When her biological clock started ticking, Samantha Brick was living in France and, at 37, was considered too old by friends, doctors and even her husband. Here she explains how trying for a baby à la française required persuasion, luck – and lots of lingerie
And baby makes trois? Samantha and her husband Pascal
When you ’ave a baby, Sam?’ My pre-dinner aperitif shot past my lips, unfortunately spraying those in my vicinity. It was 2008 and I was just six months into married life with my French husband Pascal. Delphine, who posed the question, was 37 – the same age as me. Delphine, however, was six months pregnant with her fourth child.
I attempted to recover my composure by pointedly waving away her cigarette smoke. Delphine, like most of the French female population, has no problem with smoking while pregnant. Delphine’s maman was even advised to smoke ten cigarettes a day to guarantee she delivered a small baby. While we English might deem smoking irresponsible, they hold us in the same contempt. They cannot grasp why British women, on the whole, leave it so late to have their first child.
You see, the French are obsessed with
making babies. France is the most fertile country
in Europe, boasting more children per family than any other European country.
Life in the heart of rural France means that dinner parties are held largely in order to accrue gossip. What’s discreetly discussed around the table will be common knowledge to the rest of the village within 24 hours. To make matters worse, the apparently light-hearted conversation is conducted with probing interrogation – there’s
no flimflamming the French.
I was the only childless woman at the table
– as usual. Equally predictably, as a ‘newbie’, I was still an object of curiosity. I explained to Delphine and my fellow diners, because by then everyone was listening, that working 24/7 for 16 years in the television industry didn’t allow for the patter of tiny feet. My audience was astonished – choosing a career over a family! Their expressions said it all: plainly I was off my rocker.
Perhaps inevitably, the incessant questioning got me thinking… What if? The work-life balance in France positively encourages women to have children and a career. Yet Pascal wasn’t having any of it. ‘Non, you’re too old,’ he replied, when I first broached the subject of children. As I was to discover, he wasn’t alone in this opinion. ‘Why did you leave it until now?’ he asked, a question I would hear from all quarters for the next two years.
Fortunately, French machismo prevailed; my husband woke up one morning and declared, ‘Now, we will try for a baby. You will be pregnant like that!’ Except it didn’t happen like that.
After six months of trying I still wasn’t pregnant. By the middle of 2009, I was closer to 39 than 38 – mere months away from panic mode. Undeterred, I swung into alpha-female action; employing the use of charts, sticks and supplements.
Unfortunately, a Frenchman does not want to hear that he has to perform on precisely the day of ovulation. My insistence on timed intercourse meant no intercourse. It goes against every French bone in Pascal’s macho body.
When I confessed this to Delphine, by now my pregnancy guru, she declared me an idiot, before continuing, ‘We French women are more discreet. You must be wily about these things – seduce ’im!’
I tried the seduction: I spent the same amount as the cost of my Citroën 2CV on delectable French lingerie – yet still my period arrived each month.
Pascal is not only ten years older than me; he already has three children. In his eyes these facts alone make him the expert. ‘The problem,’ he declared, jabbing his large fingers in the direction of my ovaries, ‘isn’t with me.’
It was then that we dipped our toes into the world of assisted fertility – French style. Perhaps I should have known that seeking help to have a baby in France would be different from the outset.
‘We’ve decided to have a baby!’ my husband announced to our GP. ‘Congratulations!’ Monsieur Blanc cried, pumping my husband’s hands. ‘We’d better get you checked out.’ I headed towards the examination table, but was guided to sit down. The doctor motioned my husband to lie down, tenderly giving him the once over, while I sat, amazed, in the chair.
‘And me?’ I asked, anxiously. ‘She has no children,’ my husband announced. The doctor looked at me, incredulity written across his face, ‘You don’t have any children?’ ‘No,’ I replied as confidently as I could, ‘I don’t.’
Monsieur Blanc looked at my husband; by now I knew the drill, the thought process occurring: why had I left it so late? Monsieur Blanc explained that I needed to see a gynaecologist urgently.
At home I ferreted through the French Yellow Pages. Unless you live in Paris, seeing a gynaecologist in the same season you make the appointment is virtually impossible. A tearful explanation of my situation, emphasising my advanced years, soon freed up a slot for the following week.
Arriving at my appointment, I’d barely removed my coat before I was lying half-naked in the stirrups. I explained my predicament to the gynaecologist, Madame Belou. She tutted when I tearfully revealed that everyone, my husband included, thought I was too old to have a baby. Just as I was leaving, she whispered, ‘My friend just had a baby at 41.’ She then thrust a sheaf of paperwork at me, outlining the medical examinations I needed to undergo.
For the following three months life revolved around a battery of tests: being poked, prodded, scanned and injected with noxious substances. My French vocabulary rapidly expanded; I was soon familiar with words they don’t teach you in language class. Finally the test results were in: there was no reason why I couldn’t have a baby.
By now, it was the end of 2009 and I was nearing my 39th birthday. As I sat in front of Madame Belou once more, she nervously whispered, ‘Do you think your husband might consider a sperm test?’
To my utter amazement Pascal agreed.
We received the results within 48 hours – it wasn’t good news. Pascal refused to discuss his low sperm count with my gynaecologist. Instead we went back to our doctor. Monsieur Blanc subjected us to endless questions. How long had we been together? Did we have proof of being in a relationship? How much did I weigh? We’d been living together for more than two years, bills were registered in both our names and, no, I wasn’t overweight. It’s just as well; had we failed in any of those categories we wouldn’t have been eligible for fertility treatment.
After a year and a half of trying for a baby, we were finally referred to a fertility hospital in Toulouse. It was a two-hour drive from our home, and I could sense my husband’s irritability as we finally entered France’s fourth city.
There was no chance of missing the hospital – giant sculptures of naked pregnant women lined the boulevard. Passing one enormous tummy after another, Pascal bristled before we even walked into the building. Well, I say walk; the reality was that Pascal strutted while I staggered under the weight of a pile of medical dossiers. In France, the patient looks after their own medical notes, scans, x-rays and samples. This means one half of the couple ends up lugging around several kilos’-worth of files, while the other jauntily strolls into the hospital.
Within moments of arriving at the reception, in full glare of other apprehensive couples anxious for a family, my husband launched into a tirade about the onerous journey. What’s more, he’s hungry, he’s thirsty, he’s tired! To my amazement the nurses fluttered around him, offering drinks and snacks, revering Pascal like some sort of rock star.
The French hospital system is sublimely efficient; we’re seen half an hour before our scheduled appointment. Professor Dupont wants to establish the cause of Pascal’s low sperm count before he’ll even consider referring us for IVF. It took six months of tests to finally attribute it to a streptococcal skin infection he had contracted three years ago. At the time it had spread from his arms to his testes, unknown to us, calcifying and blocking most of his tubes. The four-week course of antibiotics he was prescribed should have been an eight-week course. While sperm can pass along my husband’s calcified tubes, Professor Dupont believes we have only a one in 20 chance of conceiving naturally.
At our last appointment in October 2010, four months before my 40th birthday, we were finally able to ask about IVF. For all the talk about me being too old, France allows women four free rounds of IVF up to the age of 43. Professor Dupont replied, ‘I can get you in the system straight away, but be warned, it’s very, very hard.’
We’re now at a crossroads; do we opt for IVF or do we see if we’re lucky and conceive naturally?
As we left the hospital, one of the nurses confided in me, ‘My husband has a low sperm count too, yet we had a daughter. Never forget it only takes one sperm and one egg.’
For now, that’s the thought I’m holding on to.
Wish me luck.
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