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

Sunday 27th June 2010

Gestation: 39 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

So I practised.

I produced a sperm sample without lubricant.

I know, I know.

Hand me the medal later.

* * * * *

This whole pregnancy thing has taught me a lot about humility.  Nothing in my life has ever been quite as confronting – as directly questioning of my sense of worth and value – as this little ride we’re currently on.

I mean, I’ve had things come and go that have made me wonder about who I am and what I’m made of.  But generally, at the end of the day, I’ve been able to confirm for myself that I’ve got what it takes.

That I’m made of the right stuff.

Until now.  This whole ride, this entire cascade of events that began with the simple ease of falling pregnant, to losing that pregnancy, to learning that we might not be able to even have kids, has taken us both all the way down to the bottom of the valley – where our fertility, our very virility – has been questioned.

And it is in that valley, that Suse and I have had stare deeply into ourselves.  To look within, and within each other, and face a simple question with very humble hearts.

That question is simple.  But the answer to longer to arrive.  But it did.  Eventually it did.  The answer is equally simple.  And it is this:

‘Yes, we do.  And we will do what ever it takes to have those kids.’

Yes, we will medicalise it.

Yes, we will surrender our bodies and our very seeds to science, so that we can be given the chance for a child of our very own.

Yes, we will surrender our innocence, and along with it, the assumption that to have children – easily, happily, seamlessly – was our birthright.

Because for us, it is not.  This very concept has burst.  A stern teacher checked our maths assignment and decided that the figures don’t add up.  We have to relearn the course.  We have to resit the exam.

And so, we do as we are told.  Our pride swallowed, we do as we are told.  And nothing – I can tell you nothing, to this point – has made me swallow my pride more than my sperm assessment.  Not only will someone in a laboratory assess my sperm and give me a mark out of a hundred, but I’ve been instructed on exactly how to produce the specimen.  I’ve been given strict instructions on how to masturbate.  Masturbation 101.

If there’s one thing I was pretty sure I’d perfected by now, this was it.  I was pretty sure I had it licked.

Apparently not.

I’ve been informed – by Cheryl in Andrology – that under no circumstances am I to use lubricant.

It seems that I’ve been doing it wrong for the last twenty-two years.

* * * * *

And that’s the sticking point.  Not since inadvertently injuring myself as a thirteen year old, have I ever used my bare hands.  I’ve not had locker conversations with others regarding this kind of thing – I’m not that kind of a guy -  but until now, I’d just assumed that anyone who hasn’t yet discovered the joys lubrication is a pie short of a pastry shop.

So understanding that, you’ll appreciate why I woke in a cold sweat this morning, as I remembered that I have to turn up to hospital this Friday, to enter a room that I’ve never previously even seen, and come out with a full jar.  Not a tissue.  A jar.

And I’m not allowed to use lubricant.

* * * * *

And that is what has led me to this very toilet, at this very moment.

It’s Sunday afternoon.  We’re due to fly out of Fiji in two hours.  Our bags are packed and in the luggage hold.  We’re left to hang around the hotel lobby, listening to the tuneless guitarists and the squeals of one thousand chlorine soaked children.

It’s five days until I have to produce the goods for Cheryl.  As she explained to me over the phone, she doesn’t want anything stagnant – so nothing older than five days.  But I must abstain for at least three days.

As per instruction, I’ve got to clear the pipes one more time before Friday.

So why not now?

Initially, the thought fills me with dread.  And embarrassment.  In my brain, cemented through years of adolescence, masturbation and shame go hand in hand.  For a man, I don’t think that link ever really disappears.  Not even in adulthood.

Come on guys.  Let’s be honest here.

So, if I’m embarrassed about it now, and I’m embarrassed about it in the comfort of my home, and have to turn up to hospital and spank the monkey, and I’m not allowed to use lube, and so I’ve got to use a new technique for the first time in twenty-two years, and I’ve got to get it right on Friday, like a whole jar-full right – then how embarrassed and awkward am I likely to be?

Do I really want to hand in my first draft on the day?

I mean, do I?

Really?

* * * * *

So, I decide to practice.  Right then and there.  In a cubicle.  In a toilet.  In the lobby of the Westin Hotel.  In Nadi, Fiji.

Without lubricant.

Okay, okay, I know.  I’m hardly a hero.  And it’s not as bad as it may sound.  There’s no one else around, no one even uses these toilets.  But there’s the chance that they might – just like there’s a chance that Cheryl might accidentally walk in on me on Friday.

I’m in a cubicle, in a foreign country, concerned about someone else walking in.  And I’m polishing the family jewels.

If that isn’t a simulation of pressure, then I don’t know what is.

* * * * *

You don’t need to know the details.  I’ve already told you more than I told Suse when I returned from the loo.  Somehow, it just didn’t seem pertinent to let her know that I’d just been tooting my own horn for practice.

But I did.

And it went okay.

In fact, it went better than I thought it would.

I feel strangely proud of myself, in a shameful, repressed, Western-society-teenage-kind-of-way.

But at least I know I can do it.

Bring on Friday.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, June 2, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 5th June 2010

Gestation: 36 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

“This period’s dicking around with me,” Suse says, emerging from the bathroom.  “When’s it going to come?  It’s late.”

I look at Suse, my face blank.  Again, this is one of those moments.  I think about hair product, then filling the worm farm with scraps.  Anything that won’t betray emotion.

Make no sudden movements.

Suse has been on the rampage the last few days.  Five days ago, she uttered those fateful words:

“My period is due this week.  So I might not be at my most tolerant.  Especially since Fleischer fucked with my hormones.”

Suse is off her progesterone, which has, for the last few years, helped significantly to regulate her mood throughout her cycle.

So for the last week, I’ve been waiting.  The bomb hasn’t gone off yet, but I’ve almost hit the tripwire a couple of times in the last few days.

All right, let’s be real.  I have hit the trip wire.  Twice.

But they spring up out of nowhere, those pesky wires.  I swear.

“I don’t know, hon,” I say.

“What?”

“When your period is coming.”

“You’re answering a question I asked five minutes ago?”

* * * * *

Maybe I’m pre-occupied.  After all, Suse ovulated from the right side this month.  The blocked side.  And because of this, we resolved to not get pregnant this time.  To try again next month.

But it’s doesn’t always work that way.  After all, it’s sometimes easier resolving to not do something, than it is to not do that thing.  Because, as a couple who are desperately trying to get pregnant, contraception is not our number one priority.

And usually I am reliable.

Very reliable.

Except, of course, for last time.

* * * * *

We’d had a little debate at the start.  Do we?  Don’t we?  Do we risk it on the blocked side or not?  We came to our conclusion, as we came to our conclusion.  Suse said yes, then no, and I said no, but then…

I may have been a little slow on the uptake.

“Did you?”

“No,” I lied.

“Good,” she said, falling onto her back.

Let’s say I was about 90% successful.  Problem is, the first 10% may have not ended up where it was supposed to.  Which – given what we’re desperately trying to achieve – is exactly where it is meant to end up.

No wonder we’re confused.

In a nutshell, I blew it.  Literally.

And then Suse ovulated about two hours later.

* * * * *

She looks at me, shaking her head.

“Did you hear me?”

I do the worm farm thing again.

“Ummm…”

“…Where do you go to when you’re not listening to me?”

I’m worried that I got you knocked up on the blocked side.

On the side that will pretty much ensure that you have another ectopic.

So that you’ll need more surgery, where your tube will be removed.

Forever.

That’s all.

“Dunno,” I say, stupidly.

She frowns and walks away.

And I concentrate on worm food.

Not surgery.

* * * * *

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

Friday 23rd April 2010

Gestation: 30 weeks

One year ago.

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

“Sorry?”

“My chicken pox immunity.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair enough.”

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

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

Are you fucking kidding?

Are you FUCKING KIDDING?

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

What’s three more months?

Three more months.

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

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

I sigh, giving up the fight.

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

“What?”

“Nothing, love.”

I hug Suse tight, dreaming of an Australian summer.

* * * * *

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

Saturday 17th April 2010

Gestation: 29 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

We wake this morning, and instantly, I get that it’s going to be one of those days.

Suse has already applied her worry mask.

“My temperature is still up.”

“Right,” I say, before pausing.   “Is that good?”

“No, that’s bad.  That’s really bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your temperature is meant to go back down as soon as you’ve had your period.”

“And it hasn’t?”

“No,” she says, a little frustrated.  “It’s still 36.65.”

“That’s up?”

“What do you mean?  Of course that’s up.”

“Sorry, hon.  It’s just that…”  She looks at me with a stony face.  “I’m used to kid’s temperatures.  Thirty-eight or thirty-nine is up.”

“Well, I’m not a child, Mark.  So, 36.65 is up.”

“Okay.”  I pause.  “Well, you only did it when you woke up.  At 9.30am.  Other days you’ve woken at five.  Maybe that’s made the difference, love.”

Suse takes me by the hand, pulling me towards the chart.

“See here?  This is where my temperature was.”  She tape the paper with fury.  “This is where it is now.  It’s not good.”

I look at the numbers, and see that, in fact, it appears that her temperature has not gone down since her period started.  It’s been floating between 36.38 and 36.83.  Nothing as low as last month, when it was down to 36.08.  All the same, I can’t help but be impressed by how even they all are.

“Mmmm,” I say.

“And my period hasn’t been heavy enough.”  She sighs.  “Maybe I am broken.”

“What do you mean?” I say.  I bite the inside of my mouth, ensuring a serious face.

“None of the tests work for me.  Not the saliva test, not the pee sticks, and now not the temperature.  I’m broken.”

I sit there for a moment, saying nothing.  This is one of those moments I’ve learnt about.  The hard ones.  The unfixable ones.

Patience, Mark.  The answer will come.

Don’t try to fix it.

Eventually she opens her mouth.  I watch, waiting.

“I knew I should have made that appointment with that IVF lady.”

Ah.

There you go.

The answer.

Wait, and it shall come.

“So make an appointment with her.  On Monday.”

“But she has a two-month waiting list.”

“Look.  We spoke to Nadine, and she said that we’d want six months of trying before investigating.”

“Well, I don’t want to wait for six months before investigating!  I’m thirty-five-and-a-half!  I want to know now!”

“Okay.  So we’ll book an appointment on Monday.”

“I knew we should have booked ages ago.”

Groundhog day.

“We’ll book one on Monday.”  I look at my wife.

At that look of regret and worry and every possible anxiety in existence, all coursing through her brain.

“She’ll have cancellations,” I persist.  “You’ll get in.”  I take her hand, clapping it between mine.  “We’ll book on Monday.”

Suse looks up and me, frustration on her bottom lip.  It quivers slightly, before breaking as we fall into a hug.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, April 12, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 15th April 2010

Gestation: 28 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

Sometimes she is present, and other times she’s not.

Sometimes I live with my beautiful, warm, sensitive, caring wife.  The woman that I married.  The one who cares for me, and loves me, and fully supports me.

Other times, I cohabitate with a powerfully intemperate, irrational woman.  An irascible, cantankerous being.  One whom I tippee-toe around.

Mostly unsuccessfully.

At other times, I share a house with a sensitive, fragile, frightened girl.  One who cries in fear of being broken, of not being able to be fixed.  Of being baron, and irredeemable, and unable to reach happiness.  And cursed.

And other times again, I have none of the above.

I have a shell of a person living with me.

This is the worst of all.

* * * * *

I wake each morning, waiting to see who’s day it is.  Where we’re up to in the cycle.  What day it is on the roster.

Because, you see, no one handed me the roster.  No one bothers to let me know who’s on yard duty.  I just have to wait for the rock to hit me in the back of the head.  That’s how I find out.

The pregnancy game.

It’s a roller coaster, they say.

But without the thrills.

* * * * *

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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, February 9, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 6th February 2010

Gestation: 19 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

We spend the next hour on a high.

“I feel like I’ve been given a new lease on life,” she says.  “A second chance.”

I nod.  “It makes the ectopic look like a walk in the park, doesn’t it?”

“And the shoulder operation.  Who cares about my shoulders now?”

We laugh, looking into each other’s eyes.  We sit there eating lunch, like two teens in love.  Both aware of this gift we’ve just been given.

“You know,” Suse says, a change coming into her voice, “I realised something.  If it had been MS, then I would have said to you, ‘go and be with someone else.  Go and have children with someone who can have them.’  Because I know that would have been your worst nightmare.  To not be able to have kids.”

A shock shoots straight down my back.

“Come on,” I say, gruffly.

“I would have.  I really would.”  She pauses.  “Which made me think that I must really, really love you.”

I frown, trying to think of something to say.

Nothing comes.

“Although, it’s easy to say in hindsight,” she adds.

We both laugh, happy for the break in seriousness.

She ponders a moment longer.  “And it also made me realise just how much I want to have a family.”

“I know honey,” I say, grabbing her hand again, this time brushing my own arm into my food.

“No.  I really mean it,” she says, a resolve having crept into her voice.  “I realised that if it came down to it – if it came down to me and a baby – I’d choose the baby.”

This time I really do frown.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I was pregnant, and they told me that it would be at the detriment of my own health, I wouldn’t hesitate.  I’d go straight ahead with the pregnancy.”

I stare at my food.

“You don’t like that, do you?”

“No.  No, I don’t.”

“Why?” she asks.

And she’s not fishing.

She really doesn’t see.

“I just… I don’t.  I just can’t fathom that.  On a whole series of levels.”

I keep my eyes down, for now not able to look up.

Suse nods, taking it in.

She smiles and grips my fist, swishing her unseen sleeve below.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, February 8, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 6th February 2010

Gestation: 19 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

We walk the street, taking heavy steps.  Both of us try hard to enjoy the perfection that is Melbourne on a sunny Saturday.  As we stroll across our bridge, we watch the rowers below, trying to appreciate.

As we enter through the wrought iron gates of the Botanic Gardens, Suse wriggles her fingers free.

“Don’t squeeze so tight, honey.”  I look down, seeing the white of my webbing.

“Sorry, hon,” I say.  “Little bit stressed, I guess.”

“My hand is already numb.  Try not to make it worse.”

We actually manage a laugh.

We walk our path, heading towards the Observatory Cafe.  We pass kids, whole bundles of them;  some in the Children’s Gardens, some on the lawn.

How do you manage children when you have MS?

How do you handle a family with spinal cancer?

We enter the cafe.  I order my usual strawberry milkshake, wondering how it will sit in my stomach right now.

“How would you like to pay, love?” the woman asks.  She looks at Suse, who stares blankly, still not hearing the question.

Just at that moment, my phone rings.  Suse glances across at me, and I hand her my waller.  I run for the toilet, looking at the screen of my phone as I go.

Private number.

The phone buzzes three times in my hand, one for each ring, before cutting off at the end.  As I enter the cubicle, a blue text box pops up, obscuring my picture of Suse:  ‘You’ve got one new message.’

Bloody oath I have.

I lock the cubicle.  I press the voicemail button.  I close my eyes.  And I sit.

A saccharine woman begins the introduction, letting me know that I have a message, as if I was unaware.  The reception isn’t great, but I know what she’s going to say.  Then there is a man’s voice.  My stomach lurches as I hear him begin.  It cuts in and out, but I can make most of it out.  And above all else, I hear one word.  And I hear it the first time.

Haemangioma.

I press repeat, and listen a second time.

No evidence of Multiple Sclerosis.

Spine clear.

It continues to cut in and out, until I hear him say that sweet word again.   Haemangioma.

I hang up quickly, grabbing the sweaty, crumpled piece paper out of my back pocket.  I can only just make out Mothudi’s smudged number on it.  But it rings.

“Hi, this is Mark Nethercote,” I say.

“Oh yes, this is Dr Mothudi.  You got the message?”

“Some of it.  No evidence of MS, and the spine looked clear?”

I am now standing.  I am a kid at the table, waiting to blow out the candles, almost wetting myself with excitement.

“And the brain,” he says.  “It is also clear.  No evidence of tumours in the brain, parenchyma or spine.  No spinal compression.  And no plaques of Multiple Sclerosis.”

“And the hot spot?”

“An haemangioma,” he says.

Jackpot.

You fucking ripper.

A little bit of wee escapes.

“No chance of a tumour?”

“It was white in both T1 and T2 image weighting.  This means it has fat content as well as water.  It’s pretty much impossible for nasty lesions to appear like this.”

“No need to investigate further?”

“No.”

“So nothing more?”

“Nothing more.”

“Thank you so much,” I say.

“I’m just sorry it took so long.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I say.  “It really doesn’t.”

* * * * *

I hang up, and exit the toilet running.  As I do, I find Suse, crunched over in a metal chair.  She looks like a plaster casting.

“Suse,” I say, breaking the spell.  She looks up at me, and for a split second is unendingly vulnerable.  She closes her eyes as she awaits her judgement.

“No MS,” I say quickly.  “Your brain and spine look normal.  Completely normal.”  She nods, comprehending.  “The white spot is an haemangioma.  A collection of blood vessels within the body of the vertebrae.  It lights up as liquid and fat.  It’s benign.  No cancer.  It’s a normal MRI.”

She opens her eyes.

There is a look of confusion on her face.  Almost disbelief.

“Normal?”

“Normal.”

“Yesterday I had MS.  And then today I had cancer.”  her eyes search the ground, trying to understand.  “And now it’s normal?”

“And now it’s normal.”

She stands and reaches across the table, squeezing my hands tight.

“I don’t have cancer and I don’t have MS?”  She squeezes even harder.  “I don’t have cancer, and I don’t have MS!”

“You don’t have cancer, and you don’t have MS,” I reply.

Suse lets out a laugh, a cough, a release;  all the way from the pit of her belly.

And then she leans forward across the table, and we kiss, her sleeve falling right into the dipping sauce as we do.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, February 4, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 6th February 2010

Gestation: 19 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

I only manage to hold out for about an hour.

“Can we go out for brunch?” Suse asks.

“I don’t really want to,” I mumble.  “I’m going to have a shower.”

She follows me into the bathroom.

“Mark, I’d really just like to have a normal day.  One normal day.  One where we get to spend some time together.”

I don’t answer.

I step into the shower and cover my face, the water running into puddles in my hands.

I have to find out what’s going on.  And I can’t do that without raising suspicion.

I can’t keep it from her anymore.

I have no choice.

I have to tell her.

The vomit rises again.

* * * * *

I get out, and dry, before heading into the bedroom.  Suse stands there, changing the sheets.  She looks at my reflection in the mirror.

“Are you not good today, love?”

“Not really.”

I walk around to my side of the bed, and plonk down heavily.  Suse follows slowly, sitting on the bed next to me.   She places her hand on my knee.

“Did you see something on the scan that you didn’t like?”

I close my eyes.

“Yes.”

* * * * *

I tell her I what I saw.

I tell her that I don’t know what it is.

I tell her that I have to ring to talk to the Radiologist.

And I tell her that I’m sorry.

We both cry.

“I’m sorry you married a broken woman,” she says, more tears galloping forward, her head bobbing lightly on my shoulder.  “That I’ve caused you all this trouble.  I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” I say.  I sit up straight, taking her by the shoulders and holding her at arm’s length.  “I’m not, Suse.  You don’t learn these things until you reach this point.  But right now, that’s where we are.  And I know that I want to be here.  With you.”  I pause.  “That’s the only thing I do know.”  I let go, pinching my eyes.   “I didn’t want to have to tell you, but it wasn’t fair to keep it from you.  I needed to let you know.”

Her face screws up again.

“I just wanted this weekend to be in innocence.  In not knowing.”

Same here.

But I looked.

I turned towards the Sirens and they lured me in.

* * * * *

to be continued…