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

Saturday 27th February 2010

Gestation: 22 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

As we sit there at breakfast, I stare out the window at this vast backyard in Castlemaine.

There to one side is my god son.  On the other is his little sister.  Sara sits close to Suse, her head resting in the crook of my wife’s arm.  She chews away at her cereal, her head bobbing up and down as she does.

“Is she bothering you?” Lauren asks.

“No,” Suse says, looking down at her new friend.  “It’s kind of nice, isn’t it, Sara?”

Sara nods, in time to her chews, raising her eyebrows at the same time.  The two of them stay there, linked to each other;  the females as one, while the boys hang out on the other side.

Sara continues to open and close her jaw.  As she does, her hand creeps along, slowly slipping onto Suse’s belly.

“There’s a baby in there,” she says, very quietly.

Suse looks down at her.

“Sara, what are you doing!” Lauren says aghast, her face flushing.

“Touching Susie’s baby,” Sara replies plainly.

“No honey,” Lauren says brightly, “there’s no baby in there anymore.  I told you about that.”  Lauren smiles awkwardly, before covering her reddened face.  “I’m so sorry,” she says quickly.

“That’s okay,” says Suse.  “That’s okay.”

“But there will be a baby in there,” Sara continues.

“Really?” Suse asks, looking down at her new friend.  “And when will that be, Sara?”

“Before the end of the year,” she states incontrovertibly.  “Before Christmas time.”

With that, Sara takes her hand off, and returns to her cereal.   She picks up her spoon, shovelling more in, spilling milk on the table by her side.

I watch as Suse’s hand moves in to place, on her belly, as she looks off out the window, smiling lightly.

* * * * *

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

Thursday 25th February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

It’s 2.20am.

I lie here, dreaming deeply, something about my Grade Two teacher and how he could never get anything right.  He stands there, at the board, writing up and rubbing out ‘separate’, several times, with various versions of spelling.

I feel that pull, a wrench from deep sleep, away from Mr Finch’s quivering moustache.  It is a raw feeling;  a confusion, a fear, something emotional.  Deep from nowhere, from somewhere, from another place, I know a danger;  something that needs protection.  I look at the desk.  And then to my left.  And then my right.  In a struggle, in a tussle with it, and then with a sharp in-breath, I am awake.

I turn to my right, confused.  Adjusting to my eyes.  The first thing I get is the movement.  Up and down, in a soft shake, padding me: chug, chug, chug.  The darkness clears as I begin to see the movement in time, bobbing up and down.  And finally, I hear it.

The sobs.

Big deep sobs.

* * * * *

I pull the earplugs from my ears, the treble-echo coming through brightly;  the scene adding up to one.  There I see my beautiful wife, silhouetted in the dark, her shoulders bobbing, letting out big soulful sobs.

“What’s going on, honey?” I ask, hearing someone else’s voice cracking.  Definitely not mine.

“I don’t know.  I don’t know,” she gets out between gasps.  “I just can’t stop.”

“Oh, honey.”  I lift my arm, pulling her into my neck.  I feel the wet against my skin.

“How long have to you been crying?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t know.”  Her shoulders shake.  “I just can’t sleep.”

“Have you been to sleep at all?”

“No.”

In a past life, I would have asked what this was about.

I would have sought explanation, a reason;  a trigger for this occurrence.  Something to fix.

How very male of me.

I hug Suse close, and she buries in deeper.  A moment passes, and then I feel the softening of her neck, the wilting.  And with that, she releases the pent up emotion, the restraint of the last two hours, which she gripped in tight while her husband snored beside her.

She lets out beautiful, big, sad tears, as her body folds into mine;  relief at the allowance of this raw, heavy emotion.

And we connect.

As only you can when you’ve shared something like this.

* * * * *

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

Wednesday 24th February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

Suse’s period hit yesterday at noon.

Four hours after the pregnancy test.

* * * * *

We sit watching TV, when Suse grabs at her side.

“Bad pain?”

“Just the usual these days,” she replies.  “You know, it’s uncanny the number of women whose period starts minutes after peeing on a stick.  There’s something biological that they’re playing on here, that fools us into spending ten bucks to pee on a stick just before we spend ten more bucks on pads.”

“Hormones are a bitch,” I reply.

She looks at me, deciding on her reaction.

I wait.

Suse is in fine form.  By which, I mean, her hormones are in fine form.  Right now, her fuse is pretty short.

Add to this yesterday’s negative test and the fuse is lit.

“Yes, hormones are a bitch, Mark.  They’re responsible for bringing my period forward.  I’m three days early, you know.”

“I thought you weren’t sure of your dates,” I say, stupidly.

“Well, I am!  And they are!  Besides, it doesn’t if I’m three days or one day early.  Early is bad.”

“Early is bad?”

“Yes!” she yells defiantly.  “Everyone knows that early is bad!”

I think I missed that lecture at University.

“Okay,” I say.

I stand and start to slowly back away.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”  I stand dead still.  “This way?”

A frown lines her face.  And then the façade falls.

“I just can’t believe it,” she says, her face dropping in defeat.  “I can’t believe this has happened to me.  It’s just not fair.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Neither of my sisters had this.  They both got to…”  She pauses.  “They both got to keep their innocence.  To have an experience of pregnancy without it being tainted.  Without all of this worry!”  She stands, having gone moved from defeated to enraged.  “It’s intruding on my every thought!  Every hour of the day!  I don’t know how to stop it, Mark!  I don’t know how to take it easy with it any more!”  She takes a breath, before finishing, this time more calmly, “I don’t know how to have a natural experience anymore.”

Her heads falls, and she sits heavily on the couch.  I approach and sit with her, my hand on her back.

I go to say something.

But there is nothing to say.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, February 23, 2011 10:00 am

Tuesday 23rd February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

Suse wakes early, snuggling in to me.  I rouse to find her there, breathing softly into my neck.  The condensation has already formed;  one of those things that you can only find comforting from someone that you love.

I move my head to get a look at her, trying to read her face.

“Have you done it?”

“Not yet,” she says without making eye contact.

There is a sorrow in her voice.  She’s already preparing for disappointment.

“Should we?”

She sighs, nodding.

We get up, and Suse heads to the toilet and sits.  I stand there with her, trying to be supportive.  Trying to re-enact that moment, one hundred and twenty-two days ago.

“Can you leave me to do it?” she asks.

“Sure.”

Sure.

This time around, everything has changed.

Everything is different.

* * * * *

I stand in the bathroom, waiting for her to finish.  I walk back into the toilet, where she holds the outstretched stick for me to take.

“Keep it horizontal,” she says, almost urgently.

“Okay,” I say as I take it.  I return to the bathroom and place it down on the sink.  I stand for a full minute as I watch the line light up, clearer and clearer.  I stoop down low, looking for something.  Anything.

Nothing.

“You’ve got to leave it for three minutes,” Suse calls out.  I nod, calculating that by now we’re already at two.  She walks in to wash her hands.  And then out.  And then in.  We both look at it again.

Negative.

She lets out a sigh, rubbing her eyes.  We both return to the bedroom and lie back down.  She snuggles into my neck once more, breathing moisture in and out.  I wonder if she is going to cry.  She doesn’t.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Sad,” she says in a hollow voice.  “Just sad.”

I hold her.  We lie still.

“And how are you?”

“Sad too.”  I pause.  “But maybe not as sad as you.”

We stay there a while longer.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you too,” she says, hugging me tight, “but I’ve got to get up.”

I think back on the last test, the last time we did this:  looking at the test, watching as one line slowly appeared, and then another.  Showing it to Suse.  The excitement.  The shock.  The lack of expectation.

No expectations, no preconceived ideas.  No idea.  Absolutely no idea.

Just innocence.  Pure innocence.

One hundred and twenty-two days ago.

* * * * *

I wait a moment longer, before I get up too.  I walk down the hall and into the bathroom.  The light is as bright as an examination room;  as if it is pointing at the plastic contraption on the sink.  I move in close.  I examine the single pink line.  Glowing.  Almost fluorescent.

With not a hint of a friend beside it.

The last test – the first test – had blue lines.  Two blue lines, less garish than this, one intersecting the other, making a blue cross.  A symbol.  Literally, a positive sign.

I liked the blue model better.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, February 22, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 22nd February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

Suse walks in the back door, grocery bags in hand.  She begins unpacking, before brandishing a box.  She holds it aloft, ‘Sale of the Century’ style.  Even before I can read the label, I know what it is.  The pink packaging, the logo of a woman holding an infant, and the bold letters stating ‘TWO TESTS’ gives it away.  The picture makes it look more like an electronic thermometer than a pregnancy test.

“Best one on the market,” Suse says.

“Great,” I say.

Four bold ticks down the side of the packet proclaim its features:

- There is an ‘Easy-read Result Line’;

- It is ‘Clinically Proven’;

- It has ‘Patented Sensorflow Technology’ (presumably to stop you from urinating on your hand);

- But most importantly: it has the ability to test ‘Six Days Before Your Missed Period’.

Suse cracks open the packet, pulling out the leaflet, shaking it like it is a thermometer.

“The woman in the pharmacy told me all about it.”  She clears her throat.  “ ‘In clinical testing,’ ” she starts, her voice having taken on its serious tone, “ ‘the In-Stream Pregnancy Test detected hormone levels consistent with pregnancy in 62% of women five days before their expected period, in 78% four days before their expected period, in 87% of women three days before their expected period, and in 98% of women two days before their expected period.’ ”

“And when are you due?”

“I’m not sure,” she says.  “My whole cycle is a bit mucked up since the ectopic.”  She pauses, thinking.  “Maybe two or three days.  Should I test today?”

“If you’re negative, you’ll want to check again tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Yes,” she replies, deflated.

“Then just check tomorrow morning,” I say, trying to stay bright.

“Okay.”

We continue unpacking, lost in our thoughts.

“I’ve been nauseated for the last few days.  If it’s not from being pregnant, then what would it be?”

“I don’t know, honey,” I sigh.  “I just don’t know.”

* * * * *

Another box appears on the counter.  This one, by the same company, is wrapped in purple. This one is called the ‘7 Day Pregnancy Planning Kit’.  A subtitle lets me know that it is ‘To Help Get Pregnant Sooner’, and that it ‘Predicts Your Two Most Fertile Days’.

“You got this one aswell?”

“Yeah.  Ever since the ectopic, I can’t tell when I ovulate.  I just kind of get stabbing pains all the time,” she says, almost to herself.  “So, I thought I’d buy that one too.”

This packet one has one bold tick.  Its only feature worth mentioning is that it has been ‘Laboratory Tested’.

Not even laboratory proven.

Just tested.

It lacks Sensorflow technology – this one requires you to dip it in a sump of your own urine.  It’s as if they’ve stripped back the features for this base model;  if you’re seeking help finding your peak ovulation days, if you’ve begun to tread that path, they figure that you won’t mind getting your hands dirty.

If you bought this, you are already desperate.

A grinning mother and infant decorate the lower half of its packet.  The woman holds this adorable, giggling baby up to her face, nestling in close, rubbing her nose up against her child’s.

And our nose directly in it.

Screw you lady.

* * * * *

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

Sunday 21st February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I roll over, my eyes cracking as they open, sleep caked around the edges.  I am hot and dry, my head swimming with that weird lethargy following a big night;  this time after one of work, not play.

“Morning, love,” I croak.

“Morning.”

Suse hugs me tight, letting out a sigh.

“I did a pregnancy test this morning, and it was negative.”

I let it sit for a moment, landing on earth.

“Are you due to check already?”

“No, it’s still four days away.  But often they’re positive by now.”

“And often they aren’t,” I say.

We lie for another moment.

“I’m scared, honey.”  Suse pauses.  “If we’re not pregnant this time, then next month is the left ovary.  The dodgy one,” she adds.  For extra effect.

“Uh huh.”

There’s nothing to say.

I hold her as we lie there in silence.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, February 18, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 18th February 2010

Gestation: 20 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

I tear at the edge of the envelope, and pull out the piece of paper.

I look at the piece of paper.

“Honey?”

Suse enters, placing an earring in her lobe, and walks across the room.

We both stare at the piece of paper.

“Five hundred and thirty?”

“Mmmm.”

“What’s the normal range?”

“Thirty-five to one hundred and ten.”

“So my level is…”

“…More than five times the upper limit of normal.”

We both look back at the pathology result again.

“How could that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could that be the cause of the pins and needles?”

“It’s not something I’m aware of.”

“But could it be?”

“Anything’s possible, I guess.”  I walk over and pick up the phone.  “And I know one way to find out.”

* * * * *

“Hi Terry, it’s Mark Nethercote here.”

“Oh, Hi, Mark,” he says, a little awkwardly.

“We’ve had an interesting result come back.”

“Yes?”

“The B6 level.”  I wait for a response.  “Susan’s pyridoxine level?”

“Yes?”

“Was five hundred and thirty.”  Again, I wait for a response.

“Mmmm.”

“The quoted range is thirty-five to one hundred and ten, so her level is…”

“…More than five times the upper limit of normal.”  There is another pause.  “That is very interesting.”

“So…”

“Yes?”

“Have you seen this before?”

He takes a moment.

“I’ve only had one other patient with B6 toxicity leading to peripheral neuropathy.  Many years ago.  But she was on very high doses.  How much does Susan take?”

“We just checked that.  50mg per day in her pregnancy vitamins.”

“Mmmm.”

“Mmmm?”

“Well, I’ve seen toxicity when it’s taken at more than 200mg per day, certainly above 400mg a day, but there’s not great data on all of this.  At 50mg, that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“There’s not a lot that has about this whole thing, Terry.”

“Mmmm.  The other problem is that the assay isn’t designed to look for high levels.  It’s designed to look for low levels of B6.”

“Because low B6 is a cause of peripheral neuropathy.”

“Exactly.  It’s hard to know the accuracy of the test in the upper range.  But all the same, it is a very interesting turn of events.”

“It certainly is.”

“I must admit, I don’t usually check for B6 levels.  I might have to start including it on my routine bloods for peripheral neuropathy from now on.” “Excellent.”

There is another pause.

“I should also add,” he continues, “that one other patient I had with high B6 levels got better in a few weeks.”

Well it’s certainly brightened up our day,” I add.  “It’s nice to have something tangible, Terry.”  I stop for a moment.  “But it doesn’t really make sense, does it?  Isn’t B6 water-soluble?  Shouldn’t she just wee it out?”

“At those levels, you’d think so.”

“But, as we said, Susan doesn’t always make sense.”

He laughs.

* * * * *

I exit the study.  Before I can open my mouth, Suse walks over, holding her laptop.

“I’ve just been on the internet, and found a whole forum of women – all on pre-pregnancy vitamins, all with similar symptoms, all attributed to B6.”

“Really?”

“Everyone says it is a little known entity.  They all said their neurologists didn’t check for it, even when pressed, and all had peripheral neuropathy.  A couple were even treated with B6 before it worsened, and only then was it tested and recognised.  This lead to prolonged numbness in one woman, and inability to walk for months in another.”

“Lucky we had Terry.”

“Lucky we had Terry,” she echoes.  “So, what did he say?”

“He was a little puzzled, but agreed that it could all be due to B6.  It doesn’t make a lot of sense, as the doses were so low, but maybe there’s an issue with your B6 metabolism.  Hopefully that’s our answer.”

I take her in my arms, and hug her close.  But she remains stiff.

“What is it, love?”

“Would you still marry me today?”

“yes, honey.”

“If you weren’t married to me already?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Even after everything that’s happened?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Are you just saying that to be nice?”

“No, honey.”

She pauses.

“Even if I can’t metabolise B6 like a normal person?”

“Especially if you can’t metabolise B6 like a normal person.”

* * * * *

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

Monday 15th February 2010

Gestation: 20 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

Tonight, Suse and I try something new.

Tonight, we trial the Deposit Method.

* * * * *

It’s a variation on a time-honoured technique.  Except that, unlike the Withdrawal Method, our aim is the exact opposite.

I don’t know that there’s much need for definition here.  But, for point of interest, I will.

Just a bit.

The Withdrawal Method – more formally known as Coitus Interruptus – has been in use for thousands of years.  The earliest known record comes from the story of Onan, in the Torah.  In the Book of Genesis, Judah orders his son to have sex with his dead brother’s wife in order to continue the family line.  Onan readily agrees, but as he does, withdraws before climax, ‘spillling his seed on the ground.’  Several times.

For his wickedness, Onan is sentenced to death.

Encouraged by this story, Coitus Interruptus became all the rage through the Greek and Roman Empires.  By the eighteenth century, it was one of the most popular methods of birth control throughout Europe and America.  And by 1991, thirty-eight million couples around the world were regularly being very wicked indeed.

The success rate of the Withdrawal Method is, unsurprisingly, entirely user-dependent.  The failure rate in ‘perfect use’ is quoted at 4% per year, and in ‘typical use’ at 15-28% per year.

The aim is to not get pregnant.

But it’s the aim that also causes the problem.

* * * * *

Our aim is the exact opposite.

It’s day eighteen of Suse’s cycle.  An egg must have been released.  But with all of our recent activity, along with phantom pains since the ectopic, it’s hard to tell.  Suse internal ovulation meter has gone on the blink.

But it’s our sixth night in a row.  We want to make sure we’ve got a greeting party for the egg.  We want to give ourselves every chance.

So, by mirroring the process above, we come up with something new.

Literally.

I call it the Deposit Method.

Or, more scientifically: Coitus Quickus Enterus Completus.

Forthwith to be known as the Nethercote Method.

* * * * *

I get myself warmed up, while Suse reads a book.

There are certain pivotal moments in a marriage when you realise that this is the person you will grow old with.

This is one of them.

Not to be distracted, I concentrate.  And, in our very first attempt, at our very own technique, we are successful.

It is a brief, comfortable interlude.

Which barely ruffles a hair.

She doesn’t even need to put down her book.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, February 15, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 14th February 2010

Gestation: 20 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I sit there, concentrating on my sister-in-law, earnestly looking at the rash on her youngest daughter’s bottom.  Beside her, my nine-year old niece sits, arms crossed in her grey and lavender striped sweater, concentrating hard.

“I don’t know exactly, Sharyn,” I say.  “But I wouldn’t be overly worried about it.”

“And this one here?  Next to this lump?”

“Well that’s different.  That’s another one, another molluscum coming up.  Just like these others over here,” I say as I point.

“And this one?” asks my niece, a serious frown on her face.

“I think that’s just where she scratched herself.”

My niece nods, taking it in.  Meantime, Sharyn looks some more, as yet unconvinced.  And then, through the diamond of space between them – formed by the frame of Sharyn’s neck and chest, and my niece’s chin and arm – I see Suse.  She leans forward, peering through the hole like a pantomime character.  She waves animatedly at me, her eyes alight.  She points a finger at the staircase behind, and then sticks that finger in and out through the ‘O’ made by the other hand.

“And this one?” Sharyn asks.

“Ummm…” I say.

‘Do you want to go downstairs?’ Suse mouths silently.  ‘Do you want to…’  She does the finger-in-and-out-thing again.  I look back at my niece.

“Ummm…” I repeat.  I blink my eyes open, focusing back on Sharyn.  I feel like the guest on morning TV, distracted by a pedestrian who stands behind the glass, making dick gestures at the show host’s head.

“What is it?” my niece asks.

“Sorry?” I reply.  She looks around.

“Why are you staring at Auntie Susie?”  Auntie Susie is back in her seat, looking at the television;  the innocent pedestrian once security turns up.

“I have trouble not looking at her sometimes,” I say.  “After all, it’s Valentine’s Day.”  My niece gives out a little gush.  Sharyn looks at me hard, still waiting for an answer.  “Right, yes… Well…  I mean, that’s along her nappy line, and they’re just petechiae.”

“Sorry?”

“There just…”  Suse has resumed the game of charades.  One word, one syllable.  Starts with…

“…Just what, Mark?”

“Exactly, yes.  Petechiae are little pin-pricks of blood from burst capillaries.  They’re the sign everyone worries about with meningococcal.”  Sharyn’s eyes go wide.  “But they’re on the nappy line,” I stumble.  “They’re just from contact.”  Suse keeps going.  “I wouldn’t be worried by them,” I finish, unconvincingly.

Sharyn continues to stare.  After a moment, she also looks over her shoulder at Suse.  In return, my wife looks back, as if reluctantly breaking from a trancelike affair with the TV.  “Don’t look at me, he’s the doctor.”

“Well, he’s not exactly selling it to me.”

“Sorry, Sharyn,” I say fumbling over my words, “I must be distracted.”

She looks back at me. “By what?”

I shrug, looking nothing but stupid.

* * * * *

Suse takes me by the hand, leading me down the stairs and into the ‘Ron Jeremy Room’.  Named by Sharyn and Russ, this is the guest room for friends and family.  It is pale pink with a mauve trim, a 50’s reproduction rose decorating its ceiling light.  It’s more tweenies-bedroom than pornstar-hideaway, but if this is the Ron Jeremy Room, I guess we’d be remiss to not utilise it.

“Thanks for that, honey,” I say from the en suite.

“For what?”

“The distraction.”  She pokes her head around the corner, frowning like she doesn’t understand.  “For playing sex charades while I’m talking nappy rashes.”

“Well, I had no choice.  My mucus is really sticky.”

“That’s it love,” I say, “keep that talk up.  That’ll really turn me on.”

“Hey,” she mocks playfully, “I think I’m ovulating.  It was an emergency.”

“Okay.”

There is a silence.

“Do you think it matters that we didn’t do it last night?”

“We did it the previous five nights.”

“But not last night.”

“Well,” I pause, “we’re going to do it right now, aren’t we?  Isn’t that what the whole charades thing was all about?”

Another silence.

“But what if I’m ovulating right now?”

“Do you have pain?”

“I don’t know.  I have pain all the time now.  Everything is all messed up.”  I wash my hands.  “Hurry up in there.  It’s best if the sperms are already up there ready to greet the egg.”

“Really?”

“That’s what they say.”

I return to the Ron Jeremy Room.  “I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but if that’s what ‘they’ say, we’d better get to it.”

* * * * *

“Thanks for staying over and looking after the girls,” Sharyn says.

“Pleasure,” we reply simultaneously.  “Thanks for having us,” Suse says.

“And for letting us use your bed,” I add.  Sharyn frowns.  “To sleep in, I mean.”  I chew on my foot.

Sharyn’s frown doubles, shaking her head slightly.  “So you think this is nothing to worry about?” she asks, pointing again at a rashy bottom.

“No, she looks great.”

“Not meningococcal?”

“No,” I say.  Suse pinches my bum, causing me to turn.  She shrugs her shoulders at Sharyn.

“Ignore him,” Suse says smiling.  “On weekends his brain switches off and he sometimes says stupid things.  But he’d let you know if he was worried.”

“What she said,” I add, closing my mouth tight.

We says our farewells, departing through the front door.  We wave as we get in in the car, closing the doors tight.

“Thanks for that, love.”

“You’re very welcome, honey,” she says, choosing to turn sarcasm into a compliment.  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

We wave goodbye we drive off.  Everyone waves back, except for Sharyn.

She remains distracted, still looking at a rashy bottom.

* * * * *

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

Saturday 13th February 2010

Gestation: 20 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

If you repeat this, I may have to kill you.

Last night, Suse and I had a conversation, and it went like this:

“Hey honey, are you ready?”

“Oh, really?  I don’t know.”  I paused for a long moment.  A very long moment.

And then I said it:  “I’ve got a headache.”

Five minutes later, I got over myself.

But still, I’m left a little shaken by the turn of events.

* * * * *

I know, I know.  I should be thanking the New England Journal of Medicine.  I should really be sending them fan-mail for publishing data recommending daily intercourse in the week prior to ovulation.  All men should.

For years I’ve invented reasons for regular intercourse.

I never thought of looking for proof.

“But, honey, they’ve done trials on this,” the conversation continued.

“I know,” I replied.  “You’ve already told me.”

“You’re the doctor.  You know about egg and sperm viability.”

“I do.  But it’s midnight,” I added weakly.

“So what?” she said, sighing heavily.  “Honey, it’s really important that we have sex now.”

“I know.”

“And then again tomorrow night.”

“This is so surreal,” I whispered to myself.

So I did my duty.  I know better than to not.

And I’m not complaining.  I’m really not.  I’m merely observing.  And I’m shocked to find that I could feel prudishly affronted at the idea of being used solely for my sperm;  required to perform on demand.  On a school night.  For seven nights in a row.

I guess I’ve never known what it felt like to be disinclined.

Five years ago, this would have been a dream come true.

Now, instead, I’m thinking about sleep and work.

I’m getting old.  Clearly.

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