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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, July 15, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 9th July 2010

One year ago.

“So how are things going?”

I look at Suse, and she raises her eyebrows, awaiting a response.

“Really great,” I say.  “Really great.  We’ve come back from Fiji, recharged and relaxed.  It’s huge relief, really.  I feel like we’ve re-found the love.”

I look at June.  Her expression doesn’t change.

“You don’t buy it?” I ask.

“No, not at all,” she says, smiling kindly, as a wise mentor would.  “It’s just that last time you were in here, you were tearing shreds off each other.  Getting into little eddies of frustration and blame. “

She looks at me and smiles.  “That’s okay, though,” she says, leaning forward to touch me on the knee.  “That’s okay.  That’s what relationships are.  They have ups and downs.  You’re in an up, right now, which is great.  I just want to know how you’re next going to deal with it when you’re down.”

I look across at Suse, feeling strangely disappointed.

“Hey, don’t look defeated.  Everyone has these patterns in their relationships.  At least you’re aware that there is a pattern.  At least you’re aware,” she repeats, tapping my leg.  “Most people aren’t even aware.”

Okay.  Okay.  At least we’re aware.

* * * * *

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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, May 9, 2011 10:40 am

Sunday 9th May 2010

Gestation: 32 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I visit Libby and Jack.  They are in the home stretch of their second pregnancy.

When we first got pregnant, they were one of the first couples we told.

Eight months ago.

Eight months ago, Suse and Libby bonded even more, planning play dates for our kids, with giddying levels of excitement.  It was such a great fantasy at the time.  Fantasy being the operative word.

It’s so long ago, the mirror having broken so far back, that we no longer remember our reflection.

Libby is 36 weeks. My two sisters-in-law are 36-and-a-half, and 38 weeks a piece.  Over the next month, both of my brothers and two of my closest friends will have children.  Boys, all three, is my guess.  Suse’s guess too.

I bid them farewell.

“Next time I see you,” I say, “I’ll be visiting a new friend.”

“You might need a double visit.”  I frown, trying to compute.  “Your sister may well be in.”

“Which one?”  I ask innocently, before deducing, “right, same hospital as you guys, so my younger brother.”

“Yup,” Libby says.  I can hear in her voice she thinks she might have gone too far with the ‘new-baby’ news.  “We’re being induced on the 24th, and she’s a couple of days after that.”

“Good one.  So it really will be a two-for-one special.”

Double the fun.  Double the reminder.   Or triple, really, once they’re all out.

All of them at once.

Just over a month before we would have been due.

They come in threes, they say.

* * * * *

I return home, where Suse sits, reading the paper.

“We need to talk,” she starts.

“Sure,” I say, not meaning it.  I park myself on the edge of the couch.

“I need you to see what’s going on.”
“What?”  I feel myself bristle, my irritation, my hurt and anger from the last ten days compounding.  At the news of the blocked tube.  At the news of Suse smoking.  All of it rears up.  The big green dragon readies for battle.

“You’re getting all caught up in the future.”

“No, I’m not.”

Suse looks at me plainly.  “You’re not present to what’s going on here, Mark.  To what has just happened to us.  You’ve accepted this job in Ballarat, sure, and now we’re moving to Daylesford.  Which is great.  Don’t get me wrong – I can’t wait.  But we’re not doing it for seven more months.  I see how this cycle works for you, how you see something new, and you want it all now.  You want it all yesterday.  And you’re obsessing over this, Mark.”

“No, I’m not!”

She looks at me and softens.  “You can’t see it, because it’s you.  But I know your pattern.  Every time I look at you, you’re on the computer, looking at more property…”

“…The reason I was looking last night was because you went out for a cigarette.  I was distracting myself, to try and stop from being so fucking angry.”  I look her directly in the eyes, before looking away.  “I don’t even know how to be around you at the moment.  I know that your smoking is irrational, but I just can’t be cool with sitting by while you do that to yourself.  I don’t know how to react when you do.  I just have to sit here and take it, until your appointment.  Until the seventeenth.  Another eight days, I just have to sit here, and let you smoke, and not say anything.  I can’t say anything!  I don’t even know what to say, how to feel about it, because I’m so fucking furious, because it is potentially so damaging to your chances – to our chances – of having a kid.”  I throw my hands up.  “I just don’t even know, anymore.”

Tears stream down Suse’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.  “I’m so stupid.  I can’t explain either.  It’s not something that happens logically.  It’s a symptom of something bigger.”  She sobs.  “And even though it mightn’t look like it, I am trying.  I really am.”

I look at her, as her shoulders bob up and down.  I hold onto my fury.

“Can we just stop this?” she continues.  “Can we be here for each other?  I know that I’m hurting you, and I’m going to stop – it’s all in place, it’s all going to happen.   So, just…” she trails off.  I wait.  “You’re right.  I know you are.  But you’ve got to see that you need to let it in.”  She pauses.  “I’m in there,” she points to the bedroom, “meditating, every night, just being with what’s going on.  With what’s happened.”

“And I’m not interested in doing that,” I say, winding up again.  “We’re different – so different to each other Suse – and we do things differently.”

“I know.”

“I just can’t.”

And with that, something folds.  Something lets go.  I feel my shoulders drop, releasing.   Something happens, something unseen, un-visualised by us, yet somehow palpable all the same.  We move towards each other, and into a hug.

“I just don’t know how to be vulnerable,” I say.  I pause, before going on.  “I’m scared, honey.”  I feel the words catch in my throat.  “I’m petrified.  I’m petrified of not being able to have kids.”  I hear myself say it.  “It’s scares the absolute hell out of me.  And part of why I’m so positive, so fucking perky, is because I don’t want to allow for the possibility that this might not happen for us.  I can’t even entertain the idea.”

In saying it, I entertain the idea.  And the tears begin to stream.

I’m petrified too, honey,” Suse says.

We hug ever more tightly, wetting each other’s shoulders with our noses.

“And I’m terrified,” Suse continues, “that if I can’t have children, you’re going to leave me.”  Her sobs break into a gallop.  The vulnerability of her in that moment, the bravery of the statement, fills my heart full, and breaks it all at once.

“I’m not going to leave you, honey.  Nothing is going to make me leave you.”  I hear it as I say it.  “I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.  I just wouldn’t.”

The honesty and purity of the statement stuns even me.

And the truth with which I mean it.

And, hearing myself say it, and knowing how it feels to say it, brings back my faith in us.  A faith that I’d let slip in myself.

With that statement, I regain faith in myself.

* * * * *

We pull each other into our arms, hugging even tighter.  I let go of my anger, and frustration, and blame.  And I allow.  I allow that it is possible that we may not be able to have kids.  And, by God – that is a scary concept.

I’m afraid.

I’m terrified.

I’m frigging petrified.

And it’s okay to admit that.  It is healing to know that.

Vulnerability is a fucker like that.  Without deconstruction, you cannot rebuild.  You just keep on reinforcing the same old fort, around that same crummy, outdated original design.  Something designed in the seventies.  Made out of cream brick.

I squeeze even tighter.  And it is the most healing moment since first learning of the blockage.

Ten long, long days ago.

So now, hopefully, the blockage is a little less emotional, and maybe just physical.

* * * * *

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

Monday 22nd March 2010

Gestation: 25 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

I walk through the door, tired, readying for a talk.

“We have to talk,” I say.

“I know.”  Suse looks at me plaintively.

I sit, and begin what I’ve rehearsed.  “What happened yesterday was not cool.  I know we’ve been at each other over the last few weeks, we’ve been irritated and frustrated.  And that’s okay.”  I stop for a second.  “But what happened yesterday was not okay.  Everyone has their limits, and that was mine.  I’m not okay with that.”

“I know, honey.  And I’m sorry.”

“And I’m not innocent either,” I continue.  “I’ve been having a go at you about things too.  But we just need to respect each other, and remember why we love each other in the first place.”

“I know.”  A tear streams down her face.  “I know honey, and I’m so sorry.  I really am trying.  And I love you so much.  And it was so not okay to get angry at you for that.”  She stops for a second.  “It’s just that, sometimes… this whole thing…what’s happening to us… is really, really hard.”

“I know love.”

We hug each other.

Making much needed physical contact.

“I don’t want to fight,” she says.

“I don’t want to fight either.”

We hold each other again.  Properly.

And this ugly chapter closes.

* * * * *

That night, something has changed.  In some way, we’ve come to the brink, we’ve been really stretched, causing us to question everything.  But it ends with the same answer:  that, yes, despite all of the shit that has happened, we still want this.

We want this.  And we want it with each other.

And it fills us with a giddy light.

That night, we jump into bed, almost like newlyweds.  And, like newlyweds, we reconnect.

* * * * *

It’s been a shit-slurpee for more months than you can count on one hand.  The dog got run over, both of Suse’s shoulders gave way, we’ve had a miscarriage, and almost got multiple sclerosis and cancer.

But that’s okay.

Because like banging your head with a hammer, it sure feels good when you stop.

And that’s what has happened.  We’ve put the hammer down, and the lucidity of the stillness makes us euphoric.

It’s weird how nice it can feel when you beating yourself up.

* * * * *

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

Sunday 21st March 2010

Gestation: 25 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

It’s Sunday afternoon.  So it’s time to tinker.

Last week I bought a new car.  A little car, so that both will now fit in the driveway.  I’m determined that they will.  So I spend the afternoon rigging up a mirror system so they’ll fit.  It’s a close call.  Really close. Like, four centimetres close.

But only after cutting away a section of the fence.

I’m the dog, and there’s the bone.

* * * * *

Meantime, inside, I hear the sound of the bath running.  Suse has lived in her body for thirty-five years, and knows when she needs a bath.  She knows her limits, and when she just needs to treat herself gently.

Like when you just found out you’re not pregnant.

Again.

This is the time for a Sunday afternoon bath.

* * * * *

I cut and hammer outdoors, my industriousness in direct juxtaposition to Suse’s stillness indoors.  It’s the beauty of a marriage that two beings who find solace in the opposite, can work together.

Or not.

The irony being that while I am a flurry of movement on the outside, within I am focused and calm.  Suse is still as a post on the outside, and… well, you get the drift.

I walk into the house, all sweat and sawdust.  Suse is covered in a sheen of moisturiser, having just emerged in a dressing gown.

“Do you need your car tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Can we swap them then?”

“Give me a minute.”

A few moments later, I’m in my new car and carefully backing out of the driveway.  Suse backs hers out, and I come back in, looking at the newly rigged mirror, nudging my nose up against the fence.  As I do this, I hear a noise from behind.  I look in my rear-view mirror to see the image of Suse, in her car, the side mirror jammed up against the roller door post.

“This isn’t good,” I say to myself.  I actually do.  Like I’m in a movie, I actually whisper the message to the audience.

A second later, it begins.  “Fuuuuuccccckkkkk!!!!” I hear through two panes of glass.

I get out, ready for it.

“You just had to move the cars, didn’t you, Mark?  You just had to!  Look what happened!

Suse storms into the house, feet thumping against the floor.

“I’m sick of living in this shitty little house with its shitty little drive way!”  A primeval scream emerges from her lips.  She storms back up the hall.  “It’s all about your car, your precious new car, isn’t it?  It has to be all about you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“And when were you going to do the dishes?  They’ve been on the sink all day!  You said you were going to do them last night?”

“Hey,” I say, warningly, “let’s not make this about something else right now.  Don’t take this out on me because you’re a shit driver.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

“I’m going for a walk!”

“Good!”

I walk out the back with purpose, past the broken car, and half way down the street.  A comical moment ensues, as I’m forced to re-enter the house and scramble around for my wallet.

“Have you seen my wallet?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

It’s hard to look furious while searching for your keys.

I leave again, this time through the front door, at least being able to punctuate it with a slam.  I walk again.  For a moment, I actually wonder whether steam is coming from my ears.  I notice the pressure in my head, the weight of all of this shit, all of this that has happened in the last six months, pressing against my brainstem.

I walk and walk, the ground hard against my feet.  I head, instinctively, for the pub around the corner.  I enter, wearing my paint-stained T-shirt and shorts, trying to look nonchalant.

A group of Gen-Y-ers look me up and down.

I stand at the bar for about a second, waiting for non-existent service, before poking my head around a corner.

“Can I grab a beer, please?”

“Sorry, we’re just closing.”

“Excellent.”

I leave, walking some more.  I do a loop, thinking, processing, trying to get clarity.  But all I feel is anger.  Fury at everything.  Anger at Suse.  Anger at what has happened – today and every other day of this saga.  Anger at every other fucker who can get pregnant.  But mainly – right now – anger at Suse.

And so I make a decision.

I head back towards home.  I walk back into the house, heading straight for the bedroom.  I walk straight past Suse, who is there at the sink, washing dishes.  I change from my work clothes into jeans and a top.

And then I leave again.

Without a word.

I get in my old car, the one not hemmed in, out on the street, and I speed off.  In a dramatic move, I drive five minutes down the road to a fast food store and buy a burger.

Meantime, Suse rings.  She leaves messages on my voicemail.  But I just need space.  So I text back:

‘Please stop calling.  I need space to cool off.  I will be home later.’

And then I go to a movie.

The movie is shit.

Or that’s how it feels, anyway.

* * * * *

I return home at 11.30pm, to find Suse on the couch, waiting up.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she begins.  “I’m so sorry that I abused you like that.  I’m really trying.  I’m just…”  Her voice trails off.

I resist the temptation to tell her it’s okay.

“Everyone has their limits, Suse.  Everyone.  And that was mine.”

I stand up and walk to the bedroom.

I change into pyjamas.

To get into bed and lie awake in the dark.

* * * * *

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

Wednesday 10th March 2010

Gestation: 23 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

Today, I have a session with my coach.

I detail the argument, keen to let him know how hardly done by I have been.  How hard this is for me.  He listens, taking it all on board.  He pauses at the end.

“Yep,” he says.  “Yep.  I hear you.  I hear where you’re coming from.  And, I could sit here, and collude with you about how hardly done by you’ve been, and how tough this must be.”  He pauses.  “But, what we really need to know is what’s going on for you.  Going on for both of you.”

He pauses, to see that I’m listening.  I give him a deafening silence of approval.

“To do you both justice, let’s get a plan of attack to get this relationship back where you want it to go.”

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

Through the next hour, I come to realise that this is not all Suse’s fault.  That she is not fucked.  That, as well as having an effective, functional communication style, at other times I can be completely dysfunctional in how I communicate.  From her end, I can appear insensitive.  Like I don’t care whether we get pregnant.  Like it’s not important for me.  And that I don’t need her.

The truth is, that I don’t want Suse to know that I am vulnerable too.  I really don’t.  I really don’t want her to know that I’m just as scared as she is.  That I’m scared shitless of what could go wrong next.

I feel my anger dissipate, as I am pulled apart, and then reconstructed.  To be understood, and evaluated in a way that I can’t see myself.

I feel the weight slowly lift.

* * * * *

The minute Suse walks through the door, I sit her down.  I read through my notes from my session, from beginning to end.  I feel a tightness in my voice as I start to list my faults, and I notice that it heightens when I take responsibility for being wrong.

How messed up we are, as humans, that when we’ve dug in, we’d gladly forsake happiness for being right.

As I speak, I feel the lifting of that weight again.

“I’m not good at this,” I say.  “I need to let you know that I’m struggling in telling you where I’m at.  I may look cool on the surface, but underneath, I’m fucking scared.  I’m scared shitless that we won’t get pregnant.  I’m just as afraid as you are, but I’m like a caveman when it comes to expressing my fears.”  I take a gulp of air.  “Because I can’t let you see me as weak.  I can’t let anyone know that I’m vulnerable.”  I swallow again.  “But I am.  I’m scared, and vulnerable.  And I need you, Suse.”

As I finish, I look up through misty eyes.  She has a warm glow, and a soft smile.  The first I’ve seen in days.

“Do you know how relieved I am to hear you say that you’re afraid?”  I shrug dumbly.  She leans forward, and touches my cheeks, pulling me closer, to a kiss.

“I love that you let yourself be vulnerable for me.  I love you even more.”

She kisses me softly on the forehead

How fucked are we, that we think have to be Superman?

Men.

How fucked are we?

* * * * *

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

Tuesday 9th March 2010

Gestation: 23 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

Tonight, we have a blow out.  A real, proper blow out.

No need to detail the exchange, other than to say that we both yelled as hard as each other.  The artillery used is not relevant, other than to say that both sides fought valiantly.

There were many casualties.

It was a blood bath.

* * * * *

It ends with Suse in the car, crying;  me, sitting on the edge of the foot cushion, my head in my hands, feeling the cold slate against my feet.

We stay like this for ten minutes, probably more.  I sit there, head in hands, hearing Suse crying through two panes of glass.  I feel the twist of emotion deep, for being part of this.

For feeling this wretched emotion too.

Eventually, twenty minutes after she first stormed passed me, I open the passenger door, and slip in.  I sit there, hearing her cry.  It is so much sharper right there;  without the insulation of the glass.

It hurts so much more seeing her like this.

* * * * *

Eventually, we head inside.

We go to bed, hugging tightly.  Suse falls to sleep like she wouldn’t normally, gripped tight in my arms.

So as not to lose her again.

Meantime, I wonder what to do.

How we dig ourselves out of this deep hole.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, December 30, 2010 10:00 am

Saturday 26th December 2009

Gestation: 13 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

I look around this mall, this chain of fast food stores, at the humans milling about.  This is a microcosm on the side of the road, a whole universe of ugly food and heart-stopping convenience, in this corridor out of northern Melbourne.

This is what we call Cragieburn.

The place is filled with all sorts.  Mainly, they are like us, travellers fuelling up at the start of a summer holiday;  in our case, to Suse’s parent’s place in north-eastern Victoria.  The junk food is all embarrassingly alluring, but in the end, I fight the urge, lining up at Subway, as it has the most items resembling recognisable food substances.

As I stand there waiting, I look across at Suse.  In front of her is a small woman.  She has a broad neck, and a low hairline at the back, which is prematurely greying.  I reach the front of the queue, where I order a roll, requesting everything I can see that looks fresh.

The guy then puts it in the microwave.

I take my sweaty bag of food, and walk over to Suse, who remains patiently in line.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

I lean in to her.

“That woman has Turner syndrome,” I whisper, in that way you do when you’re trying to look clever, and have someone tell you that you are.

“How do you know?” Suse says, frowning.

“She’s got a webbed neck and a low hairline.  She’s not very big.  And she looks older than her age.”

Suse makes her order, while I stand there feeling smug.  She collects her murdered potato and we walk over to the table.

Suse stares at her chips, taking them in, one by one.

“Can she have kids?” she asks eventually.
“Nope.  Not usually.”

I look at my roll, at the dead lettuce and the leached tomato.  The humanity.

We sit there and eat.  I look around at the food mall, taking in this buzzing community.  No one looks happy.  Including Suse.

“How do they tell?” she finally asks.

“Sorry?”

“About the Turner syndrome.”

“Oh.  It depends.”

“On what?”

“The severity of it.  Sometimes you can tell during the pregnancy.  If there’s something they see on one of the ultrasounds, with the kidneys, or another organ.  But if it’s milder, it might not be diagnosed until birth, or even later in life.”

“And how do they diagnose it?”

“Usually with a blood test.”

“My blood?”

“Sorry?”

“In the pregnancy?  Where do they get the blood from?”

“There are some blood tests that can give an indication.  And if there’s a worry, they can do an amniocentesis.”

“The big needle.”

“Yeah.  The big needle.”

“And do they take a sample of the baby?”

“No.  They sometimes take a little bit of tissue from near the placenta if it’s early.  That’s called a CVS.  Or later, they just take a sample of the amniotic fluid.  That’s an amniocentesis.”

Suse returns to her sliced, fried food.

“They don’t have to do that test, do they?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not compulsory is it?”

“Nothing is compulsory in pregnancy, honey.  Some women decide to have no antenatal care at all.”

I feel an uneasy philosophical difference rearing up.

Sitting right there between us.

* * * * *

Suse reverses back hard.

“I just don’t know why they have to offer it?”

“Sorry?”

“The antenatal blood tests.  I mean, why are they necessary?”

I’m momentarily dumbfounded.  I don’t even know where to start.

“For information.  People like to be informed.”

“But does the blood test tell you anything?”

“Yes.”

“But does it give you an answer?”

“Well, you’ve often got to go on and have further testing to get an answer.”

“Exactly.  It doesn’t tell you everything.  It gives you a set of odds.  And then you have to decide whether you want to stick a needle in your belly?  So we can decide if we want to murder our baby?”

Somewhere in this conversation, ‘they’ became ‘we’.

“It’s done so that people can prepare themselves for what is coming,” I say.  “It’s not necessarily to end the pregnancy.”

We drive for a few minutes in silence.  I feel the pressure building.  I look around the board, realising that my moves are limited.  Eventually, I take a pawn, shifting it forward.

“I would want to know,” I say.
“Why?  So you can murder our unborn baby?”

Rook takes pawn.

A couple more minutes pass.

“I think we have a real, philosophical difference of opinion here Suse, and I think we need to talk about this.”

“Fine.”

“I would want to know, so that I could prepare myself.”   I pause, looking at Suse.  She grips the wheel hard.  “If we decided to have a kid with Down Syndrome, or another condition.”

“What do you mean – ‘if’?”

“Well, clearly it is a very personal decision.  But I’ve seen a lot of families suffer with a kid with a genetic condition.  The angst that it can cause.  The ongoing medical treatments.  And that I don’t know that I would want that for us.”

“You don’t know that you’d want it for you, you mean.”

Queen to F-3.

“Probably.”

“I’m sure there are just as many families who’ve a child with a disability, and that has enriched their experience of life.”
“Sure, I’m not denying that…”

“…Because every life is precious, Mark.  It is a gift, and not something that can be controlled.  And just because you’re a doctor, you’ve been trained to want to proceduralise things…”

“…Hang on…”

“…And to look for all of the proof and reassurance you can, when this is something that is actually a magical, inexplicably beautiful happening.  And you can’t try to control that.”

King’s bishop to H-5.

“Well, I don’t see it that way.”

“Well, I do.  And at the end of the day, I’m the mother.”

Queen takes bishop’s pawn.  Check.

“And I’m the father.”  Suse goes silent.  “What are you saying?” I continue.  “That as the mother you have more right to the decision than I do?”

“As the father do you think you have more right than me?”

“No.  I think it’s equal.  And if we disagree, then that’s a really tough bind to be in.  Because in that situation, I don’t know who has the final say.  I don’t know who gets the casting vote.”

Stop the clock.  Time out.

* * * * *

We go silent.

We both retreat.

We’re both sore, both watching our opponent, both licking our wounds.

We choose to not talk about it anymore on this trip.  There ain’t no fun to be had down this track;  it’s rocky terrain the whole way.  And we are both bruised and battered by this whole expedition.  It’s been a long, hard road.

But it doesn’t change the fact that we disagree on this.

A pivotal belief.

And consequently, this is something we really need to talk about.

At some point.

Later.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, December 10, 2010 10:00 am

Saturday 5th December 2009

Gestation: 10 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

Following our argument, there is an uneasy truce.  We spend the morning together, on tenterhooks, strung up like woollen cloth, each aware of the other’s feelings – as they were all aired yesterday afternoon.  It’s like we’re both in possession of a new vehicle;  one we know might not have overheated in the last couple of days, but certainly hasn’t had a service any time recently.  This isn’t the time to put the foot to the floor.  Now is not the time to test its limits.

This continues on for the entire morning.  Unspoken, yet present, it’s the pink blow-up elephant in the corner.

The true remedy is physical bonding.  After lunch, we reconnect.  We spend time with each other.  Physically.  Einstein once said that men are simple.  That we have needs, and they concentrate in the corpus callosum.

I may have just made that up, but all the same, I think it’s true.

And I know myself.

I know my needs, and they are simple.  And I know that if I don’t tend to them, I am at risk of becoming an unreasonable human being.  I don’t expect Suse to be excited into an overwhelming state of desire every time this happens.  But at the ripe old age of thirty-four, it still remains a physiological requirement.

I remember when, as a thirteen-year old boy, I approached my father for some advice following a particularly rigorous episode of tending to my most basic needs.

“Dad, can I talk to you?” I said, a testicle dropping from my throat.

“Yes, Mark?”

“You know, how when you’re… you know… at night,” I said, “how it can be really hard – I mean, ummm… I mean, really… you know, difficult…”

“Yes, Mark.  Well, no, Mark.  Go on.”

He could see me squirming.  He could sense this was destined to be one of those father-son moments.

So he waited patiently, while his middle son stumbled over his words.

“Well, it’s really annoying when you have a wet dream,” I blurted out suddenly, “so I’ve been making sure that didn’t happen again.  But I think I hurt myself.”

My Dad smiled, trying not to laugh.

* * * * *

I remember being utterly mortified, showing him my Don Johnson, awaiting the verdict as to whether the doctor would need to surgically remove it from me – as I’d clearly proven I wasn’t capable of looking after it on my own.

This was just the beginning.

It’s a physiological requirement, like eating and shitting.  If I don’t eat, I get crabby.  If I don’t shit, I get crabby.  And if I don’t…

…Well, I think you get the picture.

Refer to Day 37 for a version of crabby.

Call me crass, call me uncouth, call me primitive.  Suse has called me all of these things;  it has spiced things up considerably.  We humans need to tend to our basest instincts to survive;  or to live an enjoyable life, at least.   I do anyway.  And Suse is the same.

It makes us happier, and it keeps us connected.  Coming is way better than going.

And we’ve been going, anywhere but here, properly here, totally connectingly here, for the last forty-two days.

* * * * *

The rest of the weekend is wonderful.  We watch a shitty movie, another shitty movie, and one after that.  Three shitty movies on the same day, separated by connection.  Actually, joined by connection.

And we are in love again.

I know it sounds soft, or naff or something else.  And I don’t know how we do it, exactly.  But somehow, we both let our guards down, and we choose to re-love again.

If every divorcing couple would just let down their guard, embrace their vulnerability and make the choice to love again, there wouldn’t be nearly as many overly rich lawyers.  Let’s credit that one to Einstein too.

It’s only after we’ve constructed our walls of defence, and our moat with its crocodiles, and its bloody great vat of boiling oil, and its cannons, and its forty thousand soldiers ready to fight to the death, that we even consider what it is we set out to defend in the first place.

And by then, the enemy has up and moved in with someone else.

But, by God we have a fucking great fortress.

Today, Suse and I manage to deconstruct our fortresses.  We choose to be vulnerable to each other, and give over to the possibility of reconnecting.  And somehow, through bit of will, and love, and a touch of timing and luck, we find ourselves reconnected.

We manage it, after an entire month of tense difficulties and shitty circumstances.

And with it, I remember this:  that there is no one I love more.

And I wonder how I ever forgot.

* * * * *