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

Saturday 18th September 2010

One year ago.

“This fucking dishwasher!” Suse yells.

I look over at her, from my position folding laundry.  We’ve had a really nice day, managing to keep ourselves busy.  There has not been a moment of tension.

Until now.

“The fucking dishwasher!” she yells again, kicking its scuff board hard.

“What’s wrong?”

“It won’t fucking start!” she yells.  She kicks it again.

I see her open it, pressing buttons randomly, before slamming it closed again.  Each time this doesn’t work, she lets out another shrill squeal.

“This fucking piece of shit!”

We have an Italian dishwasher.  I got it second hand from a mate.  It looks great, but it’s not very user friendly.  It has eight buttons, with various uninterpretable symbols.  It requires that you depress the two on the right simultaneously, before choosing one of the other settings, and then closing it tight to get it to start.  If you don’t do it quite right, it doesn’t work.

If you’re flustered, you haven’t got a hope.

I look at Suse, depressing the buttons unevenly, slamming it shut, squealing, and then pulling it open again.  Each time she does it with more force, each time throwing herself into it ever more.

“This,” she says, pointing, “is a fucking piece of shit!”

“Okay.”

“It is an absolute piece of shit, Mark!”

“Settle down, Suse.”

“I’ll settle down when you get it to work, Mark,” she says menacingly.  “Make it work, Mark!”

“Settle down, Suse.”

“Make it work!  Make the fucking dishwasher work!”

“Give me a second,” I say.

I walk over and open it, depressing buttons.  Suse leans her head over my shoulder, breathing fire.

“Can I have a moment?”

“I’m just watching to see what you do!”

I have a first go at it.  It doesn’t work.

“See?  See!”

“Hang on, Suse.  Just settle down!”

“I’ll settle down when that piece of shit works properly!” she yells, storming off down the hallway, “I can’t fucking take that piece of shit anymore!  This is bullshit!” she screams.  “I can’t take it!” she says, breaking into tears.  She throws herself onto the bed.

“Calm down, Suse,” I yell.  “Or you’ll lose the baby!” I say, more quietly.

The sobbing stops dead.  I pause for a moment, opening and closing the thing to no avail.  I walk down the hall and into the bedroom.  Suse lies there, her arm up under her head, facing the mirror.  I lie down beside her.

“Do you really think there’s a baby in there?” she whispers.
“Yes.”

“I feel like shit, Mark.  I feel constantly nauseated, and I’m totally knackered.  This has got to be a baby, doesn’t it?  It’s got to be.  I can’t do this every month if this isn’t pregnancy.”

I touch her tummy, something I’ve been doing over the last few weeks.  It settles her further.

“Is there a baby in there?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

We go quiet.  Suse sniffs away snot.  I keep my hand on her tummy.

“What’s she saying to you?”

“He likes the dishwasher.

“Does she?”

“He does.  So go easy on it.”

“Okay.”

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, August 30, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 2nd September 2010

One year ago.

I walk down the footpath, staring at my feet as I go.

Each step, as I get a little bit faster, I realise how angry I am, how hurt I am.  What the fuck did I do wrong?  What the fuck did we do to deserve this?

I’m scared, and I’m angry.  We’re both doing everything right.  We’re both doing everything we can.  Each day, I pop a multivitamin, a vitamin D and two fish oil tablets.  Suse has her acupuncture, her Chinese herbs, and her specially compounded B6-free powder.  I’m exercising frequently and keeping alcohol intake to a minimum.  We’re eating right.  We meditate together, several times a week.  I’m ejaculating every couple of days to wash out my spazzy sperm.  And this week, I’ve stopped to build up the bank.

I’ve read all their material, I know what’s going on.  I’ve devoured the starter pack, the manuals, the pamphlets, and the drug information.  I even started reading the wax-covered book that Suse loved, getting through the chapter about the IVF kid that died, and the next one about the couple who took nineteen tries with donor eggs and donor sperm.

And then I stopped.

I don’t need to read hard luck tales to understand the risks.  I know what can go wrong.

I know the fucking risks.

Each night, the alarm goes off for an injection.  Each morning, the alarm goes again.  Last night, exactly thirty-eight hours before the egg collection, we gave the last injection.

And tomorrow, at exactly nine in the morning, we go to the bookie to collect.

We’ve been good.  We’ve played by the rules.  We’ve done everything we should.  And yet, there’s only four.

Fucking four.

I’m tired, and I’m scared, and I realise as I walk that I don’t want it to be like this.  I don’t want some lab-rat to decide what kid I get.  I don’t want these odds.  I want it to be real.  To be natural.  To be loving.  To be normal.

But what choice do I have?  What choice do we have?

I don’t want it to be like this.

* * * * *

I open the door, slamming it hard behind.  I sit down, running my hands through my hair.  There on the couch sits the brown paper bag, stuffed full of drugs.  Sticking out of the top, in a clear plastic bag, is the specimen container, readied for tomorrow.

I take it and hold it in my hand.

It’s short odds we’ve got.  Four.  Shorter than we thought, but betting has closed.

Game on.

Tomorrow, we try to make a child.

Again.

* * * * *

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

Thursday 19th August 2010

One year ago.

I dream that I’m angry.

I dream that I’m furious about all of this.  About having to do IVF.  About all of the forms.  About al of the rigmarole.  I dream that I wish for a simple life, for a simple pregnancy, for falling pregnant naturally.  I dream for living in a world where there isn’t any scientific meddling, where I’m allowed to have what I want without asking for it, without having to prove my worthiness, without filling out more forms than I did to buy my house.

And then, in my dream, I have a child.

Simply, and easily.

Naturally.

I have my child.

And then I wake up.

And I realise that it’s not a dream.  Not the first bit, anyway.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, August 16, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 16th August 2010

One year ago.

In America, they do things a little differently.

When you first tell the world that you are pregnant – so my Texan sister-in-law tells me – you announce the names.  You tell everyone what you plan to name the child if he is a boy, and what she will be called if she is a girl.  For the entire pregnancy, everybody knows.  No secrets.

In Australia, we’re a little less open.  Here, we keep it under wraps.  We hold the surprise until the child is born.  That way, if you miscarry like us, people remain unaware of your favoured names.

It epitomises the differences in our cultures;  them hanging it out for all to see, us holding our cards close to the chest.  And while at times I could be accused of being patriotic to the point of jingoism, on this one, I think we’ve got it completely wrong.

Because as of today – two hundred and ninety-seven days after we first announced we were pregnant – not a single person knows what we plan call our children.

* * * * *

Meantime, today, Natalie Basingthwaighte gave birth to a baby girl.  Natalie is probably a lovely woman.  Except to us.  Twenty years from now, people may not remember who she is.  A lot of people won’t know who she is right now.

Let me tell you who Natalie is.

She’s the woman who stole our little girl’s name.

Harper.

Harper Rain Sinclair McGlinchey.

She can keep the Rain, and the Sinclair.  And even the McGlinchey.

It’s the Harper bit I’m miffed about.

* * * * *

We’ve got nine days until injections start.  Three weeks until egg collection.  Almost four until implantation.  And nearly six before we find out if we’re pregnant.

So all in all, best-case scenario, it’ll be a year before we name our little girl Harper.  Even longer if it’s a boy.

There’ll be a hundred little Harper’s in Day Care by then.

Bloody Natalie.

I guess I’d better get those forms off to Shelley quick smart.

* * * * *

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

Friday 23rd July 2010

One year ago.

I walk into the Emergency Department, and begin speaking to the person from the Department of Human Services.

She tells me that the two children in the cubicle have been brought in after their mother was found intoxicated on drugs and alcohol.  The children were wearing little clothing, and were found cold.

I walk into the room, and examine the two kids.  The four-month-old smiles and laughs, as yet unscarred.  The two-year-old is quiet and frightened, startling at any sharp movement.

He is adorable, with blonde hair and deep blue eyes.

He has bruises all over his body.

Some people are animals.  Fucking animals.

As I stand there, I can’t help but think:

What would it be like to adopt these kids?

How would their lives be different, if I were their Dad?

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, June 7, 2011 10:00 am

Tuesday 8th June 2010

Gestation: 36 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

A woman takes illicit drugs throughout their pregnancy.  Another causes Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in their unborn child because they drink heavily throughout the gestation.  A third beats their baby, breaks its bones.  The Department of Human Services gets involved, they get them back, and then they do it again.

And they keep on breeding.

Repeat cycle;  rinse and spin.

* * * * *

If I’m born with a child with liver disease, requiring a liver transplant, I can get that done.  For free.  The cost will run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.  Similarly, if my child needs a heart transplant, and things are complex, the ongoing costs can mean that my child very quickly becomes a million dollar baby.  Again, all for free.  If my child is unfortunate enough to be born with cystic fibrosis, the cost of one of the inhaled medications, Pulmozyme, can cost up to $2000 a month.  As long as I can jump through the right hoops, I can get that subsidised by the Government.  For my forty years of life.  And this is just one of maybe five inhaled medications I will be on.

Yep, you do the maths.

* * * * *

But as of January this year, just six months ago, Kevin Rudd and the Labour Government decided to decrease the repayment of IVF from 80% to 35%.  Costs have risen from $900 for the first cycle to $2500.  Many couples require repeat cycles before having success.  Dependent on the procedure, this can increase out of pocket expenses to $7500 per cycle.

Repeat cycle;  rinse and spin.

I see you doing the sums.  The costs can add up very quickly.  But with success, IVF couples are born with healthy kids.  The burden to the health care system evaporates as soon as they get pregnant.  The Government has just bought themselves another tax payer.

Compare that to people with chronic ongoing medical issues.  Diabetes.  Obesity.  Chronic obstructive airway disease.  Cardiac disease.  Would the Government just stop providing hospital beds to these people?  Would they just suddenly make them pay for it?  Would they suddenly triple the health care costs to this minority?

No.  They wouldn’t.  It would be political suicide.  It would be further evidence of an uncaring Government withdrawing support for those in need.

But we haven’t got a chronic illness that will be with us forever.  We need a little help to produce another tax payer.

That’s all.

Suse and I will only need IVF for a year or two, five years at the absolute maximum.

I pay my taxes.  I work hard.  I contribute to the health system.  I’m a doctor for God’s sake.  I am the fucking health system.

In return – for once – I need the health system.

But because my wife has a blocked tube, if we want a family, we have to use IVF.  We have no choice.  So we will pay for the privilege.  Don’t get me wrong.  We’re relieved that we live in a time that we have this choice.  As are all IVF families.  A compliant lot, who will do whatever we can to have kids.  That’s why we’re any easy target.  We’re too busy trying to breed to get politically proactive.  Had we done it last year, the costs would have been a third.  It’s bad luck, but that’s okay.

That’s okay, I can swallow that.

But if we want IVF we need a Police Check?

Where are the Police Checks on the community at large?  Where is there a Police Check on any other person needing health care, any where in the entire system?

Do you need a Police Check to receive health care in jail?  Do you need a Police Check to be allowed to continue a pregnancy if you’re an underage parent?  Do you need a Police Check to get an organ transplant?  Do you need a Police Check to get dialysis?  Do you need a Police Check to treat you for HIV or Hepatitis C?  Do you need a Police Check to get health care if you’re an Aborigine?  Or if you’re a homosexual?

No you fucking don’t.

Because that is what we call DISCRIMINATION.

And discrimination is illegal in this country – last time I looked – although God knows what this Government has been doing while I haven’t been looking.

I get the money bit.  I get it.  I understand why they’re doing it – they’re just trying to balance the books.  And IVF is an easy target.  I think it’s wrong, and I think it’s short sighted, but I get it.

But the Police Check?

Now that’s a fucking bee in my bonnet.

The discrimination has begun.

The infertility discrimination has begun.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, June 1, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 4th June 2010

Gestation: 36 weeks

One year ago.

Suse and I sit opposite each other, in this, the counsellor’s room.

“And what do you want to do when that happens?” she asks.

“I want to punish him,” Suse replies.

“And what about you, Mark?”

“I want to punish her.”

“No!” June says, knocking the edge of the chair loudly with the butt of her hand.  “No!  You’ve got to stop!  You’ve got to stop that!”  We’re both looking at her now.  “He’s not the enemy!” she says to Suse.  “She’s not the enemy!” she says to me.

“When you’re hurting, and your wounded child takes over, Little Suse wants to yell, and Little Mark wants to run and hide.  You’re punishing the one person who gets what you’re going through!  Through all of this, through this entire painful experience, you – and only you two – really know what you’re going though.  No one else can really get that but you two.  So when arguments start, when it becomes about something petty and separate from what it should be, it erodes at your foundations of love.  You’ve got to be there for each other.  You’re on the same team here, guys.  The adults have to come back out and play.”

She leans forward, and says pointedly, “You’ve got to play together.  To get through this, you’ve got to play together.  When the shit hits the fan, the adults have to re-enter the room.”

She’s right.  It hurts to admit, but she’s right.  Being wrong feels shit.  But she’s right.

Damn right.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, May 16, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 14th May 2010

Gestation: 33 weeks

One year ago.

“And how do you feel, Mark?”

I turn towards the counsellor, and I look at her.  And then I look across at Suse.  She sits in the seat opposite, a comfortable looking seat, but I know from the one I’m in that it’s not.

Or maybe it’s just me.

“It’s been hard, June,” I start, my voice cracking.  I feel irritated by this betrayal by my larynx.   As if she can’t see straight through me anyway.  “It’s been really rough.  And really unfair.”

June looks at me without reacting.  When some people do this, you just want to slap them.  But June has a grace;  an innate kindness that can’t be faked.

“And I find myself getting angry.  Really angry.  Unfairly angry,” I say, surprising myself that I want to continue.  “I see women down the street, perfect strangers, wheeling their kids around in prams, or walking along with them, minding their own business.  And I just want to yell at them.  Or I’ll see a pregnant woman, and I just want to let her have it, for how unfair this whole thing has been.  And these are the ones with kids who are behaving themselves.  Don’t get me started on the ones where the kids are being little shits.”

I stop and look at Suse, who nods slightly in encouragement.

“I just want them to know,” I say, “that it’s unfair.  That it’s just not fair.  And I know, I know, there are a whole bunch of people out there with really bad shit going on.  With really bad diseases and really fucked up existences, and abuse, and homelessness, and full-on, hard-core psychiatric illness.  I know that we’re in a fucking lucky country, and we’re so God-damned lucky that we were given this opportunity, and these brains, and this health, and everything.  But it’s still just unfair!”  I hear my voice rising.  “I see these people getting pregnant, and not even wanting to.  Or even still, I see people getting pregnant who do want to.  In the end, it doesn’t matter.  I have the same reaction with all of them.  I just find myself thinking:  ‘Why can’t this be us?  What did we do so wrong?’ ”

My voice cracks again with this last sentence, and I realise there is a tear at the corner of my eye.

I stop for a moment, and I see that Suse is crying too.

* * * * *

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

Thursday 29th April 2010

Gestation: 30 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

The feeling sits under my ribcage, worst when I am lying down.  It grabs a little, not quite sharp, more like an ache.  Deep breaths do nothing to relieve it.  It won’t pass, regardless of how I lie.

I understand that some types of pain are both physical and mental.  Intellectually, I get it;  I understand that it can be.  I’ve just never experienced the somatic sensation of anguish.

I guess that this is it.

* * * * *

Sure, it’s a blow about the tubes.  The blocked tubes.  Two nights ago, when we were incoherent post-battle, I’d told Suse that I didn’t care how we got pregnant.  That a petrie dish is as good as anything if it gets us the kids we want.  We both have an end result in mind, and that’s it.  It’s the end that counts, not the means.  We want kids.

But then there’s the smoking.  The fucking smoking.  I get it, on a very base level.  I get that it’s not to hurt me.  I get that she doesn’t do it to intentionally hurt me.  But it does.  It just does.

It just does.

I’ve looked at the studies.  Smoking increases your risk of ectopic pregnancy between two- and five-fold.  Up to five times the risk.  Suse is petrified of having another ectopic.  The house smells like a sewer every second day after she boils up more Chinese herbs in the hope of increasing fallopian tube function.

Why the fuck does she even bother?  Why the fuck?  It’s like making sure the pet door is locked at the back, but leaving the front door wide open.

With a note on the gate.

I’m hurting.

She’s hurting.

We both are.

We’re back to old strategies.

And we’ve both closed down.

* * * * *

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

Friday 23rd April 2010

Gestation: 30 weeks

One year ago.

“I got a call today.  Apparently my varicella antibodies are low.”

“Sorry?”

“My chicken pox immunity.”

“I know what it is, hon,” I say, slightly irritated.

“Apparently my levels are zero.  They tell me I’ve never been exposed before.”

I frown.  “You’ve been exposed, right?”

“Of course I had.  I’ve got eight nephews and nieces.  I’ve been around heaps of people with chicken pox and never got it.”

“So you’ve got immunity, but maybe just a low titre?”

“All the same, they suggest that we should have it.  To be sure.”

“Fair enough.”

She pauses until I look up.  “But then they say we’ve got to wait three months.”  My frown doubles.  “I need the initial shot, and then another six weeks later.  And a month’s wait after this one.”  She looks at me some more, like she needs to say something, so she does.  “It’s a live vaccine, so we can’t risk it.”

Shit, fuck, motherfucking fuck.  God damned fucking hold ups!  God damned reasons not to get pregnant!  Fucking God damned fucking fuck!  All these fucking things!  All these fucking reasons!  All to be safe.  There was no such thing as chicken pox vaccine ten years ago, and now we’re not allowed to get pregnant for three months if our levels are low?

Are you fucking kidding?

Are you FUCKING KIDDING?

No, you’re not.  You’re right.  You’re God damned right.  In your precise little bubble of perfection you are absolutely God damned correct, Mr. Medical Profession.  Neonatal varicella infection is very nasty, you say.  What’s three more months?  Huh?

What’s three more months?

Three more months.

It’s like we’re on a fucking building site in the middle of an Icelandic winter.  Every fucking reason not to continue on with construction.  All the fucking reasons.  All the fucking reasons in the world to just pack up shop and move countries.

Iceland is a shithole anyway.  Even in summer.  Why are we even here?

I sigh, giving up the fight.

“Yes.  I know.  We should.  To be sure.  To be fucking sure.”  I gulp hard on the acid.  “God damned Iceland.”

“What?”

“Nothing, love.”

I hug Suse tight, dreaming of an Australian summer.

* * * * *