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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, July 27, 2011 10:00 am

Wednesday 28th July 2010

One year ago.

I sit in the pub, looking across the table.

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

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Absolutely.”

“I thought you started IVF pretty early?”

“Nah.  Fuck no.”

“What did you try before that?”

“All sorts of shit.  Including turkey basters.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“I never knew that.”

“You never asked.”

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

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

“Four harvests?  Really?”

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

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

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

“Yep.”

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

I sigh, taking another sip.

“So how many weeks are you now?”

“Bel’s thirty-nine weeks today.”

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

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

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

I look back across at Dan.

“Where are you working at the moment?”

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

“Will you be there next week?”

“Yep.”

“Really.  What days?”

“Tomorrow until next Tuesday.  Why?”

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

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

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

“Most of them, yeah.”

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

“Wank into a cup?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure did.”  He takes another sip.

“So what’d you get?”

“Sorry?”

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

“What was my count?”

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

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

“Bullshit,” he says quickly.

“No.  No, I think it was.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why?  What was yours?”

“Not telling.”

He takes another sip.  We all do.

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

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

* * * * *

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

Tuesday 20th July 2010

One year ago.

I leap up the escalator, two steps at a time, checking my watch as I do.

It’s 4.57pm.

I’ve been running down Chapel Street for the last twelve minutes, having parked my car dangerously up on the curve, a couple of kilometres back, way back past the tram, and the stream of peak hour traffic snaking behind.

The doors slide open, allowing me entry into the sterile world that is Medicare.  Five women sit behind desks, each staring forward, turning their heads from side to side, waiting for someone to place ping-pong balls in their mouths.  I take a ticket from the wheel, like I’m about to order ham, and I wait.

None of them even pretend to look busy.

* * * * *

I stare up at the red lights on the wall, waiting for it to tick over to mine.  F903.  F904.  F905.  There’s no one else in the whole office.  F906.  They all stare forward, doing nothing.

‘F907.  Counter 2B.’

I look around, trying to locate 2B.  There are five counters.  And I’m looking for 2B.

“Hello?”

“Ah, hello,” I say.  “You must me 2B.”

“Yes.”

“I’m here for my refund.”

She looks at me, breathing deeply, like it’s all she can do to stop herself from picking up her staple gun and flinging it directly at my head.  Eventually she holds out a hand, fingers snapping for the form.  I hand it over.

She stares at it, before frowning.

“That’s funny.”

“It wasn’t all that funny, really.”

She looks at me before rolling her eyes.  “No, I mean.  It’s a 20H.  It’s funny.”

“And like I said, it really wasn’t that funny.”

“What do you mean?”

I raise my eyebrows saying nothing, and she looks back at the A4 sheet.  I watch as her pupils dance across the page.  A second later, her eyelids widen, and then she flashes me a glance.  She blushes.

“A 20F is something…”

“…No sir, it was my fault.  I… I didn’t see what it was…  I mean, I didn’t…”

“You hadn’t registered the test.  For the sample.”

“I… I guess not.”

She tries focusing on the screen, like it’s the first time she’s ever seen the green and black display.  She punches numbers erratically, her eyes glazing over as she goes a shade of white.

It’s like some new form of seizure.

Petit Wank Epilepsy.

* * * * *

Eventually, she takes the piece of paper, filing it in a draw at the bottom that hasn’t been opened all day.  She then hands me the cash, and a docket, being careful not to make contact with my hands.

“Will that be all?”

“Can I have my Medicare form back?”

“You’ve got your docket now,” she says, pointing with hands kept close to her body.

“Can I have a copy?”

“What for?  You’ve got your docket.”

I look back down at my hand, receipt sitting crumpled under the coins and notes.

“I guess I like to keep a record.”

“Docket,” she repeats, her whole body shrinking away.

Lepers are treated with more respect.

I throw the coins into the other hand, freeing up my right.  And I reach over, shaking her hand vigorously.

“Thanks very much.”

I turn, and exactly 5.04pm, I walk out of the door of Medicare.

And I guess that about sums it up.  Two weeks ago, I handed a cup to a woman wearing purple gloves.

And now, all I have as proof is a hand full of change and a docket.

* * * * *

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

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

I try to do the right thing.

For the sake of Cheryl, and the lab, and everyone else who makes the rules, I go lube-free.  Not even saliva.  I watch mediocre, boring porn.  I flick through the magazines, each time finding a ripped tab where a good bit was likely to have been.  The only magazine intact is “MILFs in Heat”, which has been left untouched for good reason.  I find myself looking around the room, trying not to imagine the spills that have occurred already this morning, let alone this week.  It’s a fucking Friday.  Although nothing looks perceptibly dirty, I can’t help imagining the cleaners coming in on Saturdays.

If this sounds gross, it’s because it is.

At the seventeen-minute mark, I finish.  As I do, I hear Cheryl in my head, practically yelling: “Make sure you don’t spill any!  There’s a lot of sperm in the first bit!”  That alone is enough to make me go limp.  In every sense of the word.

I’m lost for words as to describing the experience.  To bring yourself to the point of climax, only to stop in the seconds before, stick the end of your dick in a clear plastic container that it barely fits, and then wait, is kind of like…  sticking your dick in a clear plastic container and waiting.  It’s like… It’s like going on a roller coaster ride, and in the seconds before the last rush, the last descent before home, knocking yourself unconscious, and then expecting to enjoy it.  No then expecting to remember it.  No, then expecting to sit a maths test.

No, no it’s not.  It’s like sticking your dick in a clear plastic container and waiting.  It’s like nothing else.  It sucks.  I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed masturbation less in my entire life.

I bring the container up to eye level, examining the milky material.  Having never before ejaculated into a container, I have nothing to compare it against.  But I get a creeping feeling.  Something’s not quite right.  It’s too clear.  It’s…

I stop for a second, before realising with horror – that I’m not done.

There’s more to go.

* * * * *

I look down at my bruised and battered penis, chafe marks already present.  As a circumcised male, I seriously do not understand why anyone would masturbate without lubricant.  It’s like shampooing your hair against concrete.  Why the fuck would anyone – anyone - rub their hair against concrete, for even a minute, let alone seventeen minutes?

That’s my point.

I look at the screen, by now another bored woman, looking even more bored than the last.  It’s like a bore competition.  The magazines are crap.  All of them.  I can’t do this like this.

So I relent.  I use saliva.  I look at the bored women, but I use saliva.  I flick through the mags, and I use saliva.  And then I stop with the porn.  I think of being anywhere other than in the wank room.  And honestly, I close my eyes and I think of my wife.  I think of my wife, with me, at home, in our own home.  I think of my wife.

You give me MILFs on heat?  Seriously?  Have you seen my wife?

And that does the trick.  Six minutes later, that does the trick.  After twenty-three minutes, I’m done.  I’m over.  Again, I have to knock myself unconscious at the top of the roller coaster, waiting for it to finish without any further help.  But I think, mostly, I am done.  I am done.  I am finished.  But I am certainly not satisfied.

I look down to see my shrivelled and bruised penis, having not been in such bad nick for twenty-two years.  I consider calling my Dad.

But I don’t.  Instead, I clean up as quickly as I can, and I exit.

Suse is sitting there, waiting.  Her look changes to concern when she sees me.

“Thank you Cheryl,” I say.  I give her the sample, meekly, feeling a little defeated.   No slamming on the desk for me.  She takes it in her purple glove.

“How did you go?” she asks.

“As well as I could, I guess.”  I wait for her to tell me that none of my sperm have heads.

“If you could go next door now for payment, please?  Enjoy the rest of the day.”

“I might begin to now.”

Suse takes my hand in hers.  We walk out the door, me in a cowboy swagger, trying to avoid contact with my undies.  It’s impossible.

How was it?”

“Horrific.”

“Are you chafed love?”

“Yep.”

“How was the bottom drawer?”

“There was no bottom drawer.  There was no drawers at all.  Just “MILFs in Heat.”

“It didn’t cut it?”

“No honey.  When you’re dry wanking into a plastic jar in hospital, MILFs don’t cut it.  In fact, nothing cuts it.  Nothing.”

We head towards the maroon desk to pay for my two-hundred buck jerk off.  As I swagger down the hall, it suddenly dawns on me why everyone walks out looking just like this.

* * * * *

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

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

I enter Room Two, locking the door behind me.  As I turn, I immediately wish I was in Room One.  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting.  Maybe that there was going to be some sort of oasis behind these doors, that perhaps the luxury of the women’s maroon counter may have been splashed around a little in here.

But it hasn’t.

It’s just like out there.

Only smaller.

And while I know that Room One would be nothing more than a mirror image of this, all the same, I wish I wasn’t in Brian’s express aisle.  The room is triangular in shape, with only enough space for a red plastic couch and a 34cm television.

There is a small toilet through a door off to the side, with a sink and huge roll of paper.  I look at the cabinet below, panicking at the sight of a tiny pile of magazines, and no drawers.

There is no bottom drawer.

I pick up the magazines and find that there are four in total:  two ‘Ralph’ magazines, one Penthouse, and the final, called “MILFs in Heat”.  They are tattered and used, pages are missing and loose, and other pages are folded and stuffed in underneath.

I mean, these things are old.

The television looks like something we had on our first computer, something called a Microbee, which used cassette tapes.   I don’t even think they make TVs this small anymore.  The rubbish bin – more adequately described as a disposal unit – sits pride of place, right next to the TV.  It is three times the size of the screen, and, by the looks, is almost full.

* * * * *

There is a set of instructions laminated to the top of the television.  They state:

“Switch TV on (if button doesn’t work, switch on at power point)

Push TV/Video button

Press stop button when finished

If you have any difficulties, please inform reception.”

Yeah right.  I’m sure Cheryl is just dying to know.

I turn on the TV.  Snow fills the screen, all thirty four centimetres.  I press the TV/Video button.  I can make out a woman dressed in a nurse’s outfit and a man, if I get close enough.  At least they’re keeping it in theme, although she looks nothing like Cheryl without the purple gloves.  I try changing the channel up and down, before fully comprehending that this is it.  The woman bobs up and down looking bored.

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a porn authority, but this is ridiculous.  Two men’s interest magazines, MILFs on heat, a torn and tattered Penthouse, and a bored nurse on a screen slightly bigger than my iPod.  I’ve seen more compelling material on daytime television.

This is going to be a challenge.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

“Mr. Davis?”

The guy in thongs groans in the effort of getting out of his seat.  He slinks across to the counter, one of his thongs almost falling off.  I mean – it’s winter in Melbourne.  Wear socks.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yep.”

She hands him a jar and a bag.  “Room Two,” she says.  He drags himself up the hall, and into Brian’s old room.

Trench coat guy leans in towards me.

“I left my form behind as well,” he says, smiling nervously.  “My wife is having to bring it in now.”

“Mine’s on the floor in the study,” I reply.

“Mine’s on the couch by the front door.”   I nod my head, smiling back.

“I guess I was a bit distracted this morning.”

“Me too,” I say.  “A little stressed.”

Every single guy who comes in here has been asked to abstain for the better part of a week.  I now get why there’s a Perspex windshield.

“It’s nice of them to have the full selection of women’s magazines,” I say

“Best of 1994, I guess.  I think the good one’s are kept elsewhere,” he says conspiratorially.

We give each other a brotherhood look – one of shared anxiety.  It’s not cool to admit that this is a confronting process.  But for some of us – Trench Coat Guy and me – this ain’t our high point of the day.  Thong guy is a different breed.  As is Brian.  Thong Guy and Brian are in one clan, Trench Coat Guy and I are in another.

“Mr. Jensen?”  Trench Coat Guy stands with a jolt, before walking over to Cheryl.  “Have you been here before?”

“No,” he says, nervously.  Cheryl leans in and whispers something to him, handing him a jar.  He nods, listening hard, before turning.  He gives me a look, and I nod back.  “Into Room One, Mr. Jensen.”

He disappears very, very quickly.

I sit there alone in the waiting room.  And I realise that I never saw anyone emerge from Room One.  Is there a back door?  Is there a cleaner who does a quick reckie in between patients, like happens in hospitals between patients?  Is there a bed?  Sheets?  How big is the room?

A couple of friends have had a semen analysis.  One of them said to look in the bottom drawer, because that is where they keep the good stuff.  I contemplate how many drawers there are, before realising with deflation that the part of me that was curious to see what this was all about never even woke up today.

I think he was left behind in that dream.

Room Two’s door flies open, and Thong Guy emerges, dragging his feet even more.  If he was relaxed before, now he’s almost comatose.  Although, I’ve got to hand it to him – that was quick.  I look at my watch, like it was my job to time him.

He must have been in there for about four minutes.  Wow.

His sample hits the bench like Brian’s did, like it’s his clan’s secret handshake.  He signs a form – at least he’s asked to sign a form – and then he saunters out.

I sit for a moment longer, thinking about the cleaner that must be in there, let in through the back door, cleaning things up.  But thirty seconds later, Cheryl leans forward.

“Mr Nethercote?”

No time for cleaning.

I guess I’m in the eight-items-or-less queue.

* * * * *

“Have you been here before, Mr Nethercote?”

“No,” I say quietly, before realising I’m the only one in the waiting room.

“So here’s your jar,” she said, handing me a sterile urine pot.   “Here’s a placemat for the couch,” she says, handing me a man-sized tissue, “in case of spillage, and here’s your specimen bag.  Any questions?”

“I’m in…”

“…Room Two.”

“Okay.”  I shift awkwardly.  “And I’ve been told that it’s okay to use saliva?”

“If you must.”

“If I must?  Well, I guess I can try without.  I mean, you want a sample, right?”

“Just don’t get any in the jar.”  I look at her confused.  “Any saliva in the jar.”

“Oh,” I say, smiling slightly, “I thought…”  I stop dead, looking at Cheryl.  This isn’t the place for banter.  They’ve got Perspex.

“If you run into trouble, we can just book you another appointment.  Or next time, your wife can come in with you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well, you forgot the slip.”

“I did.”

She takes a deep breath.  “Look, there are special condoms you can use.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely intrigued.  “I didn’t know about them.”

“They’re forty-five dollars.  People only really use them as a last resort, or in emergencies.”

“That’s what I’ve heard about condoms.”

She shoots me a steely gaze.

Right.

No banter.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, July 5, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

I sit on a couch, alone in a room.  I can hear muttering close by.  Then I hear laughter.  I look around, but Suse is nowhere to be seen.  The room is empty.  And then, from the left, an older lady with straight, grey hair, cut into a bob, enters the room.  She perches herself on the edge of the couch, and then holds up a sheet of paper in an outstretched hand, looking at it over the top of her glasses.

A little smirk comes onto her face before she places a consolatory hand on my knee.

She’s wearing purple gloves.

“Mr Nethercote,” she begins, “there seems to be a problem with your sample.”

I look at her, hoping for something to come out.

It doesn’t.

“You see,” she continues, suppressing a grin, “your sperm have no heads.  Every single one of your sperm is just a tail.  No head.  The problem is you.  You’re the problem.  Your sperm are retarded.”

I let out a noise, a gasp as I wake.  Or I wake to the gasp.  I’m not sure.  I look around the room, disoriented.  The clock says 2.33am.  My arms and torso are bathed in sweat, as is my groin, where my headless sperm remain, locked away.  As my eyes adjust, I make out Suse in the bed beside me.

Sleeping quietly.

I get up, changing my long-sleeved shirt for a T-shirt.  I walk to the kitchen for a drink, empty my bladder, and return to the darkness of the room.  The woman appears in my head again, smiling.

I guess masturbating into a cup is playing on my mind.

It’s a pretty curious day when my most important job of the morning is to jerk off.

And on top of that, today is our due date.

Our due date.

Today, our baby would have been born.

Today is going to be interesting.

* * * * *

Suse and I enter the hospital’s familiar back entrance, take the familiar lifts, walk around the familiar corridor, and down past the familiar seats.  We approach the front desk, the cloned woman glued in place.

“How can I help?” she asks.  It sends a cold thought straight through my soul.

“I need to give a sample this morning.”

“Next door,” she says, not looking me in the eye.  “In Andrology.”

We apologise for our existence, before leaving the maroon, semilunar desk and walking ten metres down the hall.  We enter a small waiting area, the front desk to a laboratory.

There is a counter with a bell, and down a short, tight corridor there are two more doors that I spot immediately:  Room One, and Room Two.  They have the universal male toilet symbol on them;  although I’m guessing that there’s more than just a toilet in there.  Directly behind the counter, there are three chairs haphazardly shoved against the wall.  Two of them are occupied by men.  Both of them sit awkwardly, crossing and uncrossing their legs.

One of them is wearing a trench coat.

I shit you not.

The counter has a Perspex shield, with a small slot at elbow height, as you’d expect in a bank – or in lab that is concerned about armed robbery.  The Perspex is covered in A4 sheets of information, each curling at its edges;  taped in place for years.  Scattered around the walls of this tight little space are worn posters, which cheerily advertise venereal diseases, prostate cancer, and other myriad afflictions to really set the mood.  There is a solitary framed picture above the chairs;  a painting that someone has discarded from their holiday house.

I look at the two men.  They are each flicking through last decades women’s magazines;  the ones that been discarded from the slick, female friendly desk just ten steps back down the hall.   I turn back towards the counter.

And then I see her.

Sitting behind the Perspex is an older woman, purple gloves on her hands, her grey hair cut into a bob.  She smiles slightly.  A shiver runs down my spine.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here for a semen analysis,” I say, trying to pitch my voice somewhere between embarrassed whisper and soulful declaration.

“Join the club,” she says, without looking up.  As well as being the woman from my dream, I think she might be the clone’s mum.  “Path slip?”

“Oh, shit.”  I look at Suse.

“Where is it?”

“On the floor of the study.”

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.  I’ll be waiting out here.”

That solves that one.  Ten minutes ago, on the way in, I suggested to Suse that I’d like her to be in the room with me, should I need… support.

“You can’t be serious.” She said.  “You’re landing this on me, in the car on the way to the hospital?”

“I just thought that…”

“…I don’t want be in that room where men masturbate all day.”

“I don’t really want to be in a room where men masturbate all day either, honey.”

There is a silence.

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that.”

“Well this is hardly the most comfortable day of my life either.”

The discussion stopped dead.  The man in the lift, in the wheelchair, missing a leg, put paid to that.

And before we could resume discussions, Ol’ Purple Gloves is asking for a slip.

Suse kisses me quickly on the lips.

“Good luck, honey,” she says.  And then she leaves the dirty Perspex room quicker than I’ve ever seen her move anywhere.

Ever.

I look back at the woman behind the counter.   She hands me a clipboard.

“Fill out the paperwork, Mr Nethercote, and tell me when you’re done.”

I sit in the empty chair between the man in the trench coat, and a guy wearing thongs.  The guy in the coat is talking urgently into his phone, while the guy in thongs flicks happily through a copy of Women’s Weekly.

With that, a door flies open.  A man emerges from Room Two, swaggering like a cowboy, in a way that none of us sitting-folk are.  He places his yellow-topped container on the counter with a thunk, like you would an empty pot after you’ve just skulled a full beer.

“Thanks, Cheryl,” he says, without even braking stride.

“See you next time, Brian,” she says.

Oh fuck.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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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.”

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, March 30, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 26th March 2010

Gestation: 26 weeks

One year ago.

“Have a look at this,” Suse says, as I walk through the door.

I follow her into the bathroom, where she stands before the mirror.  She slips the sleeves of her top down, revealing brandings on both shoulders.  Bruises the size of a cup, with clearly defined edges.  Two manufactured hickeys, one for each shoulder blade.

She then takes the hem of her top and pulls it over her head, revealing five more petechial couplets;  body art dotted up her spine.  There are track-lined markings tracing up between them, like she’s been run over Thomas the Tank Engine.  With that she turns to show me her front.  There are further lines of bruising tracing along her clavicles, with two more polka dots just below.

“You’ve been to see Steve?”

“Yep.”

“And you had cupping done,” I say, pointing to the dots.  She nods.  “But what’s with the train tracks?” I ask, pointing at her clavicles.

“Spooning.  Done with a spoon.”

“Spooning?  To go along with the cupping?”

“Yep.”

“Cupping and spooning.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds like an orgy where they serve tea.”  I pause, spinning her around like a model.  “How does it feel?”

“Bloody sore.”

Suse lifts her arms with a wince, and then takes me into a ginger hug.

Cupping is a process that comes from traditional Chinese medicine.  It is many thousands of years old, and works by creating a vacuum within the cup, sucking into it part of the skin and muscle, thereby creating a massive hickey.  They are placed on the body’s meridians, or acupressure points, to open them up, removing stagnation and allowing the energy to flow more freely.  Spooning, from what I can gather, is a variant of the same theory, but is done with a ceramic spoon and oil.

I had cupping on my upper back when I last visited Hong Kong.  It was my first experience of Chinese Medicine.  And while it felt unnerving while it was happening, the increased blood flow to the knots in my back muscles was far more effective than the five massages I’d had before it.

“How was the session otherwise?”

“Full on.”

“Good?”

“Really good.  Really, really good.  I’ll tell you all about it later.  But I’m absolutely knackered now.”

We stand there hugging.  In the mirror I examine my wife’s back;  her lithe arms around my neck, the dots all up and down, joined by markings, like a bruised game of snakes and ladders.

“Can I ask something, love?”

“Sure.”

“The next time another man cups and spoons you in the same day, can you at least put some foundation over the hickeys?”

She lets out a tired chuckle.  “Okay.  I’ll remember that next time.”

* * * * *