Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, September 6, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 4th September 2010

One year ago.

“The phone’s ringing, honey!”

I run into the lounge room, where I find Suse holding the phone like it’s a bomb.  After a moment, she depresses the trigger.

“Hello, Susan speaking.”

“Hi, it’s Shelley here.  From Monash IVF,” she qualifies, like we haven’t been waiting for two hours for this very call.

“Hi Shelley,” we say together, the tension pluckable.

“Well, I’ve got some great news.”  Suse and I look at each other.  “All three of your eggs have fertilised.”

“Really?” Suse asks, grabbing my arm tightly.

“So, now you just need to come back at 2.10pm on Monday, and the implant will happen at three.  You’ll need a full bladder, but not too full.  So I advise that you go to the loo before coming in, and take a bottle of water and start drinking it here.  And then you’ll start the progesterone gel on Monday night.”

She stops.

There is a void.

We’re both mute.  Suse continues to grip my arm.  “Hello?”

“All three fertilised?” I hear myself asking.

“Correct.”

“That’s a pretty good result overall, isn’t it?”

“That’s a great result overall,” she corrects.  It’s the first time I’ve heard her genuinely animated.  Ever.  “To put it into perspective, I’ve just come off a call to another woman who had sixteen eggs collected and only two of them fertilised.  Three out of three is a fantastic result.”

Suse’s hand grips ever tighter.

“And so, I guess, from here, what should we expect on Monday?” I ask, my head swimming.

“Sorry?”

“I mean I don’t want to be pessimistic, but I want to be realistic.  Should we expect one of them left?  Or two?”

“Well, I’d be hoping there’d be at least two on Monday,” she says.

“Okay, okay, that’s good.  I mean…we’re just…we’ve just had a bit of a rough road, and this is all just a bit surreal.  There’s been a few set backs along the way.”

“That’s IVF,” she says plainly.

“Yes.”

“And this is a great result.”

“It’s quality, not quantity,” I chime, as cheesy as a box of Twisties.

“Exactly.  And then on Monday, after the implantation, we can talk about what to do with the spare ones with refreezing.”

Spare ones?

Two hours ago, I’d been considering that there might be none.  And now we’re talking about spares.

“Of course.  Of course.  We’ll talk about that with them on Monday,” says Suse, keeping it together.  “Thank you so much, Shelley.”

“Yes, well,” Shelley says, a little uneasy in this emotionally-charged territory.  “Good luck with the transfer on Monday.”

We hang up the phone, and it drops to the floor with a clack.  We rise in embrace, hugging each other, jumping up and down, in an adult version of ring-a-ring-a-rosy.

We bounce, and we bounce, and we bounce.

“Oh my God!” Suse says, grabbing my face.

“I know!”

“One hundred per cent!”

“I know!”

All morning I’d been imagining three fertilised eggs.  I knew that there might be none, but I’d just kept closing my eyes, and seeing the dish, and seeing all three.

“Do you think they’ll let us visit them?”

“Not yet, honey,” Suse says, “you’ve got to wait till they’re Day Three before they make it to the nursery.”

We both laugh, like dizzy little kids, so hopeful, yet still hardly daring to wish.

Three embryos.

One hundred percent.

Wow.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, July 25, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 24th July 2010

One year ago.

“My boobs are really sore at the moment,” Suse says, turning to me.

“Really?” I say.  She pushes them with her hands, to confirm.

“Yeah.  Really sore.”

Half an hour later, she calls from the bathroom.

“I’ve been getting these little pimples on my nose.”

I walk around the corner to look.

“Where?”

“Just here.”

I look at the non-descript lumps, barely visible on the nare of her nose.  “I never get pimples there.  And now I’ve got an outbreak.”

“Well, there you go,” I say taking her into a hug.

I have no interest in my wife’s pimples.  I have a lot of interest in her breasts, I’ll admit that.  But I have no interest in her pimples.

But this isn’t about pimples.  Or breasts.  This is about something all together.

But neither of us is willing to say it out loud.

So instead, we imagine.

We know there will be a pregnancy test in a few days.

And for the moment, we just imagine.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, July 15, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 9th July 2010

One year ago.

“So how are things going?”

I look at Suse, and she raises her eyebrows, awaiting a response.

“Really great,” I say.  “Really great.  We’ve come back from Fiji, recharged and relaxed.  It’s huge relief, really.  I feel like we’ve re-found the love.”

I look at June.  Her expression doesn’t change.

“You don’t buy it?” I ask.

“No, not at all,” she says, smiling kindly, as a wise mentor would.  “It’s just that last time you were in here, you were tearing shreds off each other.  Getting into little eddies of frustration and blame. “

She looks at me and smiles.  “That’s okay, though,” she says, leaning forward to touch me on the knee.  “That’s okay.  That’s what relationships are.  They have ups and downs.  You’re in an up, right now, which is great.  I just want to know how you’re next going to deal with it when you’re down.”

I look across at Suse, feeling strangely disappointed.

“Hey, don’t look defeated.  Everyone has these patterns in their relationships.  At least you’re aware that there is a pattern.  At least you’re aware,” she repeats, tapping my leg.  “Most people aren’t even aware.”

Okay.  Okay.  At least we’re aware.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

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

Saturday 3rd July 2010

One year ago.

We have lunch with my older brother and his wife, and then dinner with my younger brother and his wife.  Things have settled down for them both – as much as it can with a baby and a toddler.  Tim’s kids are now seven weeks and 19 months old;  Nick’s kids are five weeks and 22 months old.

We tell them about IVF.

They are sad, and thrown, and – like most people who love us – don’t really know what to say.

“We found out about it all just before you were due,” Suse says, to both couples, at opposite ends of the day.  “We just didn’t want to rain on your parade.  And we needed a little time to get our heads around it.”

We sit there and watch as they digest.

We must have seen thirty people react to the news by now, and I’ve realised that the reaction people have is a direct fraction of your own, dependent on their emotional proximity.  Strangers hear the news with interest, friends show concern, and, well, family is family.  They take it pretty hard, and yet, it remains as a fraction of how we took it.

“It’s okay,” we say, “it really is.  We’ve made our peace with it.  And we know that it still might be a long road.”

They look plaintive and guilty.  When you’ve just completed your own family, it’s hard not to feel for the guys struggling to start theirs.  Still, strangely, it’s okay.  These are not just words.  It’s going to be hard, but we are making our peace with it.

But the best reaction to the whole news, is to hearing that we need a Police Check.  While everyone is outraged – everyone is universally appalled when they learn this fact – the kicker comes from my Texan sister-in-law.

She looks at me, wide eyed, mouth open, and says:

“You need a Police Check to be allowed to have kids?  Un-fucking-believable.”

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, June 28, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 26th June 2010

Gestation: 39 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

We sit there at dinner, on this, our last night in Fiji.  Suse and I lean into each other, hugging our beers.

“You know, I really want to read your diary.”

“I know you do, honey,” I say, bristling slightly.

“So why haven’t you sent it through yet?”

I stop for a moment, thinking.

“Because… Because it’s my therapy, I guess.  Writing about all of this has been my therapy.  And because it’s pretty harsh, in places.  In places, I’ve just written exactly what was on my mind.”

“Well, there you go.  I guess I’ll get a taste of my own medicine, won’t I?”

We both laugh.

“I guess I haven’t had the chance to edit it back yet.”

“I don’t think you want to, honey,” she says thoughtfully.  “I think that’s going to be the strength of it.  It’s raw.  That it’s exactly what it is.  This is your experience.  A man’s experience of the whole IVF game.  You started it before you knew what was going to happen, and you continued it, bleeding onto the page at every step.  We’d get shit news, and you’d go straight in to the computer and begin to write.  I think that it’s going to be a really important book.  I think it’s going to help a lot of men.”

“Really?”
“Guys don’t say what they’re thinking.  Guys don’t sit around in groups, talking about what’s going on for them.  A lot of guys – most of whom I managed to go out with before you – are emotional retards.”

I nod in agreement. “So what makes me any different from all of the other emotional retards?’

“Nothing honey,” she says, smiling cheekily, “and that’s the point.  You’re just like all other men.  Which is exactly why they’ll want to read it.  To realise that they’re not the only one struggling with the whole thing.”  She leans in close.  “You wrote about it as it happened.  I know the story so far, and it’s a ripper.  They’ll want to know.  People will want to read it.  Hell, I want to read it.  That’s why I’ve been bugging you to send it to me this whole time.”

I sigh, leaning back.  I take a sip.  “Okay, okay.  I’ll send it to you.”

“I’d love that.  I’d really love that,” she says, cradling my hand in hers.

“And what about you then?  Is there anything I should do to understand your experience any better?”

“Oh, shit honey,” she replies, sitting back in her chair.  “I’m a woman.  You don’t need to read a book I’ve written to let you know how I’m feeling.  Just look at my face.”

* * * * *

Comments (0)

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

Monday 21st June 2010

Gestation: 38 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

We sit there, in the back of the speedboat, drinking in the afternoon sun.  As we head out towards the coral reef we wind our way along the waterline, passing the island’s main resort – twenty times the size of the one at which we’re staying.

As the boat picks up speed, we pass a ten-year-old boy.  One arm is waving, the other is pushing straight down into the water, holding something under.  His mother, without even looking, yells something incomprehensible between drags on her cigarette.  With that, his arm goes slack, and a smaller boy comes up gasping, arms flailing like a stabbed octopus.  Again, without looking, we hear the mother shriek:

“Good boy, Jy-dyn.  Good boy.”  I’m don’t know the spelling, or whether the boys were named Jy and Dyn.  I can only guess.

Jy looks pissed.

Dyn just looks waterlogged.

I look back at Suse, a grin across her face, before noticing the couple facing us, shaking their heads, the man mock-wiping at his brow.

“We left our little blighters back in Queensland with their Victorian aunt,” say the smiley man, just portly enough to lend his face an inviting quality.  “They love her, and she loves them.  We paid for her plane ticket.  And she pays us back many, many times over.”  His wife chuckles, never taking her eyes off her feet.  Her eyes are grey, deep bags under each.  She looks like Dyn would if Jy repeated his tricks for twenty-four hours straight.

“Happy to be away?” I ask.  She nods deeply.

“Well, hang on,” says the husband, “don’t get us wrong.  Have you got kids?”

“No, we haven’t,” I say, jumping in quickly.  “And we appreciate this time while we don’t have them yet.”

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” he continues, championing the cause.  “I love my kids.  In fact, having them was the single most amazing and life-changing thing we ever did.  Wasn’t it, Darl?” he asks, without waiting for a reply. “Kids bring a life to you that you just can’t imagine until you have them.  It is absolutely amazing.  No – in fact, I’d say it’s magical.  Absolutely magical.”  He stops for a moment.  “You guys should consider it.  You really should.  Don’t be put off by what we say.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t,” I say.  “We will.  When the time’s right,” I finish, completing the lie.

Suse and I smile, and look out to sea in unison, our body language sealing the conversation dead in its tracks.

Before the virtues of family life can be extolled any more.

* * * * *

Four hours later, we are in the restaurant, looking out over the palm-scattered lawn to the beach beyond.  The tropical breeze brushes against our faces as we sit by the light of the torch, like we’re on the luxury couple’s honeymoon-version of ‘Survivor’.

Through the darkness emerges the smilingly pudgy guy.

“How are you, guys?”

“Great,” I say, resisting the urge to lean over and pinch his cheeks.

“Look.  I’m sorry about what I said to you before,” he says apologetically.  “The second we were on our own, Michelle went through me.  She said: ‘It may have been magical for you, but it wasn’t for me.  For me, it was bloody hard work.  I didn’t sleep right for years.’   So I’m sorry.  When I said they were magical, I really should have said that they are bloody hard work.  That’s what I really meant.  Not magical.  Hard work.  That’s what I should have said.  So sorry about that.”

He stops, looking slightly confused, as if trying to remember a second part to his message;  one that has since flown the coop.  “There was something else,” he mutters.

Suse and I look at each other and smile, acknowledging that thing which Michelle saw that her husband did not.  There’s something in the sisterhood – maybe in the way that Suse and I sat in the boat, maybe our reactions, maybe the whiff of parental pheromones leaking out of our every pore – I don’t know.  But there was something that caused her to see.  To see the elephant in the room.  To understand where we are in our plight.  And as the brains behind the mouth, to demand a public broadcast of the not-so-pleasant side of the equation.  If even just to take the sting out of the barb, just a little.

The man continues to stand for a moment, squirming in his undies, his palms finally rising up in contrition.

“Nope.  It’s gone,” he says, almost to himself.

“That’s okay,” Suse says, “we’re under no delusions.  And like we said, when the time comes, we’ll be in for as much of a shock as anyone is, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says, benignly.  “Anyway, I just didn’t want to… you know… My big mouth, and all that.  I just wanted you to… you know.”

“Thanks, mate,” I say.

He turns, a slight furrow on his brow, and walks away.  He falters on his fourth step, like he’s about to turn and add something, before deciding better.  As he disappears into the blackness of the night, he scratches as the back of his rich brown hair, formulating his story, ready to pitch to his wife, about just how little he’d managed to fluff his meaningful, yet unnecessary apology.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

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

Thursday 3rd June 2010

Gestation: 35 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

“I had a dream about having a baby,” Suse says.  My eyes leave the traffic as I turn to look at her.  She looks back.  Her face is filled with hope.  Her eyes are light, and she is smiling.  “And every time I breast fed her, she got bigger.”

“How old was she by the time you woke up?”

“She was still a baby.   Just a really big one.”

“Okay.  You didn’t end up with a grandpa baby?”

“Nup.  A normal baby.  Just a big one.  And she was a girl, not a boy.”

“Great.”

“This is a big thing for me,” she says, touching my hand.  “You get that I’ve never actually had a dream like that before?  We’re actually going to have a baby.”

“I know, honey,” I say.   I put my foot on the pedal, catching an amber light.

“I know you’ve known for ever,” she says, sighing.  “But this is a big thing for me.  A really big thing.  It’s a big break – that I actually believe this will happen.   That we’re actually going to get pregnant.”

The traffic slows to a halt, as someone reverses directly in front of us.  We stop, while an elderly lady, her hair still flat from sleep and hairspray, tries to see over the dash.  I can just make out the top of her head above the seat.

“You know that we’ve still got a two in three chance of not having an ectopic?” she says.  I reach across, taking her hand in a squeeze.

“You’ve become my glass half-full wife, have you?”

“Two-thirds full.”

“I’ve only ever heard you tell me how it’s one-third empty.”

“And, what’s more… We might even get pregnant naturally.  I get a feeling that it’s going to happen before we need to start IVF.”

The car in front stops dead.  The old woman fiddles with the gearstick, trying to wrestle it into first.  She fails.

“What prompted all of this?”

“Dunno.  I’ve just had a change in my outlook, I guess,” she says simply.

Someone toots.  The car remains stuck.  Another person hits their horn in frustration.  I hear someone yell.

And all I can do is smile.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, May 25, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 28th May 2010

Gestation: 35 weeks

One year ago.

I talk to Libby.

They had a girl.  Lana.

So, both of my brothers and their wives, and now Libby and Jack.  All of them have had their second child in the last three weeks.

And all have now got themselves a perfect pigeon pair.

They all got the perfect nuclear family.

Five weeks ahead of when we would have had our first.

Good for them.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, May 23, 2011 2:36 pm

Monday 24th May 2010

Gestation: 34 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

I walk into the room.

“Hey, bro!” says my Texan sister-in-law from the bed.  My younger brother stands to her right, a proud glow across his face.  “Come over and say ‘Hi’ to your new nephew!”

I close the door quietly, and walk over.  There wrapped in blankets, in her arms, is another perfect bundle.  This time, a boy.

“You’re the first one here again!” she continues.

“I guess that’s the advantage of working at a hospital eight-hundred metres up the road.”  They both laugh, happy and exhausted.  The fading evening light falls on the street outside.  There is a hiss from the oxygen tank on the wall, breaking the silence of this room;  one that, only hours earlier, was nowhere near this quiet.

“You want a hold?” says my sister, her voice hoarse.

“Sure.”  I take him from her, wrapped loosely in a blanket, his feet threatening to poke out.

“The Paediatrician wrapped him like that,” she adds.

“Right.  I understand why he’s almost falling out of his blanket then.  You need a midwife to wrap properly.”

“No shit,” she says, “you should’a seen the midwife baby whisperer before – wrapped him and tapped him to sleep after he’d been wailing away for the first six hours.”

“A bit of a change from last time?”

They look at each other and smile in the way that second time parents do.  It’s something unmistakable – a bond, a shared experience known only to them;  the fear of the untrodden path, and the sheer joy of taking those steps in the upbringing of their first child.  This look holds a mix of emotions all at once – love and knowing, anticipation and trepidation, lethargy and excitement, at choosing to take on this monumental assignment.  All over again.

I’ve seen this look with my older brother, just two weeks ago, and now again with my younger brother.

“After about the fifth hour, we looked at each other,” says my brother, “and wondered what we’d done.”

“Yep,” says my sister, “until the baby whisperer came in, and it’s been all good since then.”

I look down at my sleeping nephew in my arms.  He lies there, quietly slumbering.  He takes a deep breath, sighing, before settling deeper into my arms.

And my heart gently breaks.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, May 13, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 13th May 2010

Gestation: 32 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

“Would you like a hold?”

I look at my sister-in-law, her face full and beaming, as she offers forward my new niece.

“I’d love to,” I hear myself say.

I take the newborn in my arms, and hold her.  She snuggles in, her oversized jumpsuit losing her arms somewhere in there.  It is pink, and yet her cherub face is even pinker.  She nuzzles in, her mouthing reflex starting, before stopping.  She takes a deep sigh, and settles into my arms, quiet as anything. Her breathing is rapid, yet peaceful.  She is warm and soft;  her skin perfectly smooth.

I look across at my brother and sister-in-law.  Their faces are painted in the expression of ecstasy.  Not ripping, tearing, excitable ecstasy.  Happy, contented, exhausted ecstasy.

And their eyes remain fixed on their new daughter.

I want one of these.

* * * * *