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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, September 12, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 6th September 2010

One year ago.

Suse visits the toilet four more times over the next thirty-three minutes.  Each time, she returns saying, “I just let a little bit out.  That was so unsatisfying.”  Every time as she sits, she winces like she just sat on a pin.

By the time we are finally ushered through to the seats outside the procedure room, Suse has beads of sweat on her brow.

“Have a seat,” someone offers, drawing curtains to hide us away.  Suse tries to sit down, before standing again straight away.

“I can’t,” she pleads.  “If I sit, I’ll pee.”

“So go to the toilet again,” I say.

“I don’t know where the loos are from here!”  She looks panicked.  Another member of theatre staff appears around the curtain, and Suse grabs her by the arm.

“I really need the toilet,” she begs.

“Just hold on. We’ll be done in no time.”

A third person peers around the curtain.  It’s like a pantomime.  “Hi, I’m Emma.  I’m the embryologist.”

“I really need to pee,” Suse repeats.

“Right now?”

“If I don’t, I’m afraid I might pee on the table.”

“Oh, that’s fine.  It’s good luck pee on the doctor,” she jokes.

“Does that mean I can go?”

“Doris will escort you.”

Suse runs off, while I sit and flick through another trashy mag.  She returns once more.

“Don’t even ask,” she says.  “Unsatisfying is my word of the day.”

Emma pops her head around, keen to keep the show moving.

“So, I just thought I’d give you an update on your embryos if you’d like?”

“That’d be great,” I say.  Suse looks around distractedly, her legs crossed.

“As you know, we got three eggs on Friday, and all of them fertilised.  The one that is going back in today is an eight-cell embryo.  It has no fragmentation, and no unevenness.”

“So that’s good?”  Suse sighs, fidgeting like she’s missed her dose of Ritalin.

“That’s very good.  We’ve got a picture if you’d like to see?”

“Absolutely.”

She flips the page, and we see ‘Brock #93486’.  In the middle of the page is a sphere, overlapping cells sitting within.  It looks like a bowl filled with eight clear pebbles.  Below it sits a ruler, labelled 100mm.

Our kid is currently a tenth of a millimetre wide.

“He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely,” Emma says.  Suse looks at the ground, blinking hard.

“And the other two?”

“Well, one of them is ten cells, and the other is six cells.  The ten-cell embryo looks good, but the six-cell one has a little bit of fragmentation.”

“Okay.  But the ten-cell one is okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a reason that one isn’t being transferred today?”

“We like for the Day Three embryos to be transferred when they’re between six and ten cells, so they’re all suitable.  But the eight-celled one cleaved first.  It’s the dominant embryo.  We tend to go with this one.”

“Great.  Sounds great.”

“Any questions?”

“When do I get to go to the toilet?” Suse asks without looking up.

With that, a fourth person bundles in, ushering all three of us through the swinging doors and into theatre.  I stand for a moment while people swirl around, waiting to be told where to go.  No one does, so eventually I just take the swivel chair by the bed.

Suse climbs up into the stirrups without assistance, like she truly has become the kid with ADHD.  Emma goes to the corner and stands next to a very fancy looking microscope, two other women stand over by the ultrasound machine, and James Crawley sits on the stool in between.

“Just ease your legs apart,” says one of the nursing assistants, and we’ll put the probe over your bladder.”

“Please don’t press too hard, I have…”

“…My goodness, that is a very full bladder!” she pronounces.

Everyone stops for a moment to look at the screen.  Even Emma looks up from her viewfinder.  There, directly above Suse’s uterus, we see a cavernous black hole, a bladder filled with pee.

“You weren’t joking,” Dr Crawley says.  I look at Suse.  Her eyes are shut tightly, trying desperately to not piss on his head.  “If you can Doris, just hold the probe there for a moment, and we’ll place the introducer.”

I watch on the screen while a few white dots float among the grey haze on the screen.  Someone really needs to put up an antenna for this thing.

“There’s the uterus,” says one of the nurses pointing, “and you can see the introducer in the centre.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Doesn’t she want to see?” she asks.

“I think she’s busy,” I answer quietly.  I look at Suse, and her eyes remain firmly shut.

I watch as Emma walks carefully from her microscope over to Dr Crawley, like she’s transferring a tray of muffins out of the oven.  But what she’s holding is a slender piece of plastic, like something she found in a game of pick-up-sticks.  He takes it from her, where it disappears from view between Suse’s legs.  Again, we see a few dots bounce around on the screen, imitating the placement of the embryo.

“All done?” Suse asks.

“She’s keen, isn’t she?” Dr Crawley says.  “We’ve just got to check and see if it was a Garfield embryo.  Trying to hold on,” he says, lifting his hands up by his sides, like they are the suction cups from those fluffy toys from the eighties.

Suse lets out a little laugh.  It’s all she can manage.  Emma takes the pick-up-stick and walks over to the microscope, peering through it for a moment.

“It’s in.”

“I’m done?” Suse asks, sitting up.

“That’s it,” Dr Crawley says.

“Can someone please get me to the loo?”

“I’m sure we can.”

Suse is out of the stirrups, in a wheelchair and out of the theatre before I manage to stand.

“There’s nothing else we need to do here?” I ask.
“Other than catch up with your wife?  No.”

I run down the hall after Suse, speeding along in her wheelchair, laughing hysterically.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, this is surreal.  Can’t believe I didn’t piss myself.  That was the worst thing in this whole IVF process.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.  Put that in your book, honey.  At least they knock you out for the other ones.”

“Wasn’t quite what you expected?”

“No.”

“But you got your silence.”

“Very funny.”

“And it was memorable.”

“Well, I’ll never forget it, that’s for sure.  But I didn’t expect that to be because my legs were being splayed in front of an old dude while I tried not to pee on him,” she yells, her voice echoing as she slams through the door of the toilet.

* * * * *

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

Monday 6th September 2010

One year ago.

We sit in the same waiting room once more.  The only difference is that this time, Suse holds a canister of water in her hands.  She sucks on it fervently;  the obedient patient, following instructions to the letter, filling her bladder just like she was told.

She leans in.

“When we’re in there, can you not ask a whole bunch of questions?”

“Sorry?”

“I just want to have a moment of silence.  You know, I just want it to be a bit special.”

“Okay.”  I pause.  “I am going to want to ask some things though.  Like how many of our embryos made it to day three.”

“Sure. But can we just try to avoid it being a whole medical lecture?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say.

We tread the same steps as before.  We are ushered into the same preadmission payment, through the same admission check, and via the same route into the maze.  Except that this time, I’m invited to get changed as well.

We seat ourselves in bay four.  Again I get the footstool.  We face the same direction as last time, seeing the same set of faces.  There are three other couples that we recognise from Friday;  meaning that there are at least three others who are having day three transfers because they got three embryos or fewer.

We’re in the three eggs or less aisle.

“One of these women,” I whisper, “ is the one who had sixteen eggs and only got two.”  Suse looks around, trying not to be noticed.

I call it the IVF look.

“I reckon it’s her,” she says, pointing with the edge of her magazine.  She sighs.  “I really need to go to the toilet.”

“Well, that’s what they wanted,” I say.

A second later a tall man with a cropped moustache appears.  “Hi there, I’m James Crawley,” he says smoothly.  “I’ll be doing the transfer today.  Can you tell me your name?”

“Susan Brock.”

“Just checking that you know as well.  You’ve had this done before?”

“Never.”

“First time lucky, eh?”

“Let’s hope.”  Suse laughs nervously.  “Is it going to be soon?  I really need to pee.”

“In about fifteen minutes.  If you hold on, your husband will buy you a present,” he says, pointing at me.

We sit for a while longer, again looking around at the others in the holding bay.  Women look tensely on, their bladders filling quickly, trying not to concentrate.  Male partners look at tea ring-stained newspapers, reading and re-reading sections they’d normally use to line the rabbit cage.

Everyone looks either bored or tense.

Nothing in between.

Nineteen minutes later, Suse blurts out, “I really need to go to the toilet.”

“Then go.”

“What’ll happen if I let out too much?”

“Then they’ll put in a catheter to fill your bladder.”

“Will that hurt?”

“Just go and let a little bit out.”

“Will I get in trouble?”

“Just do it, Suse,” I say, sighing.

As she gets up, James Crawley appears from behind.  We both watch her waddling off down the corridor.

“She didn’t want her present?” he asks.

“Right now, this is her present,” I say.

* * * * *

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

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

The instructions reiterate that I wash my hands, like I’m not about to touch my own penis.  They ask me to print my name on the pot and the consent form.  I one-up this by writing my full name, date of birth, ID number, wife’s name, and her ID number.

I’m not taking any chances.

I turn on the TV, and open a web browser.

I Google: ‘Porn’.

I open about ten tabs.

And then I sit there, butt naked, the heater on full, scanning through free porn, in the comfort of my own home, and knob myself.

And I do a very good job.

* * * * *

I head to the bathroom, again slowing as I pass the candle.  It flickers as I go.  The pot sits in the warm palm of my unused hand while I use the other to clean up.  I return to the living room, holding my pot, before re-dressing in the clothes that are strewn across the floor.

The pot goes straight into the jeans pocket.

‘Keep warm after production,’ the instructions warn, ‘but do not heat above body temperature.’

I grab the keys, the consent form and the biological hazard bag, and I jump back in the car.

It’s 10.02am.

As I drive back up the road towards the hospital, the sample jar sticks uncomfortably out of my jeans pocket.  At the lights, I wrestle it out and check the lid one more time.  I hold it up to the light to check the volume, surprised to see a few bubbles.  I guess anything liquid that sits in your jeans pocket is likely to bubble a little.

I feel a creeping over me, as I look to my right and see a woman in her car, staring.

Her jaw wide open.

The lights go green, and I floor it round the bend, pressing the jar against my warm palm.

* * * * *

I sit in the same seat, near the receptionist with the allergy to sperm, like I’m waiting to see the principal.  Occasionally she looks across at me, forcing a smile when I catch her staring at my Biological Hazard Bag.  I keep it on my lap like a loin cloth, ensuring the pot is upright.

My phone rings.

“Hello, is that Mark?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dorothy from Monash IVF.  I believe you were going to provide us with a sample?”

“I’m holding it in my hands as we speak.”

“Oh.  Are you on your way in?”

“I’m here.  I’m waiting for someone to come down and collect it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Day Procedure waiting room.  My wife is getting her eggs collected right now.”

“And where is your sample?”

“In my hands.  I’m holding a jug of sperm in my hands.”  The receptionist looks up like I just swore.

“Right.  Sorry.  I didn’t realise.  Someone will be there in a few minutes.”

I hang up and look around.  The waiting area is filled with seventy-year olds getting their hips screwed and their colostomies hemmed.  Not one other person in the room has a jug of sperm in their hands.  I concentrate very hard on the middle distance, staring carefully like there’s something important for me to see.

Eventually, a woman appears.

“Mark?”

She beckons me to the same corridor, forty-eight eyes following me as I go.

“Is that the sample?” she asks, pointing from hands hinged close to her body.

“Yes.”

She takes out a pair of purple gloves, putting them on theatrically.  “Could you repeat your full name?”

“Mark Edward Nethercote.”

“Date of birth?”

“29th May 1975.”

“ID code.”

I pull out the card from my wallet, repeating the number.

“Great, thank you.”

“It comforts me that you do that,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Check my details.  To make sure you’ve got the right person.”

“It’s not something we want to get wrong.”

With that she turns on her heels, and leaves.

I stand there for a moment, before turning back towards the waiting room.

Everyone is watching.

Everyone.

I wave.

Three of them wave back.

* * * * *

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

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

Suse’s name is called, and we follow an impossibly small nurse wearing oversized Crocs through the doors and into the next section of the maze.  She trips on her own tiny feet;  in even the smallest sized shoes she wears two pairs of socks, and yet she still trips every three or four steps.  When we sit, requisite questions follow about Suse’s teeth, her lack of pacemaker, if her blood pressure is always that low, and whether we’d like them to pinch her jewellery while she’s asleep.

Suse then follows the tripping nurse to the change rooms, and returns wearing a large art smock, a hair net, and cloth foot covers.  She looks like a lunatic art teacher who works part time at the deli.  We sit for two more minutes, and then we’re ushered through to the departure lounge, where she gets the chair that goes up and down, and I get the footstool.  In turn, we sit here for a few minutes in awkward repose, until a man who has been passed several times finally gets the courage up to say hello.

“Hi there, Susan, I’m Martin.  Martin,” he repeats, turning to me.

“Mark,” I say.

“No, Martin,” he says once more.

“And I’m Mark.”

“Right you are,” he says, laughing awkwardly.  He crouches close.  “Now I think you guys are aware that Dr Fleischer won’t be performing the procedure today?”

“Yes.”

“And that Professor Vermeulen will be supervising?”

“Supervising?  She’ll be doing the procedure, won’t she?”

“No, I’ll be performing the procedure while she looks over my shoulder and says, ‘yep, great, looks good.’  Do have a problem with that?”

I look at Suse, her eyes having gone wide.

“No disrespect to you Martin, but I’ve only just met you, and I have a great deal of respect for Professor Vermeulen.  She was a lecturer of mine at University.”

“And you would like her to perform the procedure?”

“We’d feel more comfortable with that, yes.”

“So in that case, I’ll be looking over her shoulder while she performs the procedure, and I’ll be saying, ‘yep, great, looks good.’ ” We all laugh easily at the break in tension.

“Do you have any questions, Susan?”

“If you could just walk me through exactly what will happen, that would be great.”

“Okay,” he says, beginning to move his hands animatedly, in a game of Charades.  “We’ll place a needle into each of the follicles, and see how many of them have eggs.   For someone like yourself who has limited follicles, we’ll puncture each of them, even though the smaller ones probably won’t have eggs in them.  We’ll flush them out, searching for eggs – just in case.  To get as many as we can.”

“Sure,” I say.

“You’ll be under a light anaesthetic, you see, and you’ll be out the other end in no time.  You may have a bit of spotting and some period pain for a couple of days, but it should all settle down pretty quickly.  Do you have any questions?”

I look across at Suse, who is staring blankly ahead.

“I’m fine.  Suse?”

She shakes her head.   Martin gets up and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Well, for someone like me with such limited follicles, I guess I’m as good as I can be.”

* * * * *

I drive down the back streets towards our house.  As I brake behind the one-hundred-and-seventy-year-old man they hire specifically to piss off the residents of Richmond, I quell the urge to beep.  I ride the break down Lennox Street, through the repeated roundabouts and over the speed bumps towards Swan.  Eventually – despite having until eleven – I overtake him, almost causing him to crash.  I round the corner, heading west up Swan before pulling down our street to the end, squealing the breaks as I zoom under our roller door and pull up hard.

As I enter I walk slowly, careful to not blow out the candle that we lit last night.

Suse has always been a candle-kind-of-girl, but ever since the clairvoyant at the café with the salt and the candles, I’m also a convert.

“Let’s light a candle for incubation,” she said last night, out of the blue, “inviting a soul to join us.”

We lit it together, both striking the match, both saying something softly as we did.

And while I don’t know anything about the rules for this sort of shit, accidentally blowing out our candle when I’m – blowing out my own candle – would surely not be good karma.

I pass the quiet flame and walk towards the kitchen bench.  I take the pot out of the plastic bag and unscrew its lid, placing it down on the couch.  I pull out the consent form, reading the instructions:  ‘How to Wank 101.’

I’m not joking.

There are instructions.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, August 31, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

We sit down in the waiting area, the same waiting area as before.  The same place as for Suse’s shoulder operation.  The same as for her laparoscopy.

And now this.

I stare at my watch.

It’s 8.13am.

I jiggle my knee up and down.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“I’ve got to give them my sample, love,” I say, edgily.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Well, they told me I’ve got to get it to them by nine.  You know how I don’t like to be rushed.”

“You’re going home to do it?”

“Bloody oath.  I’m not doing it here again.  No more ‘MILFs in Heat’ for me.”

“Did you line anything up last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you find some material on the internet to help you out?”

I feel something crawl up my back.  “I guess I didn’t plan that far ahead,” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” she repeats.

“Yeah, sure.  You know how much I love a dry wank.”  The man two seats down shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Either he’s got piles, or he just heard me.  “I just love the pressure of all of this.  With $2500 riding on my performance.  I just love it.”

“Just, pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Come on, Suse.  How about you do the same.”

She looks at me, in a look of truce.  “Just go up to the desk and ask them about it.  Find out the deal.”

I sigh dramatically, like a teenager whose just been told sense.  I stand, and approach the counter.  The man with the piles watches me warily as I go.

“Hi there,” I say in a low voice, “my wife is here for egg collection today, and I have a question about my sample…”

“…Oh,”  the plain looking lady interrupts, “I don’t know anything about that.  I’ll call someone down from Andrology.”  She refuses to meet my eyes.  “Just have a seat,” she says, shooing me and my dirty hands away from the desk.

I sit back down.

“What’s the go?”

“They’re sending someone down to give me a lecture on technique.  Probably Cheryl and her purple gloves.”

I pull out my phone and begin to play with it.  The plain looking lady and the man with the piles both eye me as I do.

“Anyone would think you were the one having the operation today,” Suse smirks.

“If it goes like last time, I might just need one.”

“Honey, if I had the choice between dry wanking into a cup and having a large needle stuck up through my vagina and into my guts, I’d happily swap.”

Yeah, yeah.  You got me on that one.

* * * * *

Two minutes later, an attractive young woman wearing surgical scrubs walks through the door.  She spots me instantly – like I’m exuding nervous adolescent pheromones or something.  She beckons me with a finger.  I follow her halfway down the hall.

“Hi, she says, “I’m Cynthia.  I believe you had a questions regarding your sample?”

“Yeah,” I begin, shifting edgily from one foot to the other.  “My wife is having harvest at nine a.m.  And it’s…”  I look at my watch.  “…8.19am already. I’ve got to produce my sample.  And I’m running out of time.”

“Running out of time?”

“Well, there’s only forty minutes to go.”

“Oh.  No, there’s no rush,” she says, smiling kindly.  “The sample just has to make it to us by eleven.”

“Really?  I’d been told to drop off Suse, go home, produce the sample and be back by nine.”

“Wow.  That’s some schedule.”

“Tell me about it.”

“That’s enough to put anyone off.”

“I know!”  I laugh with relief.

“We don’t even start preparing the sperm until early afternoon.  So, stay here with your wife, get her in for the procedure, and then produce the sample at your leisure.”

At my leisure?

“Okay.  I don’t know that I’ll do it at my leisure.  I’ll still get right onto it.”

“Whatever works for you.”

At my leisure.

Whatever works for me.

This is so much better than last time.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, August 24, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 29th August 2010

One year ago.

We’ve hit our groove.

After watching the DVD, we reassured ourselves that we didn’t do anything wrong.  The pen does require plastic-bending levels of pressure to dial down in an unreassuringly, flimsy manner.  I’ve also improved my grip.  The pen really needs a firm grasp on the barrel, and a thumb on the plunger, while the other hand secures it at the skin.  And, even better, if you let the thing defrost first, it isn’t quite as lumpy on the way in.

Suse already feels bloated, and we’re only about a third of the way through the injections.

“Already I feel twice as heavy as what I do before I ovulate.  This is going to be shit.”

Suse will have an ultrasound to examine her follicles tomorrow.  As we’ve been told, she’ll get Puregon until her follicles are 13-14mm, then three to five days of Orgalutran, then one dose of the Ovidrel.  By then, they’ll be about 18mm each and ready for collection.  That could mean ten follicles all up, five on each side, each nearly two centimetres in size.

According to Shelley, there really aren’t any side effects to the Puregon, other than fullness in the belly.

Try telling Suse that.

She’s cried three times since the injections began, and says she feels like absolute shit.

I’d tell her that it was all placebo effect.  But I want to keep my marriage.

And I know this isn’t a great analogy, but if I had five cysts growing on each of my balls, I think I’d be pretty emotional too.

* * * * *

Work is keeping me going.

I went out on a trip yesterday to retrieve a baby that was born in the back of a taxi.  His parents were on the way into hospital when things got a little out of hand.  They ended up pulling into the carpark of the closest local hospital, where they had their little girl.  She was thirty weeks.  That’s two-and-a-half months early.

I sat there, listening to the call as it came in.

“Oh, hi, this is Jonathan, one of the Emergency Consultants,” he said sounding somewhat flustered.  There was a lot of commotion in the background.  “We’ve just had a baby deliver in the car park.  And we don’t have a paediatric unit here.”

“How’s the baby doing?”

“It looks pink and is breathing on its own.  Pretty well, I think.  You wouldn’t believe the commotion it has caused.”

By the time we arrived, there were about fifteen people in the room.  Nurses, doctors and ward clerks all swarmed around, all keen to help.

“I’ve been here twenty-two years,” said a battle-hardened nurse as I fought my way through, “and I’ve never seen this happen here.”

“Really?” I say, trying to sound interested.  “Do you think we could clear the room just a bit?”

“Yeah, where do you want us to put Mum?” she said, her eyes never leaving the baby.

I pause for a moment.

“I’m fine with Mum being here.  It’s everybody else.”

“Right.  Yes, of course.”

It’s not just us.   Everyone is excited at the prospect of new life.  Even medical staff who’ve seen it all.

There really is nothing quite like the magic of a brand new baby.

* * * * *