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

Wednesday 28th July 2010

One year ago.

I sit in the pub, looking across the table.

“Just get on with it, I reckon.”  Dan finishes this declarative statement, in his Scottish lilt, and takes a swig of his beer.  “We did a lot of farting around at the start.  I mean, really, when it comes down to it, I wish we’d just had a crack at IVF from the start.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Absolutely.”

“I thought you started IVF pretty early?”

“Nah.  Fuck no.”

“What did you try before that?”

“All sorts of shit.  Including turkey basters.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“I never knew that.”

“You never asked.”

“I guess I didn’t.”  I take a swig myself.  “Well, I guess they didn’t really know what the problem was with you guys.”

“Exactly.  Unlike you guys, where you know you’ve got a blocked tube, we didn’t have that sort of certainty.  We lost our pregnancy, and no one could tell us why.  So we had to sort of start at the start.  We did a round of hormones, and then tried the dye test, and gave it a few more rounds, and fucked around some more.  And eventually we got onto the IVF.  Personally, I just wish we’d done it from the start.  It took us four rounds, after all.”

“Four harvests?  Really?”

“Where were you this last three years?” he jokes.

“Being a guy, I guess.  I mean, I guess I had just lost count.  I don’t think I realised it had taken you guys that long.”

“It seems to have flown by for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Funny that,” he says, laughing.  “You only know how shit it really is when you’re the one standing in it.”

I sigh, taking another sip.

“So how many weeks are you now?”

“Bel’s thirty-nine weeks today.”

“Bloody awesome.  I swear, you’re the only pregnant couple in the last year that I’m not jealous about.  You guys have put in the hard yards.”

“I know.  And some of our mates don’t even know how many rounds we did!” he says, in mock disgust.  “We were pregnant before anyone else,” he says, nudging Adam playfully on the arm.

Adam has been quiet throughout this whole exchange.  As the guy with a kid, he knows to lie low through the IVF talk.

I look back across at Dan.

“Where are you working at the moment?”

“The Women’s.  In the neonatal intensive care.”

“Will you be there next week?”

“Yep.”

“Really.  What days?”

“Tomorrow until next Tuesday.  Why?”

“Because Bel is being induced there next week.  I might see you.”

“You don’t want to see me, mate.  You don’t want to be coming to NICU if you can avoid it.  Which you will.”

“Good point,” he says, nodding deeply.  He takes another sip.  “So you’ve done all of your tests?”

“Most of them, yeah.”

“But what about you.  Have you done yours?”

“Wank into a cup?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure did.”  He takes another sip.

“So what’d you get?”

“Sorry?”

“What was your score?”  I look at him, suddenly understanding.

“What was my count?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying to sound casual.

“Ummm, I can’t remember exactly.”  For as traumatic it was, I’ve forgotten very quickly.  “Two hundred and something.  Two hundred and twenty, two-thirty?”

“Bullshit,” he says quickly.

“No.  No, I think it was.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why?  What was yours?”

“Not telling.”

He takes another sip.  We all do.

Nowadays, I can happily talk about wanking without getting embarrassed.

But, it seems, chats about sperm counts remain well out of bounds.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, May 20, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 21st May 2010

Gestation: 34 weeks

One year ago.

“Kirsty and Nathan have just gone over to China.  Did you know that?”  I look up from my steak sandwich, across the table, and the beer.  It’s a Friday afternoon.

“No.”

“To pick up Alfie.  From China.”  I do that thing where I frown, hoping that it might help me to understand a little better.  It doesn’t.  “They’re adopting.”

A flash goes through my head of all the times I’ve seen Kirsty in the last three years.  Which is not often – they are not close friends – but often enough to have left a lasting memory.  In all the times I’ve seen them, I’ve never seen Kirsty with a full head of hair.  She’s either had thin, sparsely growing hair, or being wearing a bandana.  And each time, every single time, she has been smiling.  At weddings.  At barbeques.  Wherever.

Despite her obvious lethargy, and pain on movement, she has always been smiling.  And so has Nathan.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“So they couldn’t have kids?  After chemo?”

“I don’t know the whole story, mate, but I think it’s a fair assumption.”  I chew on a chip.  “They got on a plane on Monday, to head over there.  To meet their new kid.”

I sit and digest.

“Fuck, that’s brave,” I say eventually, sighing.  “So brave.”

“I know.  I don’t even know how you’d contemplate it.”

I sit some more.  “I guess you contemplate it when you have no other choice.  And then you choose to adopt a child, and you choose to love him like he’s your own.”

“Yeah, sure.  But can you imagine getting off a plane to go and meet your own child?”

“No, I can’t,” I say, a little too easily.

I return to my chips.

* * * * *

That’s what I say.  But in my head, it goes more like this:

“Yeah, sure.  But can you imagine getting off a plane to go and meet your kid?”

“No, I’d prefer not to.  I’m not at that stage yet.  We’re not at that stage yet.

“But yes, I can imagine getting of a plane to meet my new kid.  From another mother.  From another country.  I haven’t before now, but I can.”

All too easily.

And it scares the shit out of me.

* * * * *

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

Thursday 28th January 2010

Gestation: 17 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

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

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

I’m all for regaining a healthy balance.

I’m all for clearing the blockage.

But it’s the whole focus thing.

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

* * * * *

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

“What are they?” I ask.

“Chinese medicine.”

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

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

“Oh,” I say.

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

“…The blockage?”

She nods.

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

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

“Just trying to help.”

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

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

I resist temptation to say anything.

Not that I have anything to say.

But still, it’s a challenge for me.

* * * * *

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

“Hi hon,” I say.

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

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

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

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

Yep, here it comes.

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

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

“I know, but…”

“…But what?”

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

“Because?”

“Because it affects your sperm count.”

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

“I know.”

There is a pause.

“It’s one beer, Suse.”

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

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

We fall into silence.

End of conversation.

The balance for the herbs.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, January 3, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 31st December 2009

Gestation: 13 weeks, 6 day

One year ago.

It’s New Years Eve.

We’ve stayed in Oxley for five days.  We’ve been hanging out with Suse’s parents, doing plenty of nothing.  I ran every day while she read.  We visited Suse’s brother, and her sister, and other siblings came to stay.  We spent time as the Brock clan, across generations;  an extended family.

But Suse and I also heal as our own family.

We are kind to ourselves, and kind to each other.  Our wounds cure in the baking, northern Victorian sun.  We allow Helen to tend to us, to make things better with food.  And we draw closer again, without the pressures of work, or the pile on the desk staring back at me.

This afternoon, on our way home, we drop in to see Ella.  We have a couple of beers with Suse’s best friend, and the two of them giggle like schoolgirls, while we help Ella and her sister choose clothes for their New Year’s party.  I find myself advising on female fashion.

I must be relaxed.

And it’s a stinker.  It’s hot, and humid, and the beer flows easily down our necks.  We grab another, beginning the kick off for New Year’s Eve.

We move onto the next party, a barbeque at Adam and Lexi’s place.  We arrive to a happy crowd, and then sit and chat about pleasantly mundane things, cracking lame jokes.  Not once does anyone mention the ectopic.

We watch Adam and Lexi as they play with Sally, their ten month-old girl.  I take Suse’s hand, seeing the deep envy in her eyes.  We talk at length to Bel and Dan, the IVF-stalwarts, now ten weeks and counting.  Despite their attempts to relax, they unwittingly sit with their shoulders tensely raised.  By habit, they brace themselves for an unseen impact.

They have done so for months.

We have more beer, and then I have another, as we sit there watching the storm clouds roll in.  They are heavy and menacing, and yet Adam insists that we’ll be fine.  The weather radar begs otherwise.  And yet, we acquiesce to his desire for a backyard barbecue, his pride spilling over at his shared slab of concrete.  That is, until big fat drops begin to fall like coins on a plate.

We retreat inside.  We eat our feast, necking more wine and beer.  We shoot the breeze, easy conversation with close friends, two-thirds of us aware of the travails of failed pregnancies.  It is nice to be in such easy company.

With ninety minutes to spare until the next year rolls in, Suse and I farewell our friends.  We’re off to Morley Bridge, just near our house, for an A-grade view of the fireworks.

Our fireworks.  Our bridge.  Ours alone.

Something a baron couple can share alone.

* * * * *

“Should I pour a couple of tequila shots?”

We’re barely through the front door.  I’m already drunk.  And shots are not my thing.  They’ve never served me well;  they usually end in tears.  Only rarely in hysterics.

And yet, I’m an obliging kid of guy.  This is my wife breaking out, announcing the finish to something, a completion of our own annus horribilis.  Annus goddamned terribilis.

And she has that mischievous look in her eye.

There are only forty more minutes left in this ugly year.  And these have been a forgettable couple of months.  Fuck, it’s Day Sixty-Eight.  It’s time to wipe it away.

And it’s just the two of us, in this, our wedding year;  celebrating and commiserating for all it has been and meant.

It’s time to shed our skin.

“Sure.”

She grins with delight.  The dirty great drops continue to fall against the roof, threatening to break through.  Suse prepares while I think twice.  She hands me the lemon and the salt, and takes the shooters.  We step outside and onto our porch.

We take the first shot.  We lick the salt.  We then suck.  We hold up our glasses to the rain, in celebration.  We repeat.  And we repeat again.

And again.

I shake my head involuntarily, like I just sucked on a battery.  A wave of delirium licks at me.  And then I take one more.

To celebrate.

Why the hell not?

We stand there both, the giddiness building, staring vacantly out at our street.

“We better get ready to go,” Suse says finally.

“No worries,” I reply, my voice no longer belonging to me.  I take a slug of beer to chase the bitterness away.  I walk inside and I grab the rain jackets, feeling an overwhelming lethargy descend.

Pushing through, I return, handing Suse her jacket.  She leans forward, resting her palms on her knees.

“Whew, I feel a little lightheaded,” she says, before sitting down.

Well, that’s it.  Done.  There is all the permission I need.

With that, I lie down, flat on my back.

Baked.

The New Year’s fireworks sound great.

I just never see them.

Neither of us do.

* * * * *

I make it to bed, where slowly, I put myself down.  I lie there, motionless, listening to the grenades outside.  Within moments, I am haling Suse for a bucket.  She grabs one, and places it by my side of the bed, while I transform into a sundried tomato.  And yet, it feels good to be wiped like this.  After all of the rawness at the edges of our wounds, there’s a sweetness to being this numb.

If only we could drop the nausea.

I lie there, breathing, in and out.  It feels okay, but I’d skip this function if I could.  Everything tips me closer to the green edge.  I dance at its curb for days, only to realise on staring at the clock that it is only eighteen-minutes-past-twelve.

Gingerly, I pull myself up.  Within ninety seconds, I have showered, brushed my teeth and am back in bed.

The lassitude is sweeping.  Nothing can rouse me.

But I am man.

When Suse starts to kiss me, I find a new strength.  Previously untapped energy sources.

Uranium.

Happy New Year.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, December 27, 2010 10:00 am

Friday 25th December 2009

Gestation: 13 weeks

One year ago.

It’s Christmas day.  To celebrate, we have Christmas lunch with the thirty-odd Nethercotes.  Thirty, odd Nethercotes, that is.

My Dad is the eldest of four boys.  And each of those boys grew up and married a girl.  Four brides for four brothers might not have quite have the same ring, but then again, life can’t always be as poetic as a Hollywood musical about chopping wood.

Through the 1970’s and 1980’s, each of the four boys and their wives had children.  We were even born in a pattern:

- Boy, boy, boy;

- Girl, boy;

- Boy, girl;

- Girl, girl, girl.

I’m the second boy.  Line one, position two.  That’s me.  And each of the four couples even delivered in order – the eldest ones finishing before the next one started – to keep it simple;  to keep the pattern just right.

Our generation, however, has been a little less ordered.  My younger brother bred before my older brother or me, seemingly unfazed by the rules that were in place.  Instead, he and his wife politely ignored the sequence, procreating when they were good and ready.

The nerve.

Then again, given what has happened, I think they were pretty bloody wise.

* * * * *

It is a sentimental day.

My grandpa is edging ever closer to a nursing home, and as such, this is the last time Christmas will be at the family home in Vermont.  Near where my grandparents were born, in the home they built in 1954.  Back when there were apple orchards all around.  This home will be auctioned next year;  too big for him now that my grandma has died, too big now that he is ninety-two.

So, we gather for one last bash.  Four brothers, their four wives, their ten kids, and their nine partners attend.  Both of my brothers bring their kids, the beginnings of the next generation – two toddlers, two still in the oven.

This is the bit that’s tough.

But Suse does great.  We keep light, bustling about, reacquainting with cousins, uncles and aunts in a continuous game of musical chairs.  It’s wonderful to catch up with my extended family, all of whom are keen to show support and concern for what’s gone on for us over the last few weeks.

That is the official statement.

In reality, we struggle at times.  It’s not easy.  Because subconsciously, there is an expectation in place.  After all, Nethercotes are breeders.  From one white-haired man and his recently-deceased wife, twenty-three people across two generations now call themselves family.  Now that is a legacy.

And, even though it’ll never be verbalised, Suse and I feel the desire – and, today, the responsibility – to continue in that tradition.  That’s what’s going on for us this Christmas.  That’s the back story.

So, we talk fast, we move fast, we keep the conversation from becoming too deep.  We don’t mention the legacy.  And we stick close.

Today, as for every day through this, we are each other’s security blanket.

After all, we’re the only ones who know how it feels to be us.

* * * * *

I manage to call one of my cousins by both of her sibling’s names, avoiding the use of her name at all. At least they’re both female;  there’s a chance I might have looked foolish.  My awkward effort causes Suse to fall apart with laughter;  I can’t remember the last time I saw her like this.

And honestly, the day is fun.  And despite her fears, Suse makes it through avoiding tears all together.  She even manages to enjoy it.

It’s amazing what a bottle of champagne will for you, in the presence of pregnant in-laws, surrounded by the legacy.

We’re starting to turn the corner.

The next corner, that is.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, December 22, 2010 10:00 am

Friday 18th December 2009

Gestation: 12 weeks

One year ago.

Not much to report over the last week.  Suse and I have been hanging out, the two of us in reparation.  We’ve been tending to our collective wound, dressing it daily, applying liberal amounts of Betadine.  We’ve been resting and recuperating. We have barely seen a soul.

Being barren has never been so easy.

Tonight, we clear the cobwebs.  I catch the train in to the city for Friday night drinks with Adam and Dan.  Meantime, Suse goes over to Ella’s place for a girls’ night.  We will talk about footy and miscarriages;  they’ll discuss make-up and ectopics.

Standard fare, really.

* * * * *

I turn up to the Brewhouse at the same time as Dan.  It’s packed.  And despite the heaving mass of people to absorb the sound, the bare brick walls and concrete floor make it almost impossible to talk.  I can barely hear him over the din of the Friday night crowd, but he seems to have no problem in hearing my order for more beer.

We shoot the breeze, chatting about rubbish.  This quickly graduates to questions about Suse, and me, and miscarriages and footy.  It’s tough going, but we battle through.  At times he seems to avert my gaze.  I know that loss and grieving are not the standard male discussion points in Australia, but Dan’s a sensitive guy.  But so am I.  Right now, maybe a bit too much.

This continues for a few more minutes, an odd tenseness in the air.  He nervously slugs his beer, looking over frequently to see if Adam has arrived.

“I’m not that bad, am I?” I say, eventually.

“What, mate?”

“You look uncomfortable.  Is there something going on?”

Dan takes another sip.  He looks sideways, smiling awkwardly.

“What is it, mate?” I ask.  He takes another breath.

“Bel and I are pregnant,” he bumbles out, unable to make eye contact.

But I hear it.  Loud and clear.

* * * * *

Three years ago, Dan and Bel had a miscarriage.  Four weeks later, after ongoing bleeding, pain, and a rising fever, Bel had to return to hospital for surgery.

If ever there was a harbinger for our current predicament, they are it.

Dan and Bel are our hard-luck trailblazers.

Since then, they’ve had recurrent attempts at getting pregnant.  Each hurdle led to further disappointments, further investigations, and further obstacles.  They journeyed along, further further along the pathway, until they ended up at the end of the line.

IVF.

Each month, we’d hear the news of the next round.

Increasing odds, increasing costs, increasing anxiety.

Decreasing hope, decreasing chances, decreasing options.

They shouldered it well.  They carried themselves with aplomb.  They bravely imparted their latest setback, kindly keeping us updates.  Meantime, all around them the world was accidentally getting pregnant off toilet seats.  Whoops.

For three years, I’ve watched each and everyone of our friends get pregnant.  Sometimes, they did it in pairs for extra points.  Like synchronised swimmers. Each time, Bel and Dan bravely congratulated.  They bought baby gifts.  They visited newborns.  And they soldiered on, only to return to their fertility specialist for the next round of bad news.

Each time and every time, I saw that look in Bel and Dan’s eyes;  that one I’ve now seen reflected in the mirror.

When Suse and I broke the news about our ectopic, Bel and Dan understood.  They were sensitive to us in a way that you can’t be unless you’ve lived it.  You simply can’t be.  That hole isn’t there naturally;  it has to bore it’s way through.

I look up at Dan, waiting for his eyes to meet mine.  Eventually they do.  Something in the change in his expression tells me that at this moment, I’m now wearing that look.

It’s my turn.  The baton has been passed.

“Congratulations,” I say finally.  Right now, I’m thankful for the inability to hear my own thoughts.  “I really mean it, mate.  I’m so stoked for you guys.”

I take him in a tight hug, slapping him on the back.  I take breaths, trying not to stutter on each.  I never knew that breathing could be hard.

We break apart, and I look at him.  I even try to smile.  He smiles back, knowingly.  He slaps me hard on the shoulder, and even allows himself a little smile.  He quickly wipes it away.

At that moment, he spies Adam at the door.  Dan hurriedly waves at him;  we are both relieved for the distraction.  I wipe at my eyes as he does.

As Adam approaches, he glances at Dan.  They share a look.  Wordlessly, Adam knows that I’ve been told.

“Beer?” he says.  In fact I don’t think he even says it.  He mouths moves, he points at the glasses, and he turns and heads to the bar.

“I won’t go on and on,” I shout, “but I’m very, very happy for you guys.  If anyone deserves this, it’s you two.”

“Yeah, well,” he yells, raising his eyebrows, “We’ll see how it goes.  We’re not holding our breath just yet.”

Understandable.  If I’d had the disappointments that they’d had, then I’d be trying to breathe normally too.

Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.

* * * * *

In celebration, we get thoroughly drunk.

Suse and I enjoy our night apart, stretching out of our co-dependent web, weaved since the beginning of this debacle.  We let each other fly without clipped wings.

We each enjoy the freedom, the exhilaration, the return to normality.  To our lives.

It is a release.

And it’s nice to return to something approaching normal again.

* * * * *