed round of IVF had cost more than £12,000. We couldn’t afford a second cycle. It was then we had an unexpected stroke of good fortune: an uncle of Bridget’s generously offered to help to pay for a second round of IVF.
The whole business started again – the drugs and injections, the hope and the waiting.
One morning in mid-March the following year we did the pregnancy test and although the news was good, we could not allow ourselves to believe that success was inevitable. In the past, miscarriages had been something that happened to others, but they were now part of our story: we were too frightened to take anything for granted again.
Even when blood tests confirmed the pregnancy and the scan revealed the tiny beating pulse of a heart, we could not allow ourselves to get too excited. Only when we went to the 12-week scan, which showed the embryo growing normally, did we feel safe enough to believe that our luck had changed.
It was a Saturday night and Bridget and I were at a friend’s wedding in the Devon countryside. She was 13 weeks pregnant and starting to show. The wedding disco had just begun and I was on the dancefloor. When I stepped outside the hall for some air, I saw Bridget. She had a stricken expression and I knew instantly that something had happened. “I’ve started bleeding,” she said.
Minutes later, she was sitting on the toilet in our hotel room, blood streaming between her legs. An ambulance crew advised us there was little point in being driven to A&E because they would not be able to confirm a miscarriage.
The next day we found ourselves in our local hospital as a sonographer smeared lubricating gel on Bridget’s belly. I am not sure we would have coped with a second miscarriage but, thankfully, the baby was fine – apparently the sort of bleeding Bridget had experienced was common but rarely discussed.
It was Sunday evening, 20 November, and Bridget was due to be induced the following day. She had been having minor contractions during the afternoon and by the evening they were becoming more intense. While we were having dinner, she said we should call for a taxi to take us to hospital. We reached the hospital at 9pm; an hour later, our son, whom we would later name Ezra Zakariya Manzoor, was born.
The following day, Bridget’s cousin brought Laila to the hospital. Bridget was in bed cradling our baby son when our daughter walked up to him. Bridget smiled broadly and said: “Laila – say hello to your little baby brother.”
