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

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

Suse strides over to the bench, sitting down hard.  I follow.

“Hello?” Suse says.

“Hi there, Susan, it’s Shelley here.”

“Hi Shelley.”

“Have you got a minute?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” she says, pausing again, “I can’t tell you this officially, as the analyser is still not functioning.  But your beta-HCG level is positive.”

We both sit there for a moment, before looking at each other, our eyes wide.

“Sorry?”

“It’s just the progesterone level that isn’t through yet.  But the beta-HCG, the actual pregnancy test, is positive.  And… Well, we don’t like to give out the result until we have both, but, unofficially, it’s really the beta-HCG level that counts.”

We both sit there, a little stunned.

“So, that’s good, right?” Suse says eventually.

“Yes.  Absolutely.  And the level is nice and high.  Like really high.  It’s 703, and we like it to be above a hundred.  So you’re definitely pregnant.”

“So, unofficially, you’re telling us we’re pregnant?”

“Unofficially, yes, I am.  I just didn’t want you to be waiting till tomorrow to find out.  I didn’t think that was fair.”

“No,” I pipe in, “we were just talking about that.  We were about five minutes off ringing back.”

“Well, there you go,” she says laughing, “I beat you to it.”

We all go silent.

“So, where to from here?”

“Well you know, you still need your ultrasound at five weeks to check that it’s not an ectopic, which will be a week from now.  And, like I said, I’ll give you a call tomorrow to confirm.  To re-confirm.  But for now, it’s congratulations.”

“Thank you, Shelley,” we say together.  “Thank you.”

“Okay, talk to you tomorrow,” she says, hanging up.

I sit there, still.  Still dazed, before Suse falls into my arms.  I hear her begin to cry, and instantly my own shoulders begin chugging, convulsing, as the tears drop from my eyes.  Suse throws her legs over mine, hugging herself into me.

“We did it, honey,” she mews, barely able to speak. “We did it.”

“We did it.”

“We did it!”

“I know.”

“How are you?”

“Stunned, you know.  A bit shell-shocked, really.  I’d been bracing myself for the worst.”

“Same!”

We fall silent, staring out over the water, watching the swans as the silently float around.

“Oh my god,” Suse says, exhaling heavily.  “It wasn’t all for nothing, you know?  The herbs, the acupuncture, the hypnosis…”

“…The candle.”

“The specially concocted pre-conception recipes.”

“The meditation.”

“Ella saying I was pregnant.”

“Meg’s dream we got pregnant on the first round of IVF.”

“The Garfield doctor telling us someone had to be lucky first time.”

We both watch as the birds draw up against one another, rubbing their backs together.

“I was trying not to read too much into it all,” I say, my voice cracking.  “I was trying not to get too excited, you know, to not see too many signs.”

“Me too!”

“A winter baby.”

“Just like we imagined.  Just a year later.”

“Unofficially, that is.”

“Yes, honey.  Unofficially.”

We grip each other tight, and I place my palm against her belly, again imagining the cells multiplying, becoming a baby, a childhood lived out over seconds in my mind.  I smile.

“It’s poetic you know,” Suse says eventually, “that, in the end, it’s unofficial. The whole thing, the whole damn thing, until your child is in your arms, on the day that they are born, is unofficial.  Isn’t it?”

I look at my wife, and I smile, shaking my head slightly at her insight.

I watch as her brow furrows into that familiar frown.  “She said the level was high, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean it’s twins?”

I laugh so hard that I almost fall off the bench.

THE END

To be continued in three months…

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, September 29, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

I pace around, chasing my own tail.

I’m beginning to get dizzy.

Suse bursts in.

“Let’s go for a walk to the gardens,” she says, sounding almost light.

“Good thinking,” I mumble.

We walk out, along Punt Road, down under our bridge, and along the bike track.  We leave the din and congestion and smell of the evening traffic, crossing onto Morell Bridge.  I look at the lattice work, the ornamental Victorian lights, thinking of a simpler time in which this was built.

“What are you thinking?” Suse asks.

“I’m pissed,” I say.  “I’m frustrated.  This is a test that takes ninety minutes to run, and we’ve been waiting all day.  You went in at 9.30am, and we have to wait for six hours?  For what?  So that it can get to tonight, to now, to this point where they won’t be able to tell us tonight?”

We go silent.

“I have to know tonight, honey,” Suse says, slightly desperately.  “I can’t cope having to wait another day.  What am I going to do if I don’t have the result tonight?” she says, her voice rising.

“You’ll just have to cope,” I say testily, “just like I will.  We’ll just be left in limbo for another fucking night, just like the last eleven months.”

We let go of each other’s hands, waiting at the lights.  I walk off ahead, without the green man’s permission, and in through the garden’s wrought iron gates.

Suse catches me, taking my hand into hers.  Through all of this, we’ve tightened as a team.  People say that IVF will make you or break you as a couple.

If nothing else, through all of this torture we’re closer than ever.

As we walk, I squeeze my eyes tight, thinking of the last month, of the last year. Lighting the candle and surrounding it with salt to cleanse the house.  Our fertility ritual under a full moon in Fiji.  The boats that Suse made, to float away the spirits of past pregnancies into the sunset.  Our counselling with Jules.  All of Suse’s medical trials;  her trouble with both shoulders, her ectopic, her blocked fallopian tubes, her brush with multiple sclerosis and a spinal tumour, and then her varicella reaction.

And then I think of this last month.  Of all of her pregnancy symptoms.  Of the incident with the dishwasher.  Of Meg’s dream that we would get pregnant this first time.  Of Ella’s comment in the car.  Of what the Garfield doctor said about someone having to be lucky.  Of that feeling I’ve had, ever since we lit the candle two weeks ago.

That something has got to go right for us.

I open my eyes, and I contemplate the opposite.  The reality of where we are right now, somewhere on the road of IVF, trying to lift our feet into the next heavy step.

We continue along quietly.  The gardens now surround us, the smell, the tranquillity, the soft air.  We walk down our curve, winding right around the lake.  We walk along the path, and as we do, I see Suse’s shoulders rise, the weight lifted slightly in the presence of nature.

“If it gets to five, I’m calling back,” I say.  “I’m not…”

“…It’ll be okay,” Suse says, once again composed.  “She’ll call.

She squeezes my hand, and we walk some more.  We round the bend, past the lawn, the lake in front, a couple of birds fluttering at its edge.  As if on cue, as we pass the park bench, the phone rings.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

The hours pass slowly.  I start the plumbing job, but having never done anything like this before, I have trouble judging how long it’ll take.  Added to this it is uncertainty of whether it will another minute or another hour before I’m cradling Suse in the bedroom with bad news, while water slowly fills the house through a leaky tap.  So I sort of start, and then I stop, and then I start again.

I end up not doing it.

Meantime, Suse sits in the lounge room, watching internet TV.  She devours several episodes of marginally talented singers standing in front of cruel judges and a loving audience, while shoving Rice Bubbles continuously into her mouth.

I check my watch at decreasing intervals.  I feel like a relative, having learnt of a disaster in a foreign land, awaiting confirmation of death.  Each time the phone rings, I jump up from my desk, running into the lounge room.  We both stare at the mobile phone screen, at the various names that appear, none of them Shelley.  We let them all go through to message bank.

“I’m going to ring,” I declare, finally, at 3.07pm.

“She said she’d ring us,” Suse protests weakly.

“You don’t want to know?”

“Not really,” she admits meekly.

“Well, I do,” I say.

I pick up the phone, and dial.  The phone peals five times before it answers.  I feel my heart in my mouth.

“Hi, You’ve called Shelley from Monash IVF,” begins the recorded message.

My heart starts again.

* * * * *

I return to my job of doing nothing in particular. Seconds take far longer than they should.

Never before have I been so inefficient at being inefficient.

It crawls all the way to 4.12pm, before the phone finally rings.  I run out to find Suse there, the shrieking of a contestant’s final flat note cut dead with the pause button.  The mobile rings again, the ‘old phone’ ringtone breaking the silence, sounding like something from a Hitchcock movie.  We both look at the screen to see the name: ‘Shelley’.

Suse answers on speaker phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi there Susan, it’s Shelley here.”

“Hi Shelley,” she says, sounding like the scolded child, about to be punished.

“How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Have you got a minute?”  She sounds apprehensive.

It’s bad news.

Fuck it all.

“Yep.”

“Look…” she says, pausing, “your result isn’t through yet.  They’re having some troubles with one of their analysers.”  I take a gasp.  “So, I’m just ringing to let you know that I haven’t forgotten about you.”

“But the result will be through today,” Suse says, as statement more than question.

“Most probably.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll give you a call when it does.  Just hang in there, okay?”

“Okay.”

The phone goes dead.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, don’t you?” Suse says, her head falling into her hands.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

I stand.  And I walk out of the room and into the study.

Looking for something expensive to throw at the wall.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

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

Saturday 21st August 2010

One year ago.

Frequent Ejaculation Improves Sperm Quality

‘Cosmos’, Wednesday, 1 July 2009

PARIS: Men who want to become fathers should have sex or ejaculate daily in order to maximise sperm quality, scientists report.

Australian fertility specialist David Greening recruited 118 men whose sperm had a higher-than-normal level of DNA damage.

Before the test, 34% of the group’s sperm was rated as damaged, meaning that it was classified as ‘poor’ in quality. For individuals, 15% to 98% of their sperm were classified as such.

The men were asked to ejaculate daily for seven days, but were not given any drugs or told to make any changes to lifestyle. After seven days, their sperm was examined again. The average of damaged sperm fell to 26%, placing it in the category of ‘fair’ in quality.

Greening presented his findings the European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology in Amsterdam, The Netherlands on Tuesday.

Dr. Greening says the improvements were “substantial and statistically highly significant” and that daily ejaculation not only boosted sperm quality for most of the men, it also helped sperm motility, another big factor in successful fertilisation – even though the volume of semen declined.

* * * * *

Suse isn’t interested in sex every day.  I’m yet to meet a woman who is.

So I improvise.

In the lead up to the big day, I’m doing my utmost to improve my quality.

It’s important.

* * * * *

We’re sitting in bed reading the paper, when Suse turns to me.

“So when you have to abstain for four days, are you going to get cranky?”

“Sorry?”

“Before the sample.  Are you going to get cranky again?”

“What do you mean, again?”

“Like last time.  ‘The horror, the horror’ time?”

“I was nervous about wanking in hospital, hon.  I don’t know that I was cranky.”

“You were cranky.”

“Really?”

“Really.  Is this news to you?”

“I’m not sure what the right answer is here.”

“Well, let me tell you.  It’s like a barometer with you.  When you don’t get it, you get grumpy.”

“Not all the time.”

“Really?”  I look at my wife.  “Let me test you out then.  How long has it been?”  I pretend to think, like I don’t know the answer.  “How long since we had sex?”  Again, I look at my fingers like I’m trying to figure it out.  Like I don’t know.  “Go and do your duty for this family, and come back when you’re less cranky.  I swear, Mark Nethercote, bodily functions and you.  When you haven’t eaten you get cranky, when you haven’t had a shit, ditto.  And when you have to hold off for four days…”

“…What?”

“I’m just saying.  You’re a bodily function kind of guy.  And when you delay your bodily functions, you get cranky.”

She’s spot on.  Absolutely spot on.  I can tell you exactly how many days it’s been since we had sex.   I know I’m supposed to be all cool and relaxed about it, like I’m not quite sure, like it’s not important to me.

I’m not counting.  Consciously, I’m not.  But the point is, all guys are counting, even if they don’t know it. We’re all aware.  It’s instinct.

“Go and clear the pipes, and come back to me in a better mood.”

IVF has taken the romance out of things somewhat.

But from a pragmatist’s viewpoint, it’s right on the money.

* * * * *

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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, August 12, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 13th August 2010

One year ago.

“Is that Mark?” asks the nasal voice.

“Yes it is.”  I’ve answered my mobile from a ‘Blocked’ number.  Nothing shits me more.  Most hospitals have blocked outgoing numbers, so, as a rule, I can’t screen them out.  But blocked numbers can equally come from marketing companies.  The nasal voice makes me think the latter.  “And who’s this?” I ask tersely.

“Shelley, the IVF Nurse.”

“Oh, right,” I sat.  “Shit, sorry Shelley.”  There I go swearing at her again.  “It was a blocked number.  It’s a pet hate.  Sorry if I was short with you.”

“Hadn’t noticed.  Anyway, I was just ringing you about your cycle.”

“Yes?”

“I’m still waiting on your Police Checks.”

“We’ve had them done.”

“Yes, but you haven’t brought them in yet.  For me to sight.  I need to see them before we can get your wife’s regime organised.”

“The Orgalutran?” I say stupidly.  Talking to this woman turns me into a git.

“And the rest.”

There is a pause.  “I’ll do that.  Sure.  But I can’t bring them in today.  I’m at work.  I’m sure I can early next week.”

“I’d appreciate that.  Susan’s treatment cycle will be commencing the following week, and we need to have it all ready.”

“That’s if we don’t get pregnant this month,” I add.  Pause.  “Naturally, I mean.  If we don’t get pregnant naturally.”  Another pause.  “We’ve been trying really hard.”

“Too much information, Mr. Nethercote.”

“Yes, yes, of course.  But we still hold out hope that we might just be lucky, in this, our last month.”  Long silence.  “I’ll bring it in for you next week,” I say, slightly deflated

“Thank you very much.”

“Okay, Shelley.  I’ll do it on Tuesday.  See you then.”

“Ah, one more thing.  Have you had a chance to read the ART Agreement?

“Yes, I have.  I made my own summary and everything.”

“Really,” she says, disbelievingly.

“Absolutely.  Wonderful document.  Such light reading.”  She taps away on her keyboard some more, something else for her database.  ‘Weirdo’, probably.

“Do you think you could bring that in too?”

“My summary, or the original?”  Pause.  Pause.  Pause.  “We’ll sign our lives away this weekend.”

“Thank you very much.”

“See you Tuesday, Shelley.”

I write on my hand in big black ink – ‘SIGN LIFE AWAY’.

I’ll do that when I get home.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, August 11, 2011 10:00 am

Wednesday 11th August 2010

One year ago.

GENERAL INFORMATION CONSENT FORM – ASSISTED REPRODUCTIVE TECHNOLOGY (ART) PROCEDURES

Continued…

F. Consent to Use Culture Media Containing Human Serum Albumin

22.  Like they said before, they’ve got to discover new things at some time, and in some place.  That place might be in albumin.

For whatever reason, they buy their albumin from America.  If it was up to us, we’d use Australian or European Albumin, cause the Yanks pay people to donate blood.  But it ain’t our choice.

So, like before, blah, blah, blah, we can’t get angry, we can’t blame them for shit that hasn’t yet been discovered.

G.  Transport of Eggs/Sperm/Embryos between Monash IVF Centres

23. Even though I’m not allowed to take my sperm home, they can take move it to Queensland if their fridge breaks down.  No questions asked.

24. And if they crash the car, we won’t get angry.  They’ll scoop what they can off the road.

H. Pregnancy Follow-up

25.  They already know I’m not a criminal, but from time to time, they might want to ring up to see that my kid isn’t too.  And they’ll ask about his weigh and stuff at the same time.

26.  If my embryos end up in QLD, and Suse goes there to get pregnant, they’ll keep everyone in the loop about it.  They might even tell me.

27.  They are welcome to talk to my GP, even though I don’t have one.

28.  They’ll probably call every now and then, under the guise of research, to see how much sleep we’re getting with a newborn.

I. Privacy Policy

29.  It’s really important that we understand that they are real tight arses about who they tell about what’s going on.  They won’t let the cleaners know.

But, on the upside, both Suse and I can find out about the results.  We’re both allowed to know shit.

That is, unless Suse signs something to say I’m not allowed to know.  If this happens, they might lock me up in a dungeon to stop me from finding out.  But probably not.

But no one can stop our health insurance.  Sign whatever you like, nothing will stop them.  They’ll know results before Fleischer will.

J. Provision of Data to External Bodies

30. Our files might be audited by RTAC, HREC, NATA, VARTA and NHMRC.  If you say them all in a row, it sounds like you’re farting.  But don’t laugh.  These are the dudes who check shit to stop us from getting Brian’s baby.

31.  They frown very heavily on Brian.

32.  He causes them many headaches.

K. Options for Embryo’s following Divorce or Separation:

33.  If Suse and I get divorced, we must tell the following:

- Our friends and family,

- Our divorce lawyers,

- The IVF police.

Divorce is ugly.  And they will make it worse, by making us sit in a room together and talking.

While we’re there, we have to agree on what to do with all the bits in the freezer.

And we’re not even allowed to throw eggs at each other.

34.  If we disagree, the one who wants to keep the stuff in storage wins.  The other one is allowed to walk off in a huff.

L. Options for Embyro/s following the Death or Incapacity of Both Partners or a Single Woman

35.  If we both die, the embryos are destroyed.

36. If we are both simultaneously mentally incapacitated, brain dead, or permanently stuck on a ventilator, that would really suck.  They’ll keep the embryos in Howard’s storage for five years, in case either of us miraculously snaps out of a persistent vegetative stage.  It will be our doctor who judges whether we are still a vegetable or not.

Guess I’d better get one then.

M. Death or Incapacity of one of us

37.  If I die, then I can choose if I want to let Suse use the embryos.

If she dies, she can choose whether she lets me use them.

38.  For Suse it’s simpler, because she has a womb.  I would have to hire one.

39.  If this happens, then that would suck.  In Queensland, we’d just need some counselling to agree that it sucks, and written consent from our dead partner.  Which we’d hopefully attained at some point before the event.

40. In Victoria, the Department of Human Services also has to agree.  Presumably, that means that because we’re in Melbourne and not Brisbane, if I die, and despite our wishes, DHS might deny Suse this right.

41. They suck, and we agree.

42. Below is a legal document titled the ‘Advance Directive’.  In it, I agree that, should a cataclysmic event forsake me, that I let my wife have our child.  And she says the same for me.  It must be true love.

N.

a) Death or incapacity of the woman undergoing assisted reproductive treatment:

I, Susan, reckon that if I die, that it would really suck.

I, Susan, reckon that if I become a vegetable, that this would be even worse.

But if that happens, I hereby let my husband, Mark, rent a womb and have our kid.

b) Death or incapacity of the man undergoing assisted reproductive treatment

I, Mark, know that if I die, then that’s not a good thing.

I, Mark, know that if I become a vegetable, I’d be really pissed, if I could still think.

But if that happens, I hereby let my wife, Susan, use her own womb to have our kid.

And I really love her.

O.  Research

43.  They can look at our data, and they can ring us for future research studies if they want.  Given that we couldn’t have a kid without them, it’s pretty stingy to say no.  But if I’m a cold-hearted bastard, then I can take all your hard work and use it, and give nothing in return.

44.  I hereby consent to them using my leftovers for science:

Yes – I’m a reasonable human being.

No – I like cake, and I eat it too, thank you very much.

45. This is the bit about ‘surplus biological material’.  That means: sperm, blood, follicular fluid, testicular tissue, eggs which have failed to fertilise, and arrested embryos.

One can only imagine what they would arrest our embryos for, but given that we need a police check and agreement from DHS if one of us dies, it could be anything, really.  Maybe Suse’s embryos have an unpaid parking fine that we don’t yet know about.

* * * * *

P. Summary

There was heaps of shit above:

A. What we do,

B. What can go wrong,

C. What can go right,

D. What we hope happens with the embryos,

E. Where we put them, before they go back in my wife’s vagina,

F. How albumin is bad,

G. When we take them for a joyride to QLD,

H. How we ring you to tell you,

I. That means both of you,

J. And the regulatory bodies that sound like a fart that keep Brian’s babies to a minimum,

K. How to get divorced,

L. How to kill your partner,

M. What to do once your partner is dead,

N. The paperwork your partner signed saying it’s okay that you killed them,

O. And finally, that we’ll research your killing methods.

46.  Just for the record, someone sat us down and freaked us out about this with spoken words, not just these written ones.  She was called a counsellor.

47.  We’re so shocked, that we don’t know what to ask first.

48.  But I already wrote my name below, so now I’m totally fucked.

Signature:

Signature:

Address:

Good luck, sucker.

* * * * *

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

Wednesday 11th August 2010

One year ago.

The other day, I was banging on about the ‘Guide to Getting Started Handbook, Version 3.1’, and the ‘Treatment Cycle Handbook, Version 1.’

But there was one more booklet that I just couldn’t swallow at the time.

I read it tonight.

And it goes a little something like this:

1. GENERAL INFORMATION CONSENT FORM – ASSISTED REPRODUCTIVE TECHNOLOGY (ART) PROCEDURES

Within this legal document the following definitions are used:

- They/Them = The IVF dudes

- You/Us/We = You and your wife, dumb ass

- Fleischer = Your IVF guru

- Eggs = Things your wife makes

- Sperm = Things you make

- Embryos = The fertilised bits

In signing this form, we hereby agree to the following:

Informed Consent

There’s shit that they need to tell us about. This document is where they tell us all the really heavy shit.  We are welcome to ask questions.  At the end, we’ll need to sign to say that we’ve read the shit.

As well as this one, there’ll be more forms every single time Fleischer comes near Suse with a needle.

So get ready to sign for that shit too.

A. Treatment Information

1. There are a number of things they might do:

- Prepare you with drugs (your wife, not you),

- Before they collect the eggs,

- And mix them in a cup of your sperm.  (If you don’t have fresh ones stock, they might use some out the freezer)

- Then they’ll put them back in,

- Under anaesthetic,

- And keep the leftovers for an omelette,

- Or freeze them for a rainy day.

- And, remember, it rains a lot in IVF.

2. We hereby let them do aforementioned shit.

3. They’ll check if we have HIV, Hepatitis B or Hepatitis C.  Because that would really suck, and might change things a bit.  You know, given the whole police check thing, they might even send you to jail.

4. Training doctors are allowed to practice on my wife.  But only if they smile nicely.

5. We trust that Fleischer will make a shit-hot concoction to get my wife fertile as, bro.

6. And, like I said before, every time she comes near Suse with a big fat needle, we’ll sign a form that says ‘go for it’.

B. Possible risks and or complications

7. We understand that heaps of stuff can go wrong.  There are a lot of complications, including miscarriage, ectopic pregnancies, and failure to get pregnant.  Like that hasn’t happened to us already.  The doctor might fuck up in untold numbers of ways – some that haven’t yet been invented.  If this happens, we promise not to get too angry.

8. Remember, there’s a 10% chance of having twins after IVF, because they can split with all the handling.  So only one embryo goes in at a time, okay?

9.  All right, If you’re a lunatic, she’ll put in two.  But she’ll shake her head while she does.

If you want three, you’ll have to go to India.

If you want eight, you’ll have to go on Oprah.

10.  And remember, Fleischer might fuck up.  And, like we said before, we promise not to get too angry.

11.  If one of the guys in the lab stabs themselves with our sperm, then that makes him a tool.  But he’ll want to check himself for rabies.  And we are cool with that.

12. This bit is so crazily important, that I’m going to quote it verbatim:

‘I/We understand that human controlled manual movement of microscopic material between laboratory dishes involves a risk of error that cannot be entirely eliminated…I/We are prepared to accept this risk.’

Interpret as follows:  We might get Brian’s kid.  We might get a Monday baby that fell off the conveyor belt.  We might end up with a black baby.  Whoops.   Sorry.  Shit happens.

All the same, we’re just going to have to trust them.

Cause we’ve got no choice.

But if they do fuck up, please don’t get too angry.

They didn’t mean it.

They just had a big weekend.

Oh, and the world might explode one day.

* * * * *

13.  Pay attention to this one too:

‘I/We understand that it is possible that in the future there could be ranges of possible adverse effects from the treatment, which as yet are unknown and could occur to the female partner or to any offspring conceived as a result of the treatment, and that no long-term information is currently available.’

This means:  They only discovered HIV in 1983.  They have to discover new shit at some time, or else it’s not new shit.  Let’s just hope they don’t find it in your wife and kids.

This is the shit they have to tell us that really is shit.

14. If we were psychologically unstable before, just wait till we start IVF.

Shit.

C. Possible treatment outcomes

15.  We’ve read the book, and we know the odds, as bad as they are.  But for IVF standards, they’re pretty bloody good, actually.

16. At the end of all this, we might not get pregnant.  Bummer, eh?

17.  And we might not be the one pulling the plug.

Understand?

D. Creation of Embryos

18.  By law, embryos can only be made to put in my wife.  We can’t make them to create a master race, or to send them to Mars.  The Government won’t let us.  They want to get the credit for the first Mars-babies.

But we can freeze the leftovers for the rainy day.

Future rainy days are known as FETs (Frozen embryo transfers).

They’ll thaw them before putting them back in.

Promise.

E. Embryo, Egg and Sperm Storage

19.  We are allowed to keep our embryos in the deep freezer for five years.  For $99.95 we can extend that time by another five years, and we might get a new set of steak knives.  If we ask nicely.

If we skip the country without leaving a phone number or forwarding address:

a) We are dickheads.

b) They take the steak knives back.

b) We can’t get angry if they throw our bits in the bin.   Because we signed a form to says that we are dickheads.

20. Our sperm and eggs, on the other hand, are frozen for ten years.

How weird.

21.  We can’t take our embryos, or our sperm or eggs home with us.  No matter what brand of freezer we have.

Unless, that is, they are still inside our bodies.

In which case, we can keep them on loan for the moment.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, August 9, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 8th August 2010

One year ago.

We walk through the door, and into the hospital room.

“Hey guys,” we say.

Bel stands there, at the end of the bed, halfway between doing something and nothing.  She looks a sight.  She is pale, with deep grey rings under both eyes.  Her flaccid belly hangs at an angle, like it’s not sure what to do either, now that its roof has caved in.  Shock is a medical term for the body’s response when there is low blood circulation;  shock is a colloquial term for the mind’s response when someone has had their world turned upside down.

She got the colloquial one.

Meantime, Dan stands there, a grin fixed on his face.  He looks pale too, but he’s Scottish.  His thinning hair is messed on his head, and although you know he hasn’t slept either, he’s having a totally different experience to Bel.  Slung across his belly – her crotch in his hand, her body lounging along arm like a jaguar over a tree branch – is his new daughter.  Her beetroot-red face nestles into his elbow, settled and content.

He looks like he’s been doing this for years.

“Hey guys, how are you?” Dan asks.

“Pretty good.”  I look back across at Bel.  She continues to stand there, not quite sure which way is up.  “How are you going, Bel?”

“Friggin’ sore.”  With that she perches herself on the edge of the bed, wincing as she does.

“Really?” Suse asks, in a tone inviting further explanation.

“Yes,” she says plainly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.  Bel looks directly at my wife.   “Suse, it was so painful.  I can’t even begin to tell you.”

“The Caesar?”

“No, the friggin’ labour.  The operation saved me.  I don’t know what I would have done if we hadn’t gone to theatre when we did.  Seriously.”

“Really?” Suse repeats.

“Really.”

“How long were you in labour?”

“Too bloody long.  About six hours.  But I got nowhere,” she says, again straight at Suse.  She winces again, grabbing at her back.  “Two centimetres was as far as I got.  I was going nowhere.”  She leans forward, “Suse, I can’t tell you,” she says, grabbing her by the hand.

“Nah, but she did really well,” Dan says, jumping in.  “She was a right trooper.  And it was no picnic.  I mean, the Obstetrician said she might have had cervical stenosis from all the procedures.”

“Yeah, right,” I say.

“What?” Suse says, looking directly at me.  She’s wearing her ‘please-translate-medical-shit-to-me’ face.  It’s the contorted look she has when something in nature freaks her right out – but she just has to know more.

It’s like a kid watching ‘Monsters Inc.’ with their hand over their face, peeking through their fingers.

“From Bel’s procedures in the past,” I start, “where they’ve had to put instruments through the cervix and dilate it up, scar tissue has formed.  Scars don’t stretch well, and this makes it harder for the cervix to dilate.”

“Friggin’ hard,” Bel repeats.

“Absolutely,” I agree.  “The first stage of labour is painful enough, Bel. With scar tissue stopping you from dilating, it must have been bloody painful.”

We all sit there for a moment, lost in our thoughts.  Suse has disappeared to that place she goes to after discovering yet another thing that can go wrong, Bel looks like a Vietnam Vet who has just retold an horrific experience to her shrink, and Dan is lost in his own Wonderland with his new daughter.

I look at everyone in turn, finishing on Dan.

“You’re a natural, mate.”

“Yeah, well, when Libby and Jack had Fletch, I’d be like, ‘Lib, can I just hold him for a while?’  And I forced myself to do it, even when he was screaming like a banshee.  To start with, I felt like a total loser, like I didn’t know what I was doing.  But after a while, I kind of eased into it.  And realised that, you know, there’s nothing to it.  It’s like the most natural thing in the world.”

He stops for a moment, contemplating.  “And, I dunno,” he declares finally, in his weirdly Aussie-Scottish twang, “something just happens.  When it’s yours,” he continues, patting his girl on the bottom, “ something just clicks.  And you…just…sort of, know.”

I look at him and smile, seeing the tears in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, you know,” Bel says, groaning as she lifts herself gingerly up the bed.

We all laugh, and I realise that there is a tear in my eye too.

It is the thought of a future that, with the help of modern science, will hopefully also be for us.

* * * * *