I had an uncomfortable conversation with a client yesterday afternoon. I often do. It's the nature of my work, and I am suited to it. It’s my job to listen and be polite and diplomatic and accommodating when dealing with these frustrated and sometimes frustrating people. And I’m good at my job. So I let her say what she felt she needed to and then waited for the conversation to trail off with the usual pleasantries once she'd made her grievances known. This personal touch, too, is part of my job. She asked me how married life was treating me, and I told her it was treating me well. "I fall asleep in the arms of the man I love every night" I didn't say to her "and he reads to me to help me sleep". No. People ask after the measurable things in your marriage. Houses and children. Not love and happiness. I sucked at my teeth, remembering how, at her request, I’d emailed her the link to our wedding photos. I feel embarrassed by that now. “You’ll have to send us some photos!” she’d said, as everyone does when you say that you won’t make a meeting because you’ll be taking some time off to get married. So when next I emailed her about some event or other, I sent her a link. No point in being precious. My colleagues ended up publishing one in our newsletter anyway.
She asked me then about another colleague on maternity leave; a soft topic of conversation for all callers to our office and as suitable as segue into pally bluster as you could hope for. I reassured her that mother and baby are very well and then braced myself for what I knew was coming.
"Tick tock! It must be nearly time for you now, ha ha!"
"We'll see!" I said. Last time someone asked I made the mistake of saying "here's hoping!" and then spent five minutes nodding mutely as my new friend reassured me that it would happen soon, please God, and that it would be all down to the power of prayer and positive thinking.
"Are you not working away at it?" asked my client; bubbly, rather than curious. "We'll see" I said again, my tone a little flatter. Which of course made her curious. So she needled a little, and my patience snapped. "Actually" I said "we've been referred to the infertility clinic in Holles St. and we're having a bit of a hard time of it". This, I figured, was as good as saying "fuck off and mind your own business". I thought she'd drop it, that she'd say goodbye and give me sympathetic looks next time we meet, but she continued, undeterred. "You've probably heard loads of these stories but..." she began, and then told me all about her next-door neighbour who adopted a Little Mexican Boy a year ago. He's a lovely little fella, so he is, apparently. Her unfortunate neighbour travelled to Mexico three times to be there for the birth of three babies, having covered the mother's medical costs each time in the hope she might be allowed to adopt her child. "Surrogates, I suppose" said my client, though she seemed unsure as to the ins and outs of the arrangement. Not that I asked. I sat silent, waiting for her to finish. The first two mothers decided to keep their children, she said, but isn't three the charm! And so her neighbour brought her new son home that summer and hosted a barbecue to celebrate his arrival. Over spitting meat and chardonnay her neighbour announced to all assembled that she was three months pregnant. "She kept the Little Mexican Boy too" my client reassured me. I can imagine how some of the neighbours might have made jokes about her keeping the receipt for him. "And she was forty!" she added "so..."
For the first time since I met her, it occurred to me that this client might well be the same age as I am. I find this depressing. I like her very much, but in that way you like people who are that bit older or that bit younger than you are. You make allowances for their behaviour, their attitudes, their sense of dress. Not that it matters, one way or the other. It’s still my job to listen and be polite and diplomatic and accommodating.
I didn't know how to respond to her story. It's not the first time I've been told one like it, nor will it be the last. Everyone's got one, a brother's wife's sister's neighbour who thought she couldn't but then she did and sure maybe so might you! They usually end with an exclamation mark on a hopeful, high note. They're inspirational stories of lucky and inspirational people. I don't want to hear them. I want to be listened to, both when I want to talk about making babies and when the flat tone of my voice says clearly that I don't.
She asked me then about another colleague on maternity leave; a soft topic of conversation for all callers to our office and as suitable as segue into pally bluster as you could hope for. I reassured her that mother and baby are very well and then braced myself for what I knew was coming.
"Tick tock! It must be nearly time for you now, ha ha!"
"We'll see!" I said. Last time someone asked I made the mistake of saying "here's hoping!" and then spent five minutes nodding mutely as my new friend reassured me that it would happen soon, please God, and that it would be all down to the power of prayer and positive thinking.
"Are you not working away at it?" asked my client; bubbly, rather than curious. "We'll see" I said again, my tone a little flatter. Which of course made her curious. So she needled a little, and my patience snapped. "Actually" I said "we've been referred to the infertility clinic in Holles St. and we're having a bit of a hard time of it". This, I figured, was as good as saying "fuck off and mind your own business". I thought she'd drop it, that she'd say goodbye and give me sympathetic looks next time we meet, but she continued, undeterred. "You've probably heard loads of these stories but..." she began, and then told me all about her next-door neighbour who adopted a Little Mexican Boy a year ago. He's a lovely little fella, so he is, apparently. Her unfortunate neighbour travelled to Mexico three times to be there for the birth of three babies, having covered the mother's medical costs each time in the hope she might be allowed to adopt her child. "Surrogates, I suppose" said my client, though she seemed unsure as to the ins and outs of the arrangement. Not that I asked. I sat silent, waiting for her to finish. The first two mothers decided to keep their children, she said, but isn't three the charm! And so her neighbour brought her new son home that summer and hosted a barbecue to celebrate his arrival. Over spitting meat and chardonnay her neighbour announced to all assembled that she was three months pregnant. "She kept the Little Mexican Boy too" my client reassured me. I can imagine how some of the neighbours might have made jokes about her keeping the receipt for him. "And she was forty!" she added "so..."
For the first time since I met her, it occurred to me that this client might well be the same age as I am. I find this depressing. I like her very much, but in that way you like people who are that bit older or that bit younger than you are. You make allowances for their behaviour, their attitudes, their sense of dress. Not that it matters, one way or the other. It’s still my job to listen and be polite and diplomatic and accommodating.
I didn't know how to respond to her story. It's not the first time I've been told one like it, nor will it be the last. Everyone's got one, a brother's wife's sister's neighbour who thought she couldn't but then she did and sure maybe so might you! They usually end with an exclamation mark on a hopeful, high note. They're inspirational stories of lucky and inspirational people. I don't want to hear them. I want to be listened to, both when I want to talk about making babies and when the flat tone of my voice says clearly that I don't.
