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

Saturday 17th July 2010

One year ago.

“Did you say that Western medicine has done fuck-all for you?”

I look across at Pete.

And I’m a bit pissed.

* * * * *

It’s a Saturday night.  Suse and I don’t get out much anymore. And neither do our friends.  We’re like a Harry Connick Junior remake of a once-great song.

And yet, we find ourselves, at this swanky French restaurant in Drummond Street, Carlton.  Pete and Cath have got babysitters for the night.  Elle has left Dave at home to look after their sick child, and Carrie is over from Tasmania for the weekend.  They’re all friends from Uni.  And they’re all doctors.

I look at Suse.

Here we go.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”  I say it with a bit too much animosity.

“I’m just clarifying,” he counters.

“I mean, I know it might sound hypocritical when we’re about to start IVF.  But to this point Western medicine has done fuck-all for us.”

I look around at the table, this table of Western medical doctors that I trained with.  Each face sits somewhere between offended and amused.

“So that’s why you bought the candles and the salt?” asks Carrie.

“Yep.  I mean, on the day we moved into our new house, Suse started bleeding from her ectopic.  And since that time we’ve had – I don’t know – maybe ten, fifteen things that have gone wrong with her health.”

“So you really believe that there was a curse put on your house?”  She can’t stop herself from letting out a laugh.

“I don’t know.  But, like I said, everything that we understand, everything that makes sense to us, everything that science has shown us, has not been able to help us out.”  I hesitate for a moment.  “I actually think we’ve lost some of our wisdom.  In the last three hundred years, we’ve come to think that science has the ultimate answers.  And like all people falling into any trap throughout time, we think we’ve got it all sussed.  We think we understand it all.  I actually think we know less now than we did two thousand years ago.”

I look around the room, at this table of highly-trained, highly-intelligent human beings.  I don’t know how open they are to left-field shit like this, as I’ve never asked.  But I’m on a roll.

Shit, I’m on a roll.

“So is that the same as religion?” Carrie continues.  She’s the only one more pissed than me, and therefore the only one willing to walk into this conversation;  the rest of the table sees the warning signs.

“No,” I say, again with more venom than I mean, “don’t get me started on religion.  This is about spirituality.  There are people in this world who think that ‘The Power of Now’ is the best book in the world, and there are people in this world who think it’s a crock of shit.”  I look around, getting the distinct feeling that ‘shit’ is the group consensus.  “I just think that there is a whole lot of stuff that we don’t understand, I think that the way we practice is different to the way we will in thirty years, and I think that in thirty years, we’ll look back on ourselves and say, ‘Fuck, why did we not think more about Eastern Philosophies?  Why did we think we knew everything?  Why did we work so strongly to the evidence-based doctrine?  Why did we have to prove something to think that it was possible?’ ”

I look around the room.  Everyone is silent.

“I was just clarifying what you said,” says Pete, slightly bemused.

“Yeah, well, maybe I misread it.  I guess that this last year has really shaken everything we believe in.  And I guess – given the fact that Western Medicine hasn’t given us the answers – that we’re more than happy to whip out and buy a three-buck candle and some salt and burn it, if it gets us pregnant.  Shit, I’ll do it every day if it works.”

“So this is about faith?” Carrie asks, still wanting to understand.  I can almost hear the held breath of the table, hoping my rant is done.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I say.  I smile.  “So, not bad weather we’re having, is it?”

I hear the table exhale in unison.

I take a piece of bread.  I take a bite, looking over at Suse.

She gives me a wink.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, June 7, 2011 10:00 am

Tuesday 8th June 2010

Gestation: 36 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

A woman takes illicit drugs throughout their pregnancy.  Another causes Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in their unborn child because they drink heavily throughout the gestation.  A third beats their baby, breaks its bones.  The Department of Human Services gets involved, they get them back, and then they do it again.

And they keep on breeding.

Repeat cycle;  rinse and spin.

* * * * *

If I’m born with a child with liver disease, requiring a liver transplant, I can get that done.  For free.  The cost will run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.  Similarly, if my child needs a heart transplant, and things are complex, the ongoing costs can mean that my child very quickly becomes a million dollar baby.  Again, all for free.  If my child is unfortunate enough to be born with cystic fibrosis, the cost of one of the inhaled medications, Pulmozyme, can cost up to $2000 a month.  As long as I can jump through the right hoops, I can get that subsidised by the Government.  For my forty years of life.  And this is just one of maybe five inhaled medications I will be on.

Yep, you do the maths.

* * * * *

But as of January this year, just six months ago, Kevin Rudd and the Labour Government decided to decrease the repayment of IVF from 80% to 35%.  Costs have risen from $900 for the first cycle to $2500.  Many couples require repeat cycles before having success.  Dependent on the procedure, this can increase out of pocket expenses to $7500 per cycle.

Repeat cycle;  rinse and spin.

I see you doing the sums.  The costs can add up very quickly.  But with success, IVF couples are born with healthy kids.  The burden to the health care system evaporates as soon as they get pregnant.  The Government has just bought themselves another tax payer.

Compare that to people with chronic ongoing medical issues.  Diabetes.  Obesity.  Chronic obstructive airway disease.  Cardiac disease.  Would the Government just stop providing hospital beds to these people?  Would they just suddenly make them pay for it?  Would they suddenly triple the health care costs to this minority?

No.  They wouldn’t.  It would be political suicide.  It would be further evidence of an uncaring Government withdrawing support for those in need.

But we haven’t got a chronic illness that will be with us forever.  We need a little help to produce another tax payer.

That’s all.

Suse and I will only need IVF for a year or two, five years at the absolute maximum.

I pay my taxes.  I work hard.  I contribute to the health system.  I’m a doctor for God’s sake.  I am the fucking health system.

In return – for once – I need the health system.

But because my wife has a blocked tube, if we want a family, we have to use IVF.  We have no choice.  So we will pay for the privilege.  Don’t get me wrong.  We’re relieved that we live in a time that we have this choice.  As are all IVF families.  A compliant lot, who will do whatever we can to have kids.  That’s why we’re any easy target.  We’re too busy trying to breed to get politically proactive.  Had we done it last year, the costs would have been a third.  It’s bad luck, but that’s okay.

That’s okay, I can swallow that.

But if we want IVF we need a Police Check?

Where are the Police Checks on the community at large?  Where is there a Police Check on any other person needing health care, any where in the entire system?

Do you need a Police Check to receive health care in jail?  Do you need a Police Check to be allowed to continue a pregnancy if you’re an underage parent?  Do you need a Police Check to get an organ transplant?  Do you need a Police Check to get dialysis?  Do you need a Police Check to treat you for HIV or Hepatitis C?  Do you need a Police Check to get health care if you’re an Aborigine?  Or if you’re a homosexual?

No you fucking don’t.

Because that is what we call DISCRIMINATION.

And discrimination is illegal in this country – last time I looked – although God knows what this Government has been doing while I haven’t been looking.

I get the money bit.  I get it.  I understand why they’re doing it – they’re just trying to balance the books.  And IVF is an easy target.  I think it’s wrong, and I think it’s short sighted, but I get it.

But the Police Check?

Now that’s a fucking bee in my bonnet.

The discrimination has begun.

The infertility discrimination has begun.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, April 22, 2011 10:00 am

Tuesday 27th April 2010

Gestation: 30 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

We sit here waiting.  We’ve been here before.

The same vaguely comfortable seats.  The same grime on the armrests from years of patients;  all waiting for day surgery, all waiting to be served their sentence with a knife.

We’re back in the same private hospital.  The same one as last time.  Exactly the same pre-admission clinic as for Suse’s shoulder operation.

Just six months ago.

And we have the exact same television, still on, still showing drag racing.  I never knew a television’s speakers could be so tinny.  The on-off button is cleverly located on the remote.  The screen has no buttons at all.

Just very big speakers.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?” says the plus-sized lady from behind the reception desk.  She does so without looking up.

“Is there any chance of changing the station?”

“Sure, love.”

“Or even turning it off?”

“Oh, we can’t do that, in case someone else comes in here.”  I look around the empty waiting room.  “People love the tele,” she says.  Her eyes stayed fixed on her monitor.

“They do, don’t they?”  Her eyes don’t move.  Or more accurately, they race back and forth across the screen, absorbing her favourite blog.  “Well, can we at least change it to the news, or something other than drag racing?”

In one move, she picks up the remote and changes stations, past the cable news service and onto free-to-air news.  Again, without breaking her gaze.  This woman knows remote Braille.

“Thank you.”

I sit back down.  Suse looks through a magazine while I try to block out the noise.  Braille lady gets up and disappears, so I quickly approach the counter and flick off the sound.  As I do, a man walks past, the same effeminate gentleman who checked us in.  He continues down the hall, patting his perfectly combed white hair against his head, his legs clearly moving, yet still seeming to float rather than walk.

I’ll blame it on him.

“All I can smell is food,” says Suse.

All I can smell is sterilised surrounds.

At work, all day everyday, I smell nothing.  Now, in this spot, this place that my wife comes every couple of months to have something cut open, all I can smell is hospital.  It smells like a hospital.  Why doesn’t my hospital smell like a hospital?

And then the vacuum cleaner starts up.

* * * * *

We’re at the end of the day.  It’s 5pm, and our check in time was just thirty minutes ago.  At my work, there are really only two list times, morning and afternoon.  Come to a private hospital, and they have check in until 7pm.  You want a tired surgeon operating on you?  Go for it, they go till 10pm.

Another couple walks in.  They sit, and copy our pose – the woman opens a magazine she has little interest in reading, and the man stares at the TV.  By now we’re seeing reruns of M*A*S*H.  How apt.

“Susan?”  We look up, past the generously sized lady, to a kindly nurse.  She smiles as she beckons us through.

We shuffle into a second room, where Rosie remarks on Suse’s low blood pressure, a habitual pre-op process.  We check name bands, consent forms, and then name bands again.  We’ve been in this room before, too.

Déjà, déjà vu.

Rosie takes Suse to get changed, and a few minutes later she returns, the picture of hospital dowdiness.  Somehow they’ve made my wife, the fashion designer, look like a frump.  Her middle cord wraps twice around her lithe frame; one size fits all.  A few seconds later, from down the hall we can hear Rosie say, “Do you want the next Fleischer girl?”

Suse looks across.  “Sounds like Fleischer is my pimp,” she says.  She looks down at her hospital garb. “And I’m not wearing undies.”

“You do look very fetching, honey.  Good luck with your audition for Fleischer.”

Rosie returns, smiling.  “Are you ready to go?” she asks.

“Are you ready, honey?”  Suse grins, suppressing a smile.

We are shuffled to the next sets of chairs, where we meet Donna.  She goes through the basically the same thing.  We confirm that Suse does not in fact have a metal train sleeper stored in her belly, and that all of her limbs are el naturale.  Her teeth are her own, and her eyes are too.

I know, I know.  The woman is a freak.

Round the corner we head to station three.  This time, to meet the anaesthetist.  He apologises for being the replacement for another gentleman that we have never before met.  We accept his apology with grace.  He could have told us he was the mayor and I would have bought it.

All except for the scrubs.

He walks us through the procedure.  He tells us where he’ll put the drip, and that Suse is likely to have a slightly sore throat from the garden hose that will be shovelled down her gullet.

“I like that man,” Suse says at the end, “he has a very nice bedside manor for an anaesthetist.  Do you think he’s gay?”

“He must be if he’s nice,” I reply.  We laugh easily, but I know.  I know.  My wife’s silliness is in inverse proportion to her nervousness.

I feel a deep ache for what she is about to endure.

* * * * *

From here, we move to the next bay, where we sit some more.  Suse gets the chair that goes up and down, while I sit in the chair to that doesn’t.  Suse goes to the toilet four times, testament to her pre-operation nerves.

We wait, and wait, and wait some more.  My alarm goes off, telling me that the car needs moving and we’ve been here for two hours already. It’s not a bad ploy getting you to move all the time;  that way you don’t realise just how much time has passed.

Eventually, Dr. Fleischer arrives.  She looks tired and slightly bored;  I get that this is her look.  She seems like one of these incredibly functional, overtly intelligent people, for whom day to day interactions are a bit of a chore.

“How are you, Susan?” she asks.

“Good,” says my adorable wife.  She’s absolutely not good.  She’s so far from good that it’s not funny.   But this is meek Suse, scared Suse, compliant Suse.  She just wants to get it right, and she doesn’t want to make a fuss.

I just want to hug her.

Fleischer goes through a few things, and we fire a couple of questions back at her.  They’re the best we have, and yet she deflects them with a bored superhero wave.

Suse has one last nervous wee, I kiss and hug her, and then she is taken through.

While I return home.

To wait for the phone to call.

To be continued…

* * * * *

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

Tuesday 20th April 2010

Gestation: 29 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

We sit there on the slightly uncomfortable couches.  Suse holds the clipboard, frowning as she reads.

“What does this mean?”  I lean across to look.

“Don’t worry about that one,” I say.

“But they wouldn’t have it on the form if it wasn’t important.”

A lady appears from nowhere.

“Mark and Susan?”  We nod encouragingly, the only couple in the waiting room.  Other than us, there are two women with prams;  an encouraging sign if ever there was one in a fertility clinic.  The women don’t even look up, both utterly absorbed in their precious cargo.

We walk down the hall to a room with ‘Dr. Fleischer’ on it.  We enter.  There stands a tall woman with a shock of auburn hair.  She is dressed entirely in black, and is teetering around on three-inch heels.

“Come in, come in,” she beckons.  Suse and I oblige, sitting quietly while she completes her dictation about the previous baron couple.

“Please excuse me if I appear tired,” Suse begins, “I’ve been up most of the night with gastro.”   I look across at the doctor to see how she will respond.  There’s a rumour that some IVF doctors sub-specialise to escape the gore of general Obstetrics.  I take this as an early test.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, “that makes two of us then.”

Suse and I nod, fake-knowingly.  I guess this means that she has a young child too.

I guess just about everyone does.

“Thanks for fitting us in,” Suse says again.  More nervous banter.

“Oh, that’s okay.  We have cancellations all the time.  People are always getting pregnant,” she jokes.  We laugh, like it’s the funniest thing we’ve heard today.  “So what’s going on?”

“Mark might want to explain,” Suse says.  “He’s a doctor, and better at summarising these things.”

Test number two.  When you are presented with a fellow medico as a patient, it can be affronting.  I have had several circumstances where this has turned the room icy – take our hospital experience up north as an example.

“What sort of doctor?” she asks warmly.

“Paediatric.”

The Paediatrician without kids.

“Great.  How do you like it?”

“It’s good and bad,” I say.  She looks at me, nodding.

“Like everything.”

“Including parenthood?”

“Including parenthood,” she says, through tired eyes.

* * * * *

I tell the story of Suse’s ectopic, its protracted course, and the difficulties since.  I talk about the problems with the saliva test, the basal body temperatures, the mittelschmerz, and, well, with everything.

“So I guess we need to look at the tube, right?  To see that it’s functioning?”  She raises her eyebrows like she’s expecting an answer.

“I guess so,” says Suse.

“Otherwise there could well be a dilated tube that is not functioning.  And if that’s the case, we could be losing valuable time, right?”

I look across at Suse.  Her mouth is slightly open as she looks at me.  I know that look;  a shock at hearing someone verbalise those very concerns she has quashed for so many months, and the relief of it.  All in the same bite.

“Yes,” Suse finally says, with conviction.

“And we could do a die-test, which outlines the tubes, but that can sometimes miss things.  We can’t necessarily rule out adhesions or dilated tubes with that, and if we see anything, we’d need to do the laparoscopy anyway.  By going straight to laparoscopy, we’ll get a good look at everything.  And if there’s anything wrong, we can fix it at the time.  What do you think?”

Suse pauses for a moment, before nodding.  “I want to know what’s going on.  I need to know that everything looks okay.”

“Mark? What do you think?”

I look across at Suse, closing my eyes for a moment.  “I’m far less keen on surgery.”  She looks back at me.  “But I know how much stress has been in all of this, and how much that can affect fertility.”  I take Suse’s hand.  “If this will give you peace of mind, then…go for it.”

“And if we see anything, we can sort it out then and there,” continues Dr. Fleischer.  “How does next Tuesday sound?”

Suse and I look at each other again, trying to compute.  “Anyway,” she continues, “while you have a think about it, why don’t we do an internal ultrasound to check out your ovaries?”

* * * * *

“I know you’re not keen, honey, but it I think she knows what she’s doing.”

“Clearly she knows what she’s doing.  The woman oozes self-assuredness through every one of her freckles.”  We hold hands as we walk.

“I just feel so relieved.  Relieved that someone is doing something here.”  She pauses.  “I’m kind of in shock.  I was half-expecting her to tell me to stop being so stupid like everyone else has.  And now I’m having surgery in a week.”  We continue strolling down the street.  “And already I know that I have enough follicles from the ultrasound, that my ovaries are good, that I shouldn’t be on progesterone because I’ve had an ectopic, and now this.  That woman knows a lot.”

“Yes.  She knows a lot.”  We walk some more.  “She should, hon, she’s a fertility specialist.”

“Yeah, and so should Kath, because she’s an Obstetrician.   And so should my GP who’s had me on the progesterone that could have caused this whole thing from the start.  And so should every other fucker that’s given me poor advice!  But they don’t.  And she does!  This woman knows her shit.  She knows her shit and she backs herself.  She sees a problem and tries to sort it out, unlike every other doctor who’s told me to close my trap, stop worrying and get on with it.  And above all, stop worrying!  Everyone tells me to stop worrying!  But none of them have had an ectopic go on in their own body that has bled for six weeks!  None of them have had to go through that!  None of them!”

Suse stops for a second, and looks at me.  “I need to know that my tube is okay, Mark.  Because I don’t know what I would do if I have another ectopic.”  She drops one of my hands, and we keep walking.

“I just don’t know what I would do,” she whispers, almost to herself.

* * * * *

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

Sunday 28th March 2010

Gestation: 26 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I turn to Suse and look at her, ready to speak.  She looks back expectantly.

“What is it?”

I pause for a moment.

“Can you check your health insurance…”  I stop again.

“What for?”

“To see that we’re covered for IVF.”

It’s a touchy subject this one.  There’s no good way of bringing it up.  At present, Suse and I still have our singles policies from before we were married.  And, as the insurance gods have deemed, it’s more expensive for us to combine our cover than it is to keep them separate.

That is, until we get pregnant.

She goes quiet.  “You think that we’re not going to get pregnant, don’t you?”

“No, Suse.  It’s not that at all.”

“Then why are you asking this?”

“Because it’s insurance.  If we’re paying $100 a month, we may as well know that we’re covered.”

“But if you think we need to be covered, then you think we might not get pregnant.”

I get up, exasperated.

“Yes, it’s a possibility.  Absolutely, it’s a possibility.  That’s why we have insurance,” I say with emphasis.  “I don’t plan on the house burning down, but we have house insurance.  I don’t plan on writing my car off either.  But it’s a possibility.  So we have insurance.”

I walk down the hall, before coming back into the room.

“I even have income protection, in case I become a quadriplegic.  Do I think that’s going to happen?  Absolutely not.  Do I have insurance?  Absolutely.”

But this is different.

This is about a very core desire.

This is about having a family.

And consequently – whether I like it or not – it’s got a whole lot more layers of complexity.  More than running my car into a pole.  Way more than our house burning down.  More even than becoming a quadriplegic.

Somehow, strangely, this is way worse.

* * * * *

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

Sunday 21st February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I roll over, my eyes cracking as they open, sleep caked around the edges.  I am hot and dry, my head swimming with that weird lethargy following a big night;  this time after one of work, not play.

“Morning, love,” I croak.

“Morning.”

Suse hugs me tight, letting out a sigh.

“I did a pregnancy test this morning, and it was negative.”

I let it sit for a moment, landing on earth.

“Are you due to check already?”

“No, it’s still four days away.  But often they’re positive by now.”

“And often they aren’t,” I say.

We lie for another moment.

“I’m scared, honey.”  Suse pauses.  “If we’re not pregnant this time, then next month is the left ovary.  The dodgy one,” she adds.  For extra effect.

“Uh huh.”

There’s nothing to say.

I hold her as we lie there in silence.

* * * * *

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

Tuesday 12th January 2010

Gestation: 15 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

“How long can sperm live?”

I look up from my book, from my side of the bed.  There is Suse, bent forward in pain, grabbing at her left side.

The right-sided pain two days ago – that triggered our frantic post-vaccuming passion – was something else altogether.

This is real ovulation pain.

On the left.

The wonky old left.  The ectopic left.

Whoops.

I pick up my phone, flicking to the internet.  I google ‘how long can sperm live?’, figuring a bunch of internet mums trump my medical school memory.

It’s not a question I get asked much in Paediatrics.

I read for a moment.  Suse watches me the whole time, her worried eyes boring into the side of my head.  I skip past several sources stating that sperm can live for up to seven days, before settling on a more comforting one.

“This one says that, on average, they’ll live for one to two days, and that it depends on your vaginal milieu.”  I turn to her.  “I reckon your milieu isn’t up for much right now.  You’ll have low fertilisation milieu, Suse.”  I pause.  “You’re a milieu miles from anything to worry about.”

I pull a little monkey face.  It’s a momentary diversion, to remind her that the man she married is an idiot.

It’s a tactic I like to employ when I’ve got nothing else to offer.

“I need Panadol,” she says.

She sighs as she gets up, trudging from the room.  She returns a minute later.  She puts a hand to her forehead, again sighing heavily as she lies down, the other hand holding her left side.

“It’ll be okay,” I say.

“It’ll be okay?  With pain like this?” I resist the urge to pull the face again.  Like I said, I’m struggling here.  “This isn’t okay, Mark.  This isn’t normal.  And I have sperm in me.  Your live sperm.  And they’re all over here on the left hand side.  Right here,” she says, pointing.  “Right up around the blockage.”

“What blockage?”

She turns to me.

“The acupuncturist said I have a blockage.”

She turns from me.  We lie in silence for a couple of minutes.  Both staring at the ceiling.

“He means an energy blockage, honey,” I say finally.  “A meridian blockage.  Not an actual physical blockage.”

“Feels like a blockage.”

Suse turns out the light, her hand still on her forehead.

In the dark, the sighing continues.

* * * * *

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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 24, 2010 10:00 am

Sunday 20th December 2009

Gestation: 12 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I speak too soon.

Tonight, we’ve invited Libby and Jack over.  It’s hard to believe, but they’re our first real guests since this whole thing began.  We’ve been in this house for six weeks without any one visiting other than our in-laws.

Anyone would think there’d been a death in the family.

For an hour before they arrive, we bustle around.  I set the table while Suse cooks.  I organise drinks while she clears things up.  We chatter away, but she is clearly distracted.

“Are you okay, love?” I finally say.

“Sure,” she replies, without looking up.  “It’s just that… this is the first time I’ll see any of my pregnant contemporaries since this all began.”

A wiser man would have seen it at that point.

But firstly:  Sometimes you just don’t want to look.

And secondly:  I’ve never, ever claimed to be wise.

* * * * *

We finish preparations, making the place spotless, like houseproud newlyweds.  Indeed, with our new home and lack of parity, we could pass as such.  We’re ready.  And so, we tend to the garden together.

This really must be love.

Forty-five minutes later, Jack and Libby arrive.  Fletch stands between them, a hand in each of his parent’s palms, tentatively swaying from side to side.  All three of them look exhausted, but the winner in this game is definitely Libby.  Her tiny frame, already burdened by milk-laden breasts, is further unbalanced by a sixteen-week bump that seems to protrude almost horizontally.

“Hey,” they say in unison, in the same flat tone.  Fletch wobbles between them.

“Hey,” we return.  We exchange hugs, trying not to stand on Fletch as we do.

“He’s being very quiet,” I say with surprise.

“This is the only break we get,” Libby says.  “When he’s just woken up.  A short, sweet respite,” she sing-songs, looking down at him.  I realise that I am staring at Libby, trying to understand how it is that she is still standing.  The physics of it just don’t add up.

We head inside.  Fletch looks at us as we talk, gradually warming up.  We all stand around him, watching the centre of their universe, as he thaws before our eyes.  Very quickly, he begins to look around, to notice, to peer, and then explore.  And then to walk, then run, then fall, then cry.  And then get up again.  Then bump once more, then squeal, then dribble, then cry.  And then finally smile.

Repeat ten times.

This is their life.

Within moments, he is back outside, and disappearing out of sight.   We follow him around the corner to find him, his eyes lit up, holding the garden rake.  Somehow, his boy-radar honed in on the heaviest, most dangerous garden tool he could find, and has made it his toy of the day.  Fletch journeys back and forth to visit it, over the next half hour.  Suse accompanies him as he does, finally earning an outstretched hand, as the adult most willing to comply to his rake fetish.

Eventually, Libby coaxes him back inside.  In here, there is nothing nearly as interesting as gardening implements.  And again, within seconds, he has disappeared.

“Where did he go?” Libby asks, a nanosecond having passed since we last saw him.  We all follow the scent, where we find him, in the bathroom, his thumb jammed in the hinge of the shower door.  There Fletch stands, in a silent, breathless, agonised vigil.  Jack leans down, unbending the hinge, extricating his son.  But the unbending motion causes a repeat squeeze, reiterating the lesson.

Fletch’s eyes bulge, his face blotched white, his mouth open wide, like one of those clowns you put ping pong balls in.  Tears stream down his face, sweat beads on his forehead, as he completes his education in new types of agony.

Those silent seconds pass, all seven of them, before he finds his lungs.  His breath holding done, he lets out an almighty squeal, our collective mass doing nothing to blunt the sound.  Libby bends down, threatening to topple over directly onto her pregnant belly, but again, she somehow manages to defy gravity.  She takes Fletch into her arms, and he gratefully buries his head into her shoulder.

“Oh, Fletch,” she says, sighing in sympathy, “again this week, darling boy?”

“What’s that?”

“He squashed his finger in a shower door last week too,” Jack says lethargically.  “It’s like his kryptonite.”

“Oh, thank God,” Suse says, “I mean, I’m sorry…  I mean, I was feeling awful that we hadn’t child-proofed the house.”

“You can’t Fletch-proof a house,” Libby says, shaking her head.  “There’s no way.  Absolutely no way.”

We all look at Fletch, shaking his head as he wails;  his puffy, bulging eyes streaming.  He sticks his finger into his mouth to suck it, to only learn that it makes things worse.  As his pain doubles, again his wailing becomes a breathless, airless squeal.

One of childhood innocence lost.

* * * * *

Fletch falls into a kind of coma, and for a couple of hours, we are able to conduct something resembling a conversation.  We eat take-away, while Suse concocts overly-strong gin and tonics for the three non-pregnant people.

Within a couple of hours, Libby is beginning to flag.  At 9.17pm.  Meantime, Jack is just starting to fire up.  For years, through our halcyon days, Jack and I would wind up as Libby readied for sleep.

Parenthood doesn’t change everything.

They pack up, and carefully cradling Fletch, make their escape without him waking.  As they leave, Jack puts his hand on my shoulder.

“I know you guys have had a rough period.  A really rough time,” he says.  “But don’t forget what it is to be together, just the two of you.  Try to cherish this time, if you can.  Because once you have kids, you can’t just push them back in.  There is no return policy.”

I smile, looking up at my tall, red headed friend.

“Thanks, Jack,” I say, hugging him.  “But you know how it goes.  We all want what we don’t have.”

* * * * *

We bid our friends farewell.   We clear up, before settling down to Season Four of ‘Entourage’.  Right now, we’re hooked.  And we can often lock in three or four episodes in a night.  But tonight, things are different.  By the second episode, as I look at Suse, I see a decidedly sad face staring blankly at the screen.

I press pause.

“What’s up, hon?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replies.

“Really?”

I am met with the eyes.  The ones that say:

- Don’t question.

- Don’t try to reason

- Don’t try to understand

- And don’t push it.

So, I do none of the above.

I press play, and we watch in silence.

* * * * *

We get through three episodes before turning in.  Our ablutions complete, we move wordlessly to bed, where the game continues.  I read, while Suse bores a hole through the roof with her eyes.

And then, it happens.

In a matter of moments, her anger merges into soft grief, as she lets go, falling into my arms.  Her tense, taught muscles relent and release.

“How am I ever going to make it through Christmas day surrounded by your pregnant sisters?” she manages to whisper.

She begins to take breaths, deep breaths, sighing heavily.  It is her crying prequel.  Almost in questioning, almost a little confused.  Almost asking permission.

The sighs continue, on and on.  I stroke her long hair, cradling her close.  They increase in size, in emotion, in feeling;  a crescendo over minutes.

“Let it out, honey,” I finally say.  “Let it out.”

And with that she does.  She releases it all.  The tears come out, big and loud.  Like welts that need lancing.

She cries deep, and full, and bruised, and hurt.  She bawls, burying her head harder into my shoulder, her sweat and tears and snot soaking sweetly into my shirt.

The hurt, and the anger, and the unfairness of it all spills out.  The disappointment and loneliness and wrath seeps straight in.  For leaving her to this, for letting this happen to her, for keeping her from having what she so desperately wants.

And I hold her.  I don’t try to fix.  I don’t attempt to solve.

I just lie there.

Holding her.

* * * * *

Today, I rang the pathology place, and found out that the Beta-HCG was less than one.  Less than one.  It doesn’t get any lower than this.

It doesn’t get any lower than this.

* * * * *

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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.

* * * * *