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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.

* * * * *

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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.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, July 18, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 12th July 2010

One year ago.

‘I was thinking I might drive up to Ballarat after tea tonight to make love to you.  Any objections?’

I don’t know that I’ve ever received a nicer text message.  I’m working in Ballarat for a couple of weeks, locuming at the hospital, just at the key time.

Desperate times lead to desperate measures.  I don’t know that anyone has ever driven from Melbourne to another town, just to have sex with me.

In fact, no one has ever driven anywhere to have sex with me.

If there is any advantage to not being pregnant, I guess this has to be it.

* * * * *

“Suse is driving to Ballarat tonight.”

“Oh, really?” Mum says.

“Yeah, she’s ovulating some time in the next forty-eight hours.  So it’s pretty important that we…”

“…Fair enough.”

“Do you need us to leave the house?” asks Dad.

“No,” I say, trying not to laugh.  “We only need one room.  Just don’t come into the room.”

It’s nice knowing how supportive everyone is.  It strips a lot of stuff away.  It’s like a little vignette has opened into our life, and after that, we’ve just let the shroud fall away.

All that stuff we used to keep secret.  I’ve never spoken to anyone about masturbating.  Never.  But since my experience at the hospital, I’ve told about a hundred people.  Equally, I don’t think I’ve ever told either of my parents about an impending sexual encounter.  Let me rephrase – I know that I’ve never told either of my parents anything about any of my sex life.

I guess things change when you’ve got blocked fallopian bits.

In response, you open up about everything.

Hoping to influence the tube.

* * * * *

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

Saturday 5th June 2010

Gestation: 36 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

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

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

Make no sudden movements.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, hon,” I say.

“What?”

“When your period is coming.”

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

* * * * *

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

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

And usually I am reliable.

Very reliable.

Except, of course, for last time.

* * * * *

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

I may have been a little slow on the uptake.

“Did you?”

“No,” I lied.

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

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

No wonder we’re confused.

In a nutshell, I blew it.  Literally.

And then Suse ovulated about two hours later.

* * * * *

She looks at me, shaking her head.

“Did you hear me?”

I do the worm farm thing again.

“Ummm…”

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

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

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

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

Forever.

That’s all.

“Dunno,” I say, stupidly.

She frowns and walks away.

And I concentrate on worm food.

Not surgery.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, May 17, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 16th May 2010

Gestation: 33 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

I walk out the front door, heading towards the gate.  Sticking out of the bottom hatch is a folded envelope, a gaggle of envelopes within.  Each with a yellow sticker on it;  symptomatic of an intrinsic of a hatred for changing old mailing addresses.

I walk back towards the house, flicking as I go.  Bill, flick, bill, flick, bill flick, bill.  Another bill. Advertising, flick, bill, flick, advertising.  Flick.  Something interesting.

I flip something interesting, ripping at the fold.  The top corner has a logo from an old medical practice, more evidence that there is a paper trail of mail chasing me around the country, via old address.

I pull from it the single sheet;  a pathology result.

Suse’s blood test results.

And it says:

‘Anti-Mulleri – 8.2’

I scroll down to the comment below.

And it says:

‘Levels <10pmol/L.  Suggestive of failing ovulatory reserve.’

For fuck’s sake.  For fuck’s sake.

For fuck’s sake.

It’s a Sunday.  Bloody Sunday.  I don’t know how to interpret this result on a Sunday.

I am so done with the bad news.

* * * * *

I do a Google search for Anti-Mullerian Hormone, remembering something back in Med School about it being the hormone that stops men from growing a uterus.  Awesome.  Fuck knows what its role is in ovulation.  I could search until I’m blue in the face, but I’m no Reproductive Specialist.  I just don’t know the significance of this God-damned result.

Except, of course, that it is not normal.  Even better than that, it is suggestive of ‘Failing Ovarian Reserve’.

And I thought that was the name of the park at the end of the street.

* * * * *

A few weeks back, when we first saw Dr. Fleischer, she performed an ultrasound, which showed a number of ripening follicles, indicating that Suse was still hatching.

This test result may not be significant.

But it may be.

And just I’m so sick of significant.

Seriously now.  Just for one minute.  Will someone please just cut my wife a fucking break?

* * * * *

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

Tuesday 27th April 2010

Gestation: 30 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

Time passes as quickly as it does when your soul mate is in surgery.

Like cement through an hourglass.

Still, I keep myself busy.  I prepare dinner, knowing full well that after the operation Suse will want nothing to eat. I preheat the oven and half-cook her comfort food of choice – potato gems.  I hang out the washing, which Suse put on in a nervous state early in the day.

We’re like the yin and yang of anxiety.

I text her parents and mine, to let them know that it’ll be another hour until we have an answer.  I sort through a bill pile that has remained neglected for months.  Nothing like bank statements to distract.

Time suddenly feels like it is going backwards.

The phone rings.  “Hello, is that Mark?”

“Yes.”

“Susan is out of theatre.  She’s fine, but she’s in a bit of pain.  She’s asking for you.”

I pick up my keys and walk out the door.

* * * * *

Suse moves gingerly in the bed.  Her voice is soft, she looks swollen.  Anaesthetics aren’t kind to her.  I take her hand softly, noting the bandaid where the drip was.

All around there is noise.  There are four others in the recovery bay.  Three different nurses have already been in.  The curtains part for a fourth, before we realise that it is Dr. Fleischer.  She holds a series of photos;  Polaroids from her recent holiday into Suse’s abdomen.

“So we had a look inside, and we see that your ovaries look good and your uterus looks good from the outside.”  She points to Polaroid one and two.   “Both of the tubes look good too.  There is no dilated tube on the left…”

“…Oh, that’s good,” says Suse squeezing my hand.

“…Mmmm,” she continues.  “They both looked a little bit tortuous, but on the whole, they looked okay.  I looked inside the uterus itself, and the lining looked good and healthy.”  She takes a pause.  “And then we did the dye test,” she says, shuffling photos, “and with this, we saw that your left tube had no blockage…”

“…Oh, that’s good,” Suse repeats.

“…But the right one… was blocked.”  We both frown.  “I tried a couple of different manoeuvres, and increased the pressure quite high, but still I couldn’t get the dye through.  In fact, it started to dilate the uterus up, so I couldn’t really push any further.”

We both remain silent for a moment.  Suse is the first to recover.

“So what does that mean?”

“Well, whatever process caused the ectopic on the left, is probably causing the blockage on the right.  Maybe there was a bit of an infection there at some point, or something else.”

She stops for a moment, and no one says anything.  The slugs bury themselves, one in each shoulder, first rounds from the ammunition.  I stand there, like you see on the screen, as yet disbelieving that I’ve been hit.  This is the moment, that very moment – just before I realise.

Just before I fall to the ground still.

This time, I snap out of it first.  “So what does this mean?”

“That you might need to consider IVF.”  Two more bullets hit.  Suse’s hand slips out of mine.

“And when do you think we should think about that?”

I hear my voice.

I guess I just spoke.

“Maybe give it another three months.  But there’s a lot to think about.  You’ll get a call from the girls in the next few days, to have a follow up appointment.  You’ve got to have your chicken pox vaccine anyway…”

“…Which will delay everything for three months…”

“…So yes, maybe after that… How old are you, again?”

“Thirty-five,” Suse says.  “Thirty-five-and-a-half.”  She looks straight through the curtain at the end.

“Yeah, so you don’t want to leave it too long.  I think three months after that is probably about right.”  Two more bullets.  Without any cotton wool.  “But you’ll have your appointment with me to talk about all of this in the next few weeks.”

She turns and leaves the tavern.

Dead bodies strewn all around.

This woman is a straight shooter.

* * * * *

We arrive home, dazed and confused.  We sit, trying to talk.  Neither of us knows what to say.  Neither of us is coherent.  Finally, Suse turns to me, and her faces scrunches up.

“I’m so sorry that I’m broken,” she says.

Potato gems sit on the plate, going cold.

* * * * *

I get ready for bed.  Suse decides to stay up, unable or unwilling to lie awake and think just yet.  We vow a united fight, but already we’ve slipped into our own patterns of coping.  Marriage is a funny thing.  To be emotionally reliant on another after years of self management.  But when crises occur, we revert back to old strategies.  I feel myself retreating into my cave, my emotions bedded down, padded in thoughts and busyness while Suse does the opposite, her own emotions winding up, a tornado of self-flagellation in the offing.

I see it happening, watching like an observer from the sidelines.

I lie down, tossing and turning.  The doona is too hot, too cold, anything but right.  After twenty minutes, my mouth feeling dry, I head to the kitchen for some water.

As I do, Suse is standing.

I walk past her, and am instantly hit by the smell of smoke.

Of cigarettes.

“Susan,” I say softly.

“I’ve only been…  It’s just been for the last few days.  With everything…”

I walk back down the hallway.  “Please don’t hate me,” she says.

I close the door.

* * * * *

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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, April 8, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 10th April 2010

Gestation: 28 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

“Do you think my boobs are bigger?”

I look carefully, trying to keep an earnest expression on my face.  Rarely are men invited to examine breasts, so when the invitation is expressed, regardless of the context, we jump at the opportunity.

“Ummm…”

Suse was relatively small-chested into her early thirties.  Her breasts began to grow the year or two before I met her.  To her distinct advantage and my blessing, this has meant that – despite the fact that she is now thirty-five – her breasts have the pert disposition of a teenager.

I turn my hands flat, like they are scales.

Like I’m being scientific about it.

“I’ll just need to check,” I say nodding, before moving up closer, and weighing them.  She laughs.  “They are definitely sizeable at the moment,” I say, after some more careful consideration.

“They get bigger when you’re pregnant.”  I step back, frowning slightly.  “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m not getting my hopes up.  That way, if I’m not, I’m not too disappointed.”

I nod, not saying anything.

“Although, my morning temperature has been good.  And all of the other tests as well.  You were pretty happy when you did your grid, weren’t you?”  I nod.  “And there was the mittelschmerz as well.  Proper mittelschmerz this time.”

I distract myself by continuing to look at her breasts.

“And, as well as all of that, I ovulated from the right side this time.  Which is the good side.  The non-ectopic side.”  She lets out a big sigh.  “The best side for us to conceive from.”  She pauses another moment.  “It’d be kind of cool to be pregnant in winter, because then I’d be warm, wouldn’t I?”

These days, I don’t even have to speak.  Suse is quite capable of holding an entire conversation about pregnancy with herself.

“We’ll just see what happens, eh?” she says, lifting my chin, still focused on her chest.  “I’m not daring to hope too much.  To dream too much.”  She takes me into a hug.

Sometimes, even if you don’t dare dream, you do anyway.

Dreams are a bugger like that.

* * * * *

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

Saturday 3rd April 2010

Gestation: 27 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

Suse comes into me, holding a lipstick-shaped thing in her hands.

“There’s ferning.”

“Really,” I say, looking up from the paper.

“Yeah.  Very definitely ferns.”  She’s like a kid in a candy store.

I look through the spyglass and depress the button.  A green backlight comes on, and through the eyepiece I see the little patterns.

Fancy that.  They do look like ferns.

“They’re ferns, right?”

“Certainly look like it.”

She smiles broadly.  This lasts for about three seconds, before disappearing again.

“Although, I forgot to check it at the ten minute mark.”

“So?”

“Well, maybe it’s wrong because I left it so long.”

“I don’t think there’s any problem, love.  They ask you to leave it ten minutes so it dries.  It’s not like fake ferns suddenly appear if you leave it until the evening.  A fern’s a fern.”

“Mmm,” she says, unconvinced.

“So that’s good,” I say.

“Yeah,” she replies, knowing it’s the right thing to say.

I put down the newspaper.  “So, you had mittelschmerz, you’re body temperature is up by 0.5 degrees since that time…”

“…0.4 degrees…”

“…Okay, 0.4 degrees, and now we’ve got ferns…”

“…But the LH surge test is still negative.”

“Fuck the LH surge test,” I say.  “You’ve got three out of four positives for ovulation.  The reason there are so many different tests – basal body temperature, LH kits, saliva tests – is because none of them is particularly good.  It’s like cough medicine.  Why do you think there are so many brands out there?  It’s because none of them work.”

“Yeah,” she says again.

I walk up to her and hug her.

“How do you want your Easter eggs?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Ovulated,” I say.

She smiles broadly before correcting.  “No, not ovulated.  Fertilised.”

“Fertilised then,” I repeat.  “As you wish.”

* * * * *