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By Mark Nethercote, January 31, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 5th February 2010

Gestation: 19 weeks

One year ago.

I turn up to the last day of my current job;  one spent at a conference on International Child Health.

I arrive, and the lectures begin.  I hear about issues in Timor, Papua New Guinea and our poorer Asian neighbours.  I sit through a session on tuberculosis, another on their difficulties in vaccination access, and a third on the health implications of poor sanitation.

These are all big issues.  Big global issues.

But today, I just can’t focus.

Today, my world issue is my wife.

* * * * *

Suse walks through the door to find me in the study, at the laptop, in boxer shorts.

“What is going on in here?” she asks.

“I’m wagging,” I say without looking up.

“No, I mean – why is it so hot in here?”

“Computers.  A summer’s day coupled with two computers makes a hotbox.”

She sidles up next to me and looks at the screen.

“So what have you found out?” she asks.  I hit alt-tab quickly, switching away from the disastrous stats I’ve just been reading. The computer fan blows, the only thing breaking the silence.

“Oh, nothing,” I lie.  I stand and give her a sweaty hug.  “I’ve been writing mainly,” I say, not making eye contact.  I walk past her and out of the office, heading for the fridge.

“You’ve got a new story to write now, haven’t you?” she says, following.  “It’s no longer ‘The Pregnancy Diaries’.  Now, it’s ‘My Wife’s Stupid Body Diaries’.”

“Is that what you want to call it?”

“Yeah.  Why not?  Except that it has to be s-t-o-o-p-i-d,” she spells out.

“Sure.  Mywifesstoopidbody.com.  I can do that.”

We both laugh, before I notice the bags in her hand.

“See what I bought?”  She holds the bag open, and I look in.  “It’s the paper for our thankyou cards.”

“For our wedding?”

“Yep.”

“Only seven months late,” I say.

I pull out the cards and the gorgeous paper.  Things of beauty amongst the ugliness of our current reality.

“I think I deserved some retail therapy today,” she says.  Suse puts down the bag, and I step forward to hug her.  “I’ve been doing really well at keeping busy,” she adds proudly.  “And I’m staying positive too.”  I hug her even tighter.   “How about you?”

I feel myself weaken.  “Umm,” I say, not quick enough to bluff.  I pause.  “I’m trying.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” she says.  “One way or another.”

“No way or another,” I reply.

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly.  There is a lilt in her voice, a softness that hasn’t been there before.  “I’m remaining vulnerable to all the possibilities, Mark,” she continues.  “And no matter what it is, we’re going to share a wonderful, precious life.  And we’re going to have a baby.”

For the first time in the shock of this latest drama, I feel a lump rise in my throat.  I look up, unable to focus, my eyes welling.

“Don’t you start,” she says, “I haven’t cried all day.”

I hug her even tighter, willing back the tears.  I actually feel them descend, like I’ve pressed rewind on my tear ducts.  I let go, and I look at her squarely, holding my wife at arms’ length.

“And one more thing,” she says evenly, “I just want to say one more thing.”  She takes a breath.  “If there is something, some result that you don’t want to tell me – that you want Terry to tell me instead – then I don’t want you to feel like it’s your responsibility,” she says, her voice calm.  “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be the one to give me the bad news.”

“Hey,” I say, breaking in, “I’m going to give you an orgasm this afternoon, and that’s all I have to say.”

“Really?” she says.

“Really,” I say, barely able to smile.

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll let you.”

“Just to prove that there’s nothing wrong,” I add, still not looking at her.

“I guess I’m still an attractive wife,” she says.  “Even if I am a bit broken.  I’m the good wife with the stoopid body,” she adds lightly.

I walk into the study and begin to cry.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 28, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 4th February 2010

Gestation: 18 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

At 4.46pm we walk to the desk at Suite 53.  We sign some paperwork, and are seated for two minutes before a gentleman appears in front of us.

“Hello, I’m Terry,” he says.

He hesitates slightly as he sticks out his hand;  a nervous, schoolboy hangover.  His hair is combed cleanly in a part, grey strands highlighting the wave.  His shirt is an off-white, his pants grey, his tie thin.  All straight from the seventies.

We follow him down the hall to his room, which is decorated like a doctor’s office from another era, this time the 1930’s.  There are framed Gray’s Anatomy sketches of the brainstem, a painting of Chinese blossoms, some old tram-stop flags.  He has a glass-topped desk you could sleep on, and cane chairs on our side of the desk.  Just waiting for us.

We take his invitation to sit, and Terry begins the history.  He ponders each of our answers, showing concern while ticking off lists in his head, working a complex algorithm in his mind.  He invites me to contribute, to help aid the narrative.  So together, the three of us build the framework of the story.  It is an almost homely experience, all of us talking, gathering pieces together, and then throwing the offerings into the communal can for  a rainy day.

Dr. Terry then begins the examination.

He checks Suse’s gait, her limbs, and finally her cranial nerves.  I watch intently, pleased to see that my technique is not dissimilar to this polite gentleman who has done this several times a day for the last twenty years.  The whole thing takes nearly thirty minutes.

And throughout it all, he remains the embodiment of manners from a former time.  He trips back to his desk at one point, before looking down, and then saying, “Mark, yes, Mark.  I’m so sorry about that.”  He clucks his tongue, tut-tutting himself for his memory.  When asking to check the sensation on Suse’s abdomen, he almost falls over himself with politeness.  And when he is done, he apologises once again, before continuing, “Is there a chance that you could stay a little longer so that we could do some nerve conduction tests?”

Suse and I look at each other and smile, at the absurdity of being asked by a Professor whether we can spare the time to help us come closer to an answer.

* * * * *

He starts the conduction studies.  Beginning at her feet, he attaches pads, and then begins the electric shocks, causing her toes to increasingly jolt.  A green line charges across the screen, and as he turns up the dial, the blip grows in synchrony, as if to mirror the wince on Suse’s face.  She forces a smile;  her brave face.  From here, Terry disattaches, and then places them on her legs.  And then, onto her hands.  And finally her arms.

Each time the probes move, another printout spews forth.

Each time he asks, Suse volunteers for more.

She becomes quickly accustomed to the pain.

The more she tolerates, the more we learn.

After all, physical pain is more preferable than the psychological type.

* * * * *

Finally, we are done.

So then, we talk.

Suse remains on the bed, while I stand there at her side.

“Two things that are going through my head,” Terry begins, not really looking at either of us.  “The first is a variant of Guillain-Barre Syndrome, and the second is a demyelinating process.”

My head spins like a top, increasing with each rotation.  I try nodding, and it seems to stay in place.

“Sorry,” Suse says looking at both of us, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Well, there is the possibility that a virus has triggered this all off,” he replies, “and that it has caused all of the trouble.  That’s something we call Guillain-Barre Syndrome.  Except that it doesn’t quite fit, because you still have your reflexes intact.”

“And the demyelination?”

“Yes, well, the other thing I’m considering is this.”  He pauses.  “It’s most commonly known as Multiple Sclerosis.”  Terry looks up at Suse, and I do too.  I watch as her eyes glaze.  “So  I think we need to do an MRI scan to look at what’s going on.”

Suse nods, and her eyes fall.  She slowly steps down from the bed, while we talk some more.  I reach for her hand.  She has yet to look at me.  She has a strange, distant look on her face.  I try to collect the social cues, nodding in almost all of the right places.

The buzz builds.  Eventually I butt in, when the noise in my head reaches a fever pitch.

“Sorry, Terry,” I say, “I think that we’re just both reeling a bit here right now.”  He nods, not unused to this situation.  As a Neurologist, he is not often the bearer of yuletides.  “So, can I just get this straight?”

“Sure,” he says softly.

“If the MRI is normal, then we think it could be Guillain-Barre?”

“Yes.  Well,” he says, correcting, “a variant of that, yes.”

“And if the MRI is…”

There is a pause.

“…Exactly,” he replies.

We all look at each other.  All understanding.

“So, if it is normal?”

“Then we watch and wait.”

“Do we do a lumbar puncture then?”

“Maybe.  But let’s just see how we go with the MRI.”

We all nod.  And then we all go silent.

He stands, and shakes both of our hands.  And then he escorts us from Suite 53.

So much less fun than Studio 54.

* * * * *

We walk, just like normal people, until we are on the other side of the road.  At that point, we stop, just by our car.  I take Suse in my arms, hugging her to me.  And she begins to sob.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry for putting you through this.”

“Hey!” I say sharply.  “Don’t be sorry, hon.”  I take her chin in my hand.  “This is not your fault.”

Suse buries her head into my shoulder.  And with that, the dam breaks.

A large, middle-aged woman rounds the corner, and heads towards us, jay-walking towards her car.  I watch as she smiles, noticing this young couple hugging.  As she gets closer, her expression changes, as she sees the shoulders bobbing and she starts to hear the cries.

She drops her keys as she tries to unlock her car to the sound of sobs.

* * * * *

We head to Binh Minh, our local Vietnamese Restaurant.  Sticking to a strict organic diet isn’t our highest priority, right now.  Beer, laksa, fried rice and chicken wings are our comfort food.

We order, and swig on beer.  We limp through dinner, conversation focusing on the salting sauce and crispiness of the chicken skin.

Anything to distract.

On our way out, the owner, a friendly gent with an oversized head, shakes our hand.

We return the smile.

Like it’s just another Thursday.

* * * * *

We are in bed, both in our own thoughts.  Suse lies there, a ball of tension, anxiously reading, pretending to be normal.

I don’t even try at that.  I stare at the roof.

Eventually, she lets out a little sigh like she’s about to speak.  And then she stops herself.

“What is it, love?”

“On the website, they say that some women lose the ability to have orgasms.”

“On the MS website?”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“When were you looking at that?”

“The other day.  About a week ago,” she says, almost guiltily.

“And it said that some women with MS can’t have orgasms?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“That’s horrible!” she says, with indignation.

“Is that your biggest worry?”

“No, well…  I mean… That’s just awful, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah.  I guess it is.  But that was in a long list of symptoms, right?”

“Yes.”

“And we don’t yet know if this is MS.  And if it is, I’m sure the majority of women with MS can still have orgasms.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.  It’s in a tone that begs a yes.

“Yes.”

“I mean.  That would be just awful!” she says again.

“Come here, honey,” I say, hugging her to me.

I hold her tight.  “We’ll get through this.  What ever it is.”

And then, despite the fact that we are scared witless, and despite the fact that no one knows quite what is going on, we set about proving that Suse is not a victim of all of the symptoms.

Not just yet.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 27, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 4th February 2010

Gestation: 18 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

My wife is falling apart.

First there was the left shoulder reconstruction.  Then the ectopic pregnancy.  After that, the right shoulder tendinopathy.  And now, the development of peripheral neuropathy.

All in the last six months.

All since we got married.

She’s actually, properly, falling apart.

* * * * *

On waking, we snuggle.

“How are you today?” I ask, still half-asleep.

“The tingling has moved to my chest.”

I feel my breath escape.

“Should I be worried?”

“Not yet,” I say.

But I don’t really mean it.

We get up.  All through breakfast, mundane morning thoughts are repeatedly dislodged by less comforting ones.

“I’m going to contact one of the Neurologists I was taught by in Med School,” I say finally, chewing on Weeties.  “He’s not going to ask you how you’re feeling, and he definitely won’t give you a hug on the way out.  But he knows his stuff.  He’s like an Encyclopaedia.”

“Thank you, honey.”

Suse heads off to work, while I head to my study to try to work.  For the first few minutes I pretend that life is normal, and that there aren’t more important things going on.  I keep the act going for about five minutes, before the thoughts start flooding in.  Soon enough, everything is wet with fear.

And so, again, work takes a back seat.  My presentation is taken hostage;  tied and gagged, and thrown in the boot.

And I’m on the road to Neuroville.

* * * * *

I ring my training hospital.  I haven’t spoken to anyone there for ten years.  And even if it is a Receptionist I’m waiting for, it feels like I’m returning to the Principal’s office at Primary School.

After seven minutes of being on hold, I am put through to the Outpatient Department, only to be given a ghost number for a Neurologist in Richmond.  Luckily, though, they gave me a clue.  They let slip that his rooms are at in Erin Street.

The Epworth Hospital backs on to Erin Street.

For the next eight minutes, I ring and re-ring the Epworth, failing with one Receptionist, and getting the next.  Each time, they answer with irritation, swatting at me like that mosquito that won’t disappear.

That same damn mosquito.

“Hello there,” I say on my third attempt, “I was just wondering…”

“…Listen, are you still looking for that doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of him.”

“But I haven’t even told you his name yet.”

She sighs.

“What was it again?”

“Enoch Samuels.”

“That’s supposed to be a name?”

“Yes, he’s a Professor of Neurology.”

“Not here he’s not.”

“Well, he has been in the past.”

“Not since I’ve been here.  And I’ve been here a long time.”

“Right.”

“We’ve got a Robert Samuels.  He’s an Oncologist.  Do you want him?”

I wait to see if she’s joking.

I’m still waiting.

“I was kind of looking for Enoch Samuels.  The Professor of Neurology?”

“Well, I don’t care if he’s a Professor of Neurology, if I haven’t heard of him, then…”

“…Thank you.”

I cut her off before she can end the sentence.  I know how it goes.  The other two already filled me in.

I ring back the Outpatient Department, again waiting to chat to my Primary School Principal.  Instead, I’m transferred back to the front desk, and then finally onto the Department of Neurology.

“Enoch Samuels?  Yes, we’ve heard of him.”

“Great.  No one else seems to think he exists.”

“Well, he does.”  I can hear the face she’s pulling.  “He runs our department.”

“I know.  I know exactly who he is.  He taught me as a student.  I certainly haven’t forgotten.”

I run the story, as quickly as I can.  “Does he have private rooms?”

“These days, unless a patient has a complex genetic or degenerative pattern, they’re not his cup of tea.”

“Bog-standard peripheral neuropathy is something he leaves for mere mortals, is it?”

“Something like that,” she says, laughing.

She gives me the names of a few mere mortals.  They have about a century’s experience between them.  I ring each and every one of them, only to find that there is a waiting period of  months for every one of them.  The earliest possible appointment – with someone I’ve never even heard of – is in five weeks’ time.

I hang up.

I’m a little boy in the centre of a system;  people rushing all around.

Lost.

* * * * *

And so, once again, I phone a friend.

This time, the friend is a Professor of Neuroscience at the Children’s Hospital.   Arnold is a kind man, a very kind man, who I know through my training in Paediatrics.  He took me for practice exam cases, before becoming my actual examiner, in my final exam, in another state of Australia.

Flown there, just for the surprise.

Surprise.

“Hi there,” I say to his receptionist, trying to sound light, “I was wondering whether Arnold was around?”

“Not right at the moment.  Can I help?”

“Arnold knows me from training. I need to speak to him about a certain issue,” I say deliberately.  “I need to pick his brain.  And I’d really appreciate it if he could call me back.”

“He’ll ring you back,” she says.  “Don’t worry.  He always does.”

* * * * *

True to word, within an hour, I get a call.

“Hello, Mark.”

“Hi Arnold.”

“I hear that you want to pick my brain.”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t know that there’s much there to pick anymore.”

“Yes, well, there’s more to pick than I have,” I say, again trying to sound light.  “Arnold, my wife has had seven days of pins and needles in her arms and legs.”

“Right.”

I tell him the story, from beginning to end, rationalising and derationalising as I speak, still unsure whether I’m over-reacting.

After about two minutes, he cuts me off.

“Who have you tried so far?”

I give him the list.

“What about any of the peripheral neurology gurus?”

“Ah, no.”

“Do you care where you’re seen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it have to be close by?”

“To get this sorted, Arnold, we’d fly to India.”

“Give me five minutes.  I’ll call you back.”

Four minutes, fifty-six seconds later, the phone rings.

“Be at Suite 53, Private Rooms, Corpus Christi Hospital, at 5pm tonight.  And just call ahead, to let the secretary know you’re coming.”

“Can do.”  I feel my shoulders drop.

For a moment, I feel like my voice is going to crack.  “Thank you so much, Arnold.”

“You’re welcome,” he says kindly.  “Just get your wife sorted out.”

* * * * *

to be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, January 26, 2011 10:00 am

Wednesday 3rd February 2010

Gestation: 18 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

So, I phone a friend.

I get onto a mate of mine who I went through medical school with.  She, like me, travelled after our intern year.  In fact, we travelled together through South East Asia, and then onto Britain and the continent, up to Scandanavia, and eventually from Turkey down to Cairo.

But after this, she got serious and finished her Adult Physician Training, while I continued to prevaricate, hanging out with kids instead.

“Hey mate,” she says.

“How are you, mate?” I reply, remembering that travelling forever breeds a familiarity that transcends names.

I give her the low down.  I tell her the story.  I fill her in on Suse’s symptoms and signs.  I give it to her as straight as I can, trying not to let my emotional overlay seep through.  She considers it;  curiously, in that detached, disaffected way that you can when it’s not your own wife.

I know.  I’ve done it many times before.

“Has she been on any drugs?”

“Well,” I say, almost defensively, “since the ectopic, there’s been a whole spray of meds that she’s been put on by her GP.  And there’s a place that she’s been going to, since the ectopic,” I repeat, “that helps with acupuncture and Chinese herbs, and…naturopathy.”

There is a pause.  “Dude,” she says, shucking, “you’ve got to get a hold on your woman.”  It’s half in jest.  But only half.  “What’s in them?”

“Well, the Chinese herbs are many and varied.  There’s the genus and species of a whole bunch of roots you and I have never heard of.  Like, twenty in each.

“And the naturopathic stuff?”

“It’s unlabelled,” I say, holding it up and peering through it.  “Other than saying that it’s ‘detox drops’.”

She says nothing.  She doesn’t have to.

“Well, I mean, I’m used to working with oldies, not fit, healthy, 35-year-old women.  But the principles stand.  Whenever any of them come in with weird and wonderful symptoms, the first thing I look for is the drugs.  Get them off everything that could be causing the problem.”  She pauses.  “Get her off the wacky juice, mate.”

“I already have.  She stopped taking her last detox drops this morning when we twigged.  She hasn’t had any since then.  And she only started them a week ago.

“Well…that’s where I’d start.”

I gulp, taking a breath.

“And MS?”

“Nah.  Doesn’t present like this.  It comes as a patch here or there.  Not both sides.”
“Because that’s what Suse is freaking out about.”

“I don’t think there’s a woman in the country who hasn’t had hysterical hemiplegia for a few minutes thinking they had MS.  We all think that for anything from a headache to a bumped funny bone.”

I cogitate some more, feeling the pressure ease a little.  The MS mosquito buzzes away, continuing to circle, but not threatening to land.  Not just now, anyway.

“And other causes?  I’m picking your adult-trained brain, mate.  We don’t do peripheral neuropathy in kids that much.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Well, you go back to basics.  Diabetes, alcohol, vitamin deficiencies…”

“DAM IT BITCH?”

“What?”

“The mnemonic.”  Pause.  “For peripheral neuropathy?”

“There is one is there?” she says, laughing slightly.  “Yeah, I vaguely remember it.”

“You’d remember it less vaguely if your wife had it.”

“Mmmm,” she says, pondering.  She pauses a while again, before taking a breath in;  a newly developed, end-of-consultation queue.  “Get her off the whacky juice,” she ends.

“Thanks, mate.”

I walk out of the study.

There is see Suse, furiously cleaning, scrubbing the pots that were left for me.  She’s watered the garden, cleaned up, and now she’s washing the pots.

Furiously.

She looks up.

“Get off the poison, she reckons.”

“Anything else?”

“She doesn’t think it’s MS.”

“No?”

“Weird presentation.  This is not how it comes.”  The mozzie buzzes close again.

“Really?”

“Really,” I say, with borrowed confidence.

“I was thinking while you were on the phone – could it be the Ant Rid?  Could I have swallowed some?  From before?

“No, honey.”

“I mean, I know we cleaned it up, but…”

“…Honey.  You’ve been knowingly ingesting poison for a week.  Let’s not lay it on the Ant Rid right now.”

“Okay,” she says.  She keeps scrubbing at a pot.

The mozzie flies off and out of earshot.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 25, 2011 10:00 am

Wednesday 3rd February 2010

Gestation: 18 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

I spend the day at work, where I try to keep moving.  I try not to get bogged.  I see patients, and attempt to remain busy, except that for the first time in its history, the clinic isn’t.

It’s like they set it up that way.  I look around for the candid cameras, but they’re nowhere to be seen.  Not even under the script pad.  So soon enough, I find myself idle.  And before even I know it, I’m looking up ‘glove and stocking’ and ‘peripheral neuropathy’.

An old acronym rears up from nowhere:  DAM IT BITCH.

- Drugs,

- Alcohol,

- Metabolic;

- Inflammatory,

- Toxins;

- B12,

- Infectious,

- Trauma,

- Congenital,

- Hormonal.

Like it means anything to me now.  I trawl the Rolodex in my head once more, dust rising as I do.

I settle for Google.

As I read, I consider.  And suddenly, I start to think about toxins.  All of the shit that Suse has been put on.  All of the supplements, the herbs, the homeopathic remedies.  Every one of them conjured up for the benefit of her tubes, her fallopian pipes.  For the unclogging of blockages, the clearing of energy pathways, the rebalancing of the Qi.

The Western medical voice sits there on my right shoulder.  It whispers in my ear.  Those weirdo herbs.  Those hippy drugs.  That suspicious stuff.  All that unproven stuff.  The cause of all of our woes.

“It’s all of this shit she’s on,” I hear myself say.

It’s a full revolt against the East.

Damn that bitch.

* * * * *

I walk through the door, approaching Suse to kiss her.

“It’s worse today,” she says, before I even make it.

“Really?  Where?”

“It’s all the way up my legs, and up to my shoulders.”  I look at her and shrug a little, trying not to look completely alarmed.

I’m pretty sure I fail.

“I had a chat to my Mum,” she continues, “and she thought of the drugs.”

“Exactly!” I say, almost yelling, “that’s what I thought too.”  I scratch at my head.  “Who knows what’s in these things?  Do they even list the ingredients?”

“The Chinese herbs do, but the naturopathic mixture just comes in a dropper.”

“With nothing else on it?”  Suse shakes her head.  I feel myself clucking my tongue.  Scoffing.  I look at the bottle of Chinese herbs.  There is a list of roots, rhizomes, and fruiting bodies.

I don’t even know what a rhizome is, unless it’s a seven sided irregular shape.  And as for a fruiting body?  If that’s not the description for someone who’s perspiring, again I’m at a loss.

I pick one up;  this one is for the relief of fatigue.  The next one is for period pain.  There’s milk thistle, and Swedish bitters and warm digestive tea.  There’s flower essence and detox drops.  I feel myself bristle – or milk thistle – some more, increasingly angry, looking for something to blame.

This fairy floss will do just nicely.

I walk into the study, firing up Google once again.  But even using different search terms, there’s little that I can find on any of this stuff.  It seems that no one has anything scientific to write about any of it.   I try a search on peripheral neuropathy and some of the herbs, but get nowhere.  ‘Glove and stocking’ and ‘warm digestive tea’ brings up something entirely different.

Mainly about keeping warm in Scotland.

* * * * *

Later, I relent.  I do a neurological exam on Suse.  I look at her arms, and her legs, and her cranial nerves.  I check her tone, her power, her reflexes, her coordination and her sensation.  Everything is normal, except her sense of feeling.

She has no sensation to pinprick below the knees, or the wrists.

No sensation to temperature either.

Nothing feels cold.

Nothing feels sharp.

This isn’t paranoia, or overcalling it, or anything.

These are real neurological signs, that things aren’t right.

This is real.

* * * * *

to be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, January 24, 2011 10:00 am

Tuesday 2nd February 2010

Gestation: 18 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

I jump out of the shower and walk into the living room.  I feel preened and fresh;  the warmth still evaporating from my back.  I stoop down to turn on the TV, an increasingly complex procedure these days.

“Love?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been having tingling in my hands and legs,” Suse says.

I can feel her eyes on me.

I bristle.

“Well, there you go,” I say.  I don’t even look up.

It’s my role to diagnose.  To explain.  To reassure.

To make it all better.

I guess I had I coming when I became a doctor.

“Isn’t that worrying?” she continues.  The recalcitrant amplifier refuses to wake from its slumber.  I hit it for good measure.  And almost unconsciously, I’m already scrolling through a list.  A full page of worrying causes.

Ones that scare the hell out of me.

“How long have you had it?” I ask, still not looking up.

“For a week now.  At first it was just pinpricks, here and there.  But now…”

“Now?”  I manage to look at her.

“Well, now it’s all through my hands.  And it’s on the bottoms of my legs.”

“Uh huh.”

Jesus.

My bristling becomes full blown.

My own sympathetic pinpricks.

“Any weakness?”

“No.”

“Any changes to your vision?”

“No.”

“And no changes to your speech?”

“No.”

“None that I’ve noticed.”

“No.”  Suse is quiet.  Almost admonished.

“Okay.”

“Okay?  Shouldn’t I be worried?”

“I don’t know, Suse.”

I feel my face cracking.

I’m such a bad liar.

“I mean…”  She sighs deeply.  “I’ve always had an irrational fear that I was going to get MS.”  She pauses.  “Multiple sclerosis,” she finishes, in case I’m slow on the uptake.

“Every woman has that fear, Suse.”

“And some of them get it.”

“But it doesn’t present like this.  This is weird.  It’s like…”  I grasp at the back of my brain, searching those lists, ones covered in dust, un-tapped for many years.  Ones filed away with the adult stuff.  Stuff that isn’t relevant to me as a Paediatrician.  As my kind of Paediatrician, anyway.  “You’re talking about a glove and stocking distribution.”

“Glove and stocking what?”

“Where the tingling is.  It’s like… peripheral neuropathy.”

“What’s that?”

“Can we just…”  I look at her face, blackened with worry.  “Can we just leave it for the moment?  I continue to watch my wife.  “We’ll…”  Pause.  “I’ll…”  Pause.

I go quiet.

And so does she.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 21, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 31st January 2010

Gestation: 18 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

Suse looks at me with that worried expression on her face.

“I’m not bleeding anymore, Mark.  My period only went for one-and-a-half days.”

I pause for a second.

“But you’re back onto a normal cycle.  Back to twenty-eight days.  That’s perfect, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” she says, pursing her lips, “I’m not so sure.”

The world has gone mad.

There was a time when a short period was desirable.

Now, apparently, we want a big, heavy, draining period.  One that causes anaemia.  A real blood letting.

That would be best.

I know, I know.  The world hasn’t gone mad.

It always was.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 19, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 28th January 2010

Gestation: 17 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

Over the last week, Suse has had appointments with the Chinese Herbalist, the Integrative Medical Practitioner and her Acupuncturist.  Each day, I find a new batch of compounded mixture on the chopping block, a new bottle of pills, all ready for ingestion.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m all for herbs, I’m all for alternative therapies.  After all, chemo wasn’t exactly our Holy Grail.

I’m all for regaining a healthy balance.

I’m all for clearing the blockage.

But it’s the whole focus thing.

I just don’t want to lose the balance for the herbs.

* * * * *

I watch as Suse stands there, dolling out pills onto the counter.  She places down some little black balls, perfectly round, that threaten to roll away.  They look like aniseed lollies, but something tells me they aren’t.

“What are they?” I ask.

“Chinese medicine.”

“I know that, but…”  She looks across at me in the shower.   I stop.

“My period was supposed to have started again by the time I went back to see her today.”

“Oh,” I say.

“It’s like I’m ready, but it just won’t…”

“…The blockage?”

She nods.

“Sex always stirs things up a bit,” I offer, looking over, suds in my eyes.  “Maybe we should…”

“…I’m in pain, Mark.  Period pain.  I’ve been aching for two days.  I don’t really feel like it.”

“Just trying to help.”

She smiles, before falling back behind her thoughts.  “Things just aren’t flowing like normal,” she whispers.  “Like they should.”

I wash away at the soap, furiously, as if it’s taking all of my attention.

I resist temptation to say anything.

Not that I have anything to say.

But still, it’s a challenge for me.

* * * * *

I get home.  As I open the door, I find Suse sitting there on the couch, a frown across her face.  She is holding a book that I’ve never seen.  The title says: ‘The Natural Way to Better Babies’.

“Hi hon,” I say.

“Hi, love,” she says, without looking up.

She’s already a third of the way through it.

Eventually, I extricate her from the book.  We talk;  mundane things that comfort both of us.  We bustle around, getting dinner ready.   And then we sit down.  Suse waits at the table, her back ruler-straight, like she’s still doing yoga, while I walk across to the fridge.  I pull out a beer, and crack it on the fridge opener.  It gives out a satisfying hiss.  I walk across and sit down.  As I do, Suse’s eyes stay fixed on the bottle, all the way to the table.

She doesn’t say anything.  But her eyes remain on the bottle.  And then, her mouth opens.  She takes half a breath.  And then pauses.

Yep, here it comes.

“You know, there’s evidence now that it’s just important for the man to look after himself – diet wise that is,” she says, clarifying, “as it is for the woman, in the weeks before conceiving?”

“Yeah?  Well there you go,” I say.  I take a slug.  A few seconds go by.  “It’s only one beer, Suse,” I say eventually.

“I know, but…”

“…But what?”

“Well, at Adam’s birthday?”  She says, as if it’s self-explanatory.  I shrug.  “Men really shouldn’t have that many drinks.”

“Because?”

“Because it affects your sperm count.”

“Yeah?  Well there you go,” I repeat.  I take another swig in defiance. Again, a few seconds go by.  I chew vigorously on my meal;  steamed vegies give little masticatory satisfaction.  “We did get pregnant first go,” I say finally.

“I know.”

“So there’s not a lot pointing at me having a low sperm count at this stage.”  I take another gulp.

“But alcohol causes mutations.  I’ve seen the pictures.”

“Every time I jooz there’s mutations, Suse.  I produce about 200 million sperm each go.  That a lot of craftsmanship.  They can’t all be perfect.”

“I know.”

There is a pause.

“It’s one beer, Suse.”

“Sure.”  She pauses.  “It’s just that I’m being good.  And I want you to be, too.”

“Great.  And I don’t want it to rule our lives.”

We fall into silence.

End of conversation.

The balance for the herbs.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 17, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 25th January 2010

Gestation: 17 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

The squelching has settled.  In fact, everything has settled.  Suse’s shoulder is like brand new.  It’s the rejuvenation we were dreaming about.

Nothing quite like steroids to brighten up your day.

And since then, she’s done yoga every day.

Suse is far more aware of her body than I am.  More emotionally aware.  More in tune with its rhythms.  More yin.  Yoga for her is like running is for me;  meditative and centring.  It’s pleasure to watch.  So much so, that I do just that.  I join her yoga session.  She silently instructs, while I gruntingly follow.  She is a kind teacher, a really natural instructor.   And I’m not.

I’m the perfect yang for her yin.

She begins slowly, kindly.  And as she does, I am taken back to when I first met Suse.  At a course in Brisbane.  She caught my eye the first day I saw her.  She sat opposite me at lunch.  We talked.  And I remember being struck by her aura.  Her confidence.  Her assurance.

Her presence.

Later that day, she volunteered to take yoga sessions for anyone who was interested.

At dawn each morning.

Until this point, I’d never felt a need to try yoga.  But for some reason, in this setting, the urge was almost overwhelming.  Magnetic.

I know.

It’s hard to explain.

So each morning, I would rise at dawn to do yoga.

Again, oddly enough, so did a record number of other uncoordinated men.

And yet, I prevailed.  I became her most avid groupie.  For an entire year, I never missed a session.  Hanging on her every graceful pose, watching in fascination at her smooth, lithe movements, I would scramble to reach with a quarter of the dexterity, a fraction of the suppleness, ignoring the numbness in my toes as I copied her in downward dog.

I remember watching in awe – dumbstruck awe – as Suse calmly guided the group through each session.  She did it with such effortlessness.  It left me feeling energised, but probably mainly because when it was over, as I regained feeling in my legs, I would approach her.  And I would thank her with a hug, one that lingered almost too long, for such a wonderful experience.

That left me energised.

And that woman is now my wife.

* * * * *

We finish, a one-on-one master class with my yoga mentor.  As we do, I hold her tightly, just like I used to.  But this time, there aren’t seven other men lining up for the same thing.  This time, I don’t have to hide my feelings.  This time, I can hold her close, cradling my wife into me.

As I do, she relents.  I feel her body fold into mine.  In the last half hour, I’ve witnessed her back in her power, back in her presence.  It’s something I’ve missed witnessing.  Something we’ve both missed.

It is a purity from a time earlier;  a focus on what we have, rather than what we don’t.

My wife is back in focus.

As she lets go, I feel my back twinge.

And I remember that yoga is for me, what running is for Suse.

A spectator sport.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 14, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 21st January 2010

Gestation: 16 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

We enter through the curved, reflective doors of the Radiology Centre.  As they open, we are hit by a waft of something you can’t bottle.   I guess you’d call it calm.  It feels like there is a vacuum in here;  I see people moving about, but they don’t seem to be making enough sound.  Even if you tried to shout, I don’t know that you’d be heard above a whisper.  It’s really kind of weird.

The place is decked out in black marble, a mix between stately accountant and airport boarding lounge.  It’s nothing like the medical facilities I’m used to;  everything seems to be in its place, and nothing looks like it needs replacing.

This couldn’t possibly be part of the Australian healthcare system.

We approach the desk, unsure whether to pull out our passports or our bank details.

“Hi, I’m here for an appointment,” Suse begins.  She decides on her driver’s licence, which she hands over while I look for luggage belt.  There doesn’t seem to be one, so I stand by her side.  It’s my new position.

The woman taps away, saying little, making less noise than seems right.  Finally she opens her mouth.

“And how would your doctor like to receive the report?” she asks.

“Umm, he’s my doctor.”  Suse looks at me, and I then at the receptionist.  She looks anywhere but at us.

“Mail is fine,” I say.

She smiles wanly, taking my details like I’ve just been arrested.  And then we sit.

Waiting for the boarding call.

* * * * *

We are here for Suse’s shoulder injection.

I’m hoping it’s an entire shoulder rejuvenation;  like something you might see advertised on morning television.  Because she hasn’t had much luck with her shoulders.  She had a reconstruction on the left three months ago, after discovering a tear of the supraspinatus;  a so-called degenerative condition, like she is a frail grandmother in a nursing home, not a fit, sexy, fertile young woman.

And despite arguing with multiple doctors over the merits of mislabelling my wife, it continued to get worse, ever making the fool of me.  This happened over six months – preceding the ectopic by just a few weeks.  The shoulder finally healed, and the ectopic was settling.

It was clearly time for the next thing to go wrong.

She’d been doing rehab exercises, to rebuild her left shoulder.  Each night, Suse tied a big red piece of rubber spaghetti to a doorknob, and pulled it in various directions, like she was spelling her name with her hands.  She did it religiously.

And then, two weeks ago, she turned to me one night.  Pretty much the night after we remembered how to smile.

“My shoulder is starting to hurt,” she said.

“Oh.  It’s still getting used to the surgery, I guess.”

“No, she said.  “It’s the right one.”

My heart fell through the floor.

I scooped it up, and rang my friend, the Orthopod who operated on her left shoulder.  He suggested a steroid injection into the subacromial space, reminding me that this was an area in her shoulder joint, not one in Central America.   He was hoping to settle the inflammation in the bursa;  again a body part, not a Buddhist land mass dominated by military rule.

“It may just buy you out of trouble,” he said.

“Just how much trouble are we buying out of?” I asked.

How hard is it to get out of bursa, when you’re in the subacromial space?

“No one really knows.  Months.  Years.  It’s really difficult to say.”

But maybe just long enough to get pregnant.

* * * * *

“Susan?”  We both look up.  There stands a steely woman at the parapet.  “Feel free to come through,” she says.

I stand as well, walking with her over towards the sliding door.  “You can stay here, sir,” she says raising her eyebrows.  She brandishes her teeth;  half-smile, half-bulldog.

“He’s my husband, and my doctor, and I’d really like him to be in there for the procedure,” Suse says, more bulldog than smile.

“Well,” Steel woman replies quietly.  “No problem then.”

We walk through the fortress door and into the Alien Space Centre beyond.  Steel woman walks on ahead, leading us through to a room;  all cream walls and ultrasound machines.  Like a console of a Y-wing fighter, she sits in her saddle, facing her control panel.

“Please lie on the bed,” she orders.  Suse complies.  “And now, just twist your arm back like this.”

She demonstrates.  Suse tries to imitate.  Steel woman frowns.  She then pulls Suse’s shoulder in an unnatural twist, even for a yoga expert like her.  I feel like I’m watching a form of medical torture.

Which I kind of am.

“Comfortable?”

“Uh, not really,” Suse replies.  “That is exactly the position where the pain is triggered.”

“Okay, good,” Steel woman says.  She starts up the Y-wing fighter, and places a probe on Suse’s shoulder.  A universe of lights flash on to the screen.

“So will this hurt?” Suse asks.  She’s attempting nonchalance, but falls a little short.

“Oh, not for me it won’t,” Steel woman jests.  She laughs in lieu of us.

“No, look it’ll be okay.  I’ve had two in my shoulder, and they were great,” she finishes, like she’s talking about cocktails.

“So, not so bad?”

“No, they were really nice, really smooth.”

“What flavour?” I ask.

“Sorry?”

“No, sorry,” I mumble.  A silence falls.  Suse looks at me with confusion.  I shrug.

“The doctor will be here in a few minutes,” Steel woman says ignoring me completely.

And then she shimmies out of the room.

* * * * *

As advertised, a few minutes pass before the doctor walks in.  He is equally metallic, equally steely, as if this was the only tick-a-box on the job application.

“How are you?” he asks, not really wanting a reply.  He moves around the room, getting things ready.  He’s so clearly on autopilot that he looks bored.  It comforts me no end that he’s probably already done fifteen of these injections today.

He begins to speak, telling us about the procedure.  I try to listen, but I can’t stop staring at his lips, which don’t seem to be moving.  I look to see where his hands are, in case he’s just pressed play on a tape, or an iPod or something, just to save him having to repeat the same spiel again.  But I can’t make out where the speaker is hidden.  It must be in his mouth.

“…And the tendinosis will be improved by this procedure.”  He sighs as he finishes, pressing pause on the tape.  I swear it.  I saw his hand move.

“Not tendinopathy?” Suse asks.

“Tendinitis, tendinosis, tendinopathy…”  He trails off.  “Depends on the mood of the day,” he says eventually, almost asleep.

He then sits.  He swishes the ultrasound probe over Suse’s shoulder, the snake of cord making a little ripple down it, like you used to do with a skipping rope if you were trying to look cool.  But he does it with the flair of a man in control, one who isn’t even trying to be cool anymore.

He’s too bored to be cool.

And then he pulls out his dirty great horse needle.  He primes it, a squeeze of juice coming from its end.  He does this in a deft movement, again on autopilot.  Suse looks at me.  I smile, not wanting to let on that there is the sharp end of a sword hovering above her right shoulder.

A fascinating scene ensues.

The doctor’s hand advances forward, the needle plunges through layers of snow on the screen, and Suse’s mouth opens in pain.  All in chorus.  It’s like watching a movie with a split screen effect, where you are privy to the perspectives of different angles at once.  This is that.

I watch as he depresses the plunger.  As he does, the thin layers of pixels spread apart, like an air-matt levitating as the steroid is instilled.  Suse’s mouth yawns open, as if operated by the plunger.  The weird scene continues, until the snowstorm settles, her yawn closes, and he retracts the needle.  In perfect synergy.

I resist the temptation to clap.

“All done,” he says, sighing once again.  “Not so bad, eh?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she replies.  She looks like she’s just been slapped.  Her eyes are fixed firmly on the end of the needle, watching it all the way to the disposal bin.  Even after that, Suse stares at the yellow container, like she’s waiting for it to bite.

“The nurse will be back in a minute,” he says finally.  And then he sighs a final time.  Just a little.  Like a junkie who’s just had a dirty hit.  The highs just aren’t there anymore.

And then he disappears.  He vanishes so quickly I’m not sure whether he even used the door.  The man is slick.  And bored.

And just a little bit sad, too.

“What just happened?” Suse asks.

“A sad, robotic man just fixed your shoulder.”

“We can only hope.”

“That we can.”

We stay motionless for a few more minutes, there in the room, both lost in our own thoughts.  Suse lies there, gradually starting to stir from her spell, moving her shoulder in bigger and bigger arcs.

“This is so weird,” she says finally.  “I can hear the squish.  Can you hear that?”

I roll across, as yet unable to get out of my saddle.  I put my ear to her shoulder.  And then I hear it.

“So now you’ve got a shoulder that squelches.”

Steel woman enters.  She helps us both up, clearly understanding that it is as difficult for the partner to leave as it is for the patient.

“Thank you,” we both say.

“My pleasure,” she says, smiling kindly.  “And enjoy the squelch.”

Suse grins, waving with her good arm.

“This day has been so surreal,” she whispers as we walk.  She then laughs, moving her arm like it’s her new party trick.

We walk out through the door, and then through the Arrivals Gate, with a faint hope that there will be someone with our name on a card to greet us.

Or if not, someone to reassure us that we’ll be pregnant before the next operation.

* * * * *