Wednesday 28^th October 2009

4 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

Again I head to work.  Again, all I want to do is be at home with my growing family.

As I put the key in the front door, I feel a smile come onto my face.

“Hi Mum!” I yell down the hall.

“Hi Dad!” I hear from the lounge.

“How was your day, love?”

“Good.  I went to see an acupuncturist for my nausea and tiredness.”

“Oh yeah.  And how did that go?”

“Great.  It worked for about four hours.”

“And now?”

I take in the scene.   There is my wife, sitting with her legs propped up, ensconced in a chair, devouring a pregnancy textbook.  She holds out the cup of Rice Bubbles like it’s a trophy.  “They reckon the key is to keep eating.  Don’t let yourself get hungry.”

“Okay.”

I put down my bags and return to the lounge.

“I had another chat to Joel today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I was asking him about policies of the hospital.  About whether they’d let you have your own midwife at the birth.”  She looks at me blankly.  “Remember how we were talking about this?”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask you to talk to Joel about it.”

“Yeah, well, okay.  But if we’re going to have the baby at the Women’s, then we need to know what their policy is.”  I pause, and Suse gives a begrudging nod.  “He told me to talk to Frances Perry if I wanted to ask anything.

“I’m not particularly interested in the directives of the hospital.”

“Right. Sure.”

“And I’m not interested in having anyone there but my own support.”

“Yeah, right.  That’s what I was getting at.”  I feel the click under my feet again.  “Because in regards to a Doula – you know, a support person…”

“…I know what a Doula is, Mark.”

“Yeah, okay.”  I stop for a moment.  “Anyway, Joel reckons that they sometimes detract from the partner’s involvement.”  I pause again.  “From my involvement.”

Suse’s eyes thin.

“I’m not particularly interested in what Joel reckons is best for me, right now.  I’m not sure that conventional medicine has it all covered with their policies and their rules.  And if Frances Perry won’t allow any old person to come in and help, then maybe it’s not the hospital for us.”

Again, I feel the click.  Again I keep my feet very still.

* * * * *

Nicknames so far:

- Muppet

- Poppy seed (apparently representative of it’s current size)

- Sesame seed

- Peanut

My name for Suse:

- The incubator

Suse’s name for me:

- Daddy cool

I could get used to that one.

* * * * *

Tuesday 27^th October 2009

4 weeks, 4 days

One year ago today.

I go to work.

I try to work.

Eight hours later I come home.  I enter through the front door, squeezing past the boxes, stacked almost to the roof.

“Honey?”

I hear a murmur from the bedroom, and turn the corner to find Suse face down, bum up, cradling a pillow.  I see the dried tears at the corner of her nose.

“What’s going on?”

She starts to cry softly.

“I’m tired and I feel sick.”  She looks up at me pleadingly.  “Am I meant to be a mother?  Am I going to be good enough?”  Her face screws up like a squeegee.   “I’m kind of freaking out, Mark!”

“Kind of,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  I stand for a moment, before leaning forward to touch her side.  Her body softens into my hand, a wordless request for contact.  I lie down beside her, stroking her hair.  We say nothing for a while.

* * * * *

I get up, and head out to the letterbox.  Along with some bills, there is a large pack, addressed from Kath’s practice.  I open it to find a number of glossy pamphlets, some multicoloured paper, and empty plastic pockets;  a stationer’s wet dream.  We both read through the information, the registration forms, trying to make sense of it, less excited than we were last night.  This time we are the old couple trying to cram before the test.

So much to learn.

Suse shuffles through the papers with frantic energy, like the start of an exam when you realise you’re in trouble.  She eventually settles on a particularly shiny pamphlet, leafing it suspiciously.  I look at another form, a pretty one with pictures.

“What’s this?” Suse asks, holding up her sheet.  I take it from her, and begin to read.

“It’s the triple test for Down Syndrome.”

“What for?”

I listen to her tone, watching the land ahead, realising there are landmines in this ground.

“So you can know the odds of the foetus having Down’s Syndrome.”

Trip.

“To what end?  So you can know the probability of a problem, and whether or not to commit murder?  Is that it?”  I stand still.  “It’s inhumane!  Totally inhumane!  Why does a kid with Down Syndrome have any less right to live?  What right do we have to decide?”

Boom.  I take no further steps.

* * * * *

“Honey?”

“Yep?”

“Can you do me a favour?” Suse asks.  I look at the clock.  It’s 10.13pm.

“What?”

“Can you go to the supermarket for me?”

I look at her face.  It’s like that of a kid, seeing how far they can push their parent for more lollies.  This time, the answer is:  further.

I drive to the supermarket, and march down the aisles with purpose, grabbing the items in turn:

1. Rice Bubbles

2. Aktavite

3. Magnums.

I walk to the counter, and place the items down on the conveyor belt, like a Roman guard presenting his bounty.  The Indian woman behind the register looks up and smiles.

“Yes?”

“I am on an errand for my pregnant wife,” I say proudly.  She swipes and the machine beeps.  Her smile widens further.

“Very good, sir.  Very good.”

I stand there stupidly, without anything more to say.

“Is this all she wants?”

“For now, yes.”  She leans forward, a mock hand to her mouth.  I lean in too.

“At least she is not asking for the moon,” she says, finally, laughing.  “When that begins, then you will have difficulty.  Magnums are quite easy.”  I smile back.  She scans it, waving it at me, as one last point before placing it in the bag.  “Don’t worry,” she continues, “she will soon start asking for the moon.”

I take my bag and walk off, her deep chuckle fading as I go.

* * * * *

I walk through the front door and round the corner.  There I see Suse, a pained look on her face, which quickly changes to delight as I present the goods.

She jumps up, scoops them in her arms, and runs to the kitchen, where she tears at the Rice Bubbles packet like a ravenous animal.  She swings open the cupboard, grabbing at a cup, knocking things over as she does.  She rips at the plastic with her teeth, before pouring Rice Bubbles into the cup, some spilling out and onto the floor.

And then she pours it into her mouth, filling it full of plain Rice Bubbles.  She crunches and then grins widely.

Like it’s all she has ever wanted.

* * * * *

Day 2

Monday 26^th October 2009

One year ago today.

I’m supposed to be working today.

But somewhere in the alignment of the stars, and the preaching to demi-gods from past lives, things have lined up.  Because it’s an admin day.  And we all know what that means.  I have a day off.

We’ve woken in that slightly surreal fug of monumentalism, of things never being quite the same again.  That this is real, this is the rest of our lives, and that our future really began yesterday.  That we’re a true, fully-fledged family.  It’s official.  As of yesterday.

I ring my parents.  Mum picks up the phone, and we chat for a couple of minutes before I can’t hold it any longer.

“Mum, Suse and I are pregnant!”  She lets out a series of guttural cries and sighs, the ones she saves for monumental announcements, when words simply won’t suffice.  She loops this for a couple of minutes, before finally finding her voice again.

“How many weeks?”

“Like, bugger all.  I don’t even know.  We only found out yesterday.”

“Wow,” she says, a faint waver in her voice.

“Yeah,” I say, not hearing it.

We talk some more, I tell, she gushes.  As I tell my parents, Suse tells hers.  And then onto siblings, both of us in unison, her on her phone and me on mine.  And then friends.  The shrieks of joy all come at the expected places, just as you’d hope.  Right on cue, everyone cooes appropriately.  Everyone is happy and joyous, just as you’d hope.

Now, there is an extended version of the tale;  the one about getting the tester, but added to this, more details.  That this is something Suse had always wanted.  That I have too.  That I’d never known how much I wanted it until now.  That it feels just right, and proper.  That it feels just like a new beginning, a new horizon after our dog, Claude, was run over on the last day of our honeymoon.  That this is the real start to our new family.  And that we’d just started!  This truly was beginners luck.  Yep, never had sex before now.  Hah, hah, hah.

Everyone laughs, everyone has smiles in their voice, everyone is elated, almost as much as were are.  People are surprised by the early announcement, but shit, we don’t care.  It is a sweet song to be singing, one which everyone is happy to join.  We swap phones, Suse and I, resting our ears, smiling as we go, laughing in unison.

Suse is radiant.

* * * * *

I begin research in earnest.

As with all large purchases, there is a level of background research that is required.  I won’t buy car insurance without doing the groundwork, so why would the care of my wife’s womb be any different?

In conversation, I begin to gain consensus on our friends’ Obstetricians.  Who’s had who, where they’ve been born, what’s their manor, how touchy-feely are they?  And if they’re not touch-feely, can they get you out of a tough spot?

For Suse, she wants the love.  For me, I just want the baby out intact.  Hey, I’m a Paediatrician.  I don’t care if they never address either of us by name.  If they get my baby out in good nick, they can call me Fred forever.

The balance needs to be there, obviously.  The feminine and the masculine.  And I’m not talking gender here.  I mean, the ethereal, the unknown, versus the rational and the knowledge.  The ancient balance.  The yang and the yin.  And here it is: the beautiful art of Obstetrics.

I listen and absorb, all yang.  I go and tell Suse, who brings in the yin.

“When the shit hits the fan, he’s cool in a crisis.”

“But will he talk to me in the proceeding forty weeks?”

“I’m not sure, but what we’re buying here is insurance.  Our Obstetrician is an insurance policy.  He’s there for when things go wrong.”

“And will he discuss it with me?  Or will he just tell me what to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want a woman, Mark.  There’s something weird about male Obstetricians.”

I pause for a moment.

“You do realise I have delivered babies, honey?  That it is a joyful, amazing experience, and that if it weren’t for the longs hours and the litigation, that I’d probably have done it as a career.”

“Uh huh,” she says, chewing on bread.

“Does that make me weird?”

“No,” she answers, plainly, as if making sense.

Our opinions float around, sparring amicably.  After all, we’re pregnant.  How bad can things get?  Eventually, we settle on a plan.  I ring Joel, a friend of mine, training as an Obstetric Registrar.

“Hey mate,” he yells back, the sounds of the hospital cafeteria chinking in the background.

“Hey, Joel,” I say.  How are you?”

“Good mate, good.”

“Joel, we’re pregnant.”

“Aaaayyyy!” he says, his Italian flare winding up, “Congratulations, my friend,” he continues, all cheer and good will.

I tell the story.  He listens, but I sense him quickly lose interest in the details;  someone who swims in birth has trouble getting excited about the water.

“So, Joel,” I say, snapping him back, “here’s the big question for you.”

“Yeah?”  He’s suddenly re-engaged.

“We’re deciding on an Obstetrician, and we’re down to three.  Give me your opinion.  Kath, Nina or Amy.”  These three are so good, that they don’t need second names.

“Ummm…look, that’s not easy.  It depends on exactly what you’re looking for.”

“I’m looking for a preserved vagina and a happy baby.  Suse wants the love.”

“Okay.  Well, Nina will give you the love.  Definitely.  She’ll sit with you for hours and you’ll never feel rushed.  Same with Amy.”

“And Kath?”

“Cool in a crisis.”

“That’s what I want.  And the love?”

“She’ll give it.  When you ask for it.  But not without asking.”

“But cool in a crisis, right?”

“Very.”

I pause.

“Who would you have?”

“Well, we did have Nina, but Kath is also very good.  It really doesn’t matter.”  He takes a bite of something.  “Hey, here’s a plan.  Straw poll.”

I hear the sound of murmuring in the background.  I can just make out his voice as he asks the group their opinion.  In turn, around the table I here the vote of five females voices.

“Three Kath, two Nina.  And they’re all women.  You want beautiful explanation and care?   Nina.  You want cool in a crisis?  Kath.”

“I want cool in a crisis.”

“I hear you.  And not that there’s anything to split them, really.  You do know that you are talking cream of the crop.”

“I know, Joel, I know.  There’s got to be some sort of insider trading advantage of me being a doctor, right?”

He lets out his big Italian laugh.

“I know these guys are all good,” I continue.

“Just depends on if they’re free, though.”

“I’m not researching like a maniac for nothing.  If Suse’s period wasn’t clockwork, we wouldn’t even know yet.  That’s why I’m so on to it.”

“Better get booking then.”

“Thanks, mate.”

I replay the conversation to Suse:  For love, we go to Nina, for cool, we go to Kath.

I want cool.  She wants both.

“They will both be both, hon.  Look, we’re talking about the best here.”  I screw up my eyes, before starting, “It’s like saying Federer has a shit backhand.”  Her face crinkles with confusion.  “They will all be all things, out of this list.  They’re the top in town.  But we’ve got to make a choice today.  So we don’t miss out.”

“Do you know what they’ll be like?”

“No idea.  I haven’t met them.  So, no, I don’t.”  She sighs.

“All right.  Just ring.”

I ring the practice, and get straight through to the secretary.

“Hi there,”  I say, “my wife is pregnant…”

“…Congratulations,” she says quickly, like it’s the first time today.

“Ah, yes, thank you,” I reply, genuinely chuffed.

“And?”

“Oh, yes.  I’d like – we’d like – to book in with Kath.”

”Do you know your wife’s dates?”

“Of her last period?”

“Yes,” she asks, “we need to calculate the due date.”

“Wow,” I say, “Secretaries job descriptions have expanded, haven’t they?”

“Last period?” she repeats, this time more tersely.

“Ahhh…” I scramble for numbers, before repeating them back.  I hear her tapping away.

“So you’re 4 weeks and 3 days.”

I pause for a second.

“Even though conception was closer to two weeks ago?”

“The baby’s age goes on the last normal menstrual period, rather than the actual age of the conceptus.”

“Right,” I say catching up.  “I must have forgotten that one from med school.”  I fumble for a pen.  “That’s a protocol that floats way back to antiquity, doesn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, I guess, when women have been giving birth for millions of years, the old science is hard to kick.  Like the language.  The talk about ‘quickenings’, and ‘shows’ and ‘cerclage’ and ‘Braxton Hicks’ makes me think that we’re lost between the Dark Ages and the Renaissance.”

There is a pause down the line, and then some heavy breathing.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling the need to apologise.

“Luckily, you got in early, so Kath is free.  We’ll book you in for your ten-week appointment right now.”  I reach for my diary, and mark down the date.

“Thank you very much,” I say.

“Pleasure, sir,” she says, almost meaning it.   “Oh, and your due date is July 2^nd, 2010.  Have a nice day.”

A winter baby.

* * * * *

Suse and I head out to see a movie, or get food, or something, we’re not sure.  We’re distracted, and elated and just kind of basking in the joy of it all.  We end up shopping, and then heading to a bookshop to grab ourselves a copy of ‘Up the Duff’ and ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’.

That night we head to bed early, sitting upright against our pillows, Suse with one book, me with the other.  She sits there munching on corn chips, the licence for continuous grazing having been issued yesterday.

We sit there absorbing, holding hands intermittently, excitedly pointing out our findings, swapping facts like a studious old couple.

I place my hand on her belly, just below her book, and imagine what I can feel.

* * * * *

Day 1

Sunday 25^th October 2009

One year ago today.

Suse turns to me, in the dark, ready with something to say.  I can feel it sitting on her lips.  She pauses a moment longer, neither speaking nor taking a breath.

“What is it?”

“What?”

“You want to say something.”

She pauses a bit longer.  “I haven’t had my period yet.  It was due on Thursday.”   She stops again.  “And I’m never late.”

Silence descends.  “Well?” she asks.

“Well,” I say, my mind ticking.  “Well, great.  Maybe.  Yeah, great,” I add, trying not to sound worried by the possibility.   “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Well, we start in forty five minutes, and there is no break until…”

“…Lunchtime.”

“You want me to go at lunchtime?”

“You’ll find a way.”

“Are you fucking serious?  There won’t be time to eat.  I’ll be out and back and fucking sweaty, and…”

“And?”

“And…”  I let out a big sigh, one of those, ‘of course I will, I’m a good husband’ sighs.

“You’ll find a way.”

I sigh once more, ensuring she gets the point.   I can hear the burst of microscopic bubbles at the edge of her mouth that happens when she smiles in the dark.

* * * * *

“Can I borrow your car, Terry?”

“Sure, mate.  Sure,” says the big Novocastrian, all hair and good will.

In slow-mo he pulls them out of his pocket, dangling them in front of me.  I grab them, trying not to snatch.

“Thanks, mate.”  He smiles wryly, cocking his head slightly.

“It’s in the top car park.”

“I’ll find it,” I yell, already through the door.

I run-walk towards the car park, pressing at its button as I go.  A beep in the distance calls me over, that of the Tardis, a nicknamed SUV, more bus than sports utility, and with far more room than is necessary for a regular human.  I reach up to open the front door, and jump to grab the overhead handle.  I pull myself up, leaping into its cabin, and into the driver’s seat.

The world sits well below, like it would from a small jet.  I move the seat forward, wrestle the key into its slot, turn, and then rev.  I slam it into reverse, hit the accelerator, and jerk forward in a stall, almost touching the brick wall.  The gearstick requires another try, one of those push-down-while-slotting-into-reverse-or-you’ll-really-fuck-up kind of gearboxes.  Not at all dangerous for a sweaty man, sitting uncomfortably in someone else’s aeroplane, trying to get to the chemist and back in record time.

I start up again and reverse – actually reverse – before grabbing at my phone to look for a map.  As I skid out of the convention centre and into the traffic, I search for a chemist, the closest one there is.

I watch my progress on the GPS, trusting it more than the view of the road through the window, it’s that far below.  It takes me on one of Brisbane’s circuitous routes, and straight past the centre I need.  Traffic rides my arse, ensuring that I do two more circuits around before taking the only free parking spot within miles.  I slam the brake in the side street, halting on the steepest hill in the area.  Nothing like a hill start in a tank.

I leap out, and run towards the shopping centre.  Several elderly people, who’ve moved north to die, block my way as I pass, only to travel the escalator behind another troupe of the same.  They move in swarms up here.

I almost skittle one at the bottom of the escalator as I run into the chemist  before they start their quiz about generic branded diuretics.

“Just wondering if you could show me the pregnancy tests?” I ask.

The chemist gives me the once over – the pregnancy test summation look – and is slightly confused.  The sweaty face and breathlessness don’t fit with the greying hair and lack of pubescent acne;  she can’t yet tell if this is the nervousness of a slink to the chemist, or the excitement of a Dad-to-be.

“Over here,” she says pointing.

I march purposefully towards the shelf, and listen to her spiel on the pros and cons of the various varieties, before butting in.

“Which will give the quickest answer?”

“Sorry?”
“I mean, which is the most reliable.”

“Well, this one is the most expensive and easiest to use.”  I snatch two and rush back towards the counter.

“Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I say.  “Got to get back to my wife.”  I watch as her fingers stop, mid-punching of the register-keys.  I stare at them, willing them to recommence their punch.

“So, is this a good day?” she asks, now erring on the side of Victory-Dance-Dad-to-be.

“We’ll see, won’t we?”  I smile, making it easy for her.

“Well, good luck to you,” she says.

“Yeah, thanks,” I return.  I hold the brown bag up, like an Olympic torch, and run back out past the diuretic brigade.

I spend the next eight minutes running back and forth, looking for my car in the brilliant heat of the day, trying to retrace my steps, knowing that I have less than ten minutes to get back.  I run the loop several times, before stumbling across the bus exactly where I left it.  I turn the key and start the thing, slam it into first, and rev.  It threatens to tip onto it’s back like a stranded turtle, before skidding off and up the hill, without crashing anything behind.  The first good luck of the day.

Eight minutes later, I am back at base.  I run up the stairs, throwing the keys into the chest of Terry as I pass.  Soaked through, I search the place for Suse.

“In there,” someone says while pointing, like a prop in a movie to keep the narrative running.

“Thanks,” I yell, not looking back.  As if by telepathy, Suse emerges from the room, a vacuum of quiet bustle from the video recording behind.

“I got it,” I say, the brown paper in my wet paw, cocking my head for the toilet.”

“I can’t do it right now.  I just peed.”

“You just peed?  When I was off getting a pregnancy kit?”

“I needed to go.”

“So did I.”  My face contorts, betraying me.

“You have to wee more when you’re pregnant,” she says, with slight indignation.  “I couldn’t hold on.  We’ll have to do it in the next break.”

“I busted my arse to get it right now!” I whisper hard.

“I know, I know…”  She touches my face.  “Next break.”

* * * * *

I hear nothing for the next two hours.  I keep playing at my right pocket, ensuring that it is still there, like a fidgeting little kid.  The person next to me gives a polite smile, like a parent at the movies warning their child to stop rustling his chips packet.  As we break off for afternoon tea, I walk straight over to Suse, and grab her hand, leading her to the toilet.

We close the door behind us, both in the cubicle.  She pulls down her knickers, and sits and pees.  And then she hands the stick to me.  I look and see that a single blue line lights up instantly.  I watch for two more seconds, and realise that what I am feeling is disappointment.  In the rush of it all, I hadn’t given time to consider my reaction.  It takes me by surprise.  I look past the stick and at Suse, looking up, as cute as could be, a question on her face, shoulders crunched in beckoning, her fingers playing with the edge of her undies by her knees.

I look back at the stick.  Then at her, still frozen and expressionless.  And then back.

And then I see it.  The faintest change, a scent.  A tiny change.  And then it comes, almost not, then a bit more, a changing colour.  It creeps in, slowly, like the smile does on my face.  My head swims, really, like the first time, that actual drifting.  I look at Suse and she looks at me, and then I look again.

And then I show her.

She takes it, holds it, does the same dance on her lips.  The same shock, the same thing.  We both go silent, her sitting, me standing, comprehending, understanding.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“Yep.”

“Oh my God.”

“We’re going to have a baby,” I hear myself say.

We can’t quite believe it.  She stands without wiping, without thinking, and we hug closely, tightly, comprehending.  This is wild.

* * * * *

We walk out of the toilets holding hands.  We bump into a couple of people, and as we are getting ready for the start of the next session, the music starts.  The crowd of people move back in, slowly, like bees to a honey pot, and swarm in dance.

“Let’s find Alan,” I say.

“Is he with Chrissie?” asks Suse.

“I’ve got to tell Terry,” I say.

“Where’s Abby,” says she.

We tell, and move on, the quickest of stories, a hopscotch from her mouth to mine, and back – waking this morning, me rushing out, Suse having peed.  Already the story is ironed straight.  We grab a hug and move on to the next.  A couple of people, and then a few more.  And a few more.

Within four minutes, with the same song still running, we are jumping in the middle, a group of twenty who already share our secret.

I know, I know, we’re supposed to be cautious this early.

But fuck it, you know?  We want to celebrate.

After all – we’re going to have a baby.

* * * * *