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

Thursday 16th September 2010

One year ago.

The best part about this bit is that you don’t know what anything means.

Anything at all.

“The pessaries can imitate pregnancy,” Shelley warned us, “so don’t assume that you’re pregnant just because you feel nauseated.”

Way to keep the spirits up, Shelley.

“Equally, don’t assume you aren’t, even if you start to bleed like it’s your period.  Whatever happens, you need to get the pregnancy test on Monday.  IVF hormones can mess with your system.”

No kidding.

The consumer information packet from Crinone freely informed us that anything that can go wrong with Suse’s mind, body and spirit is probably due to the pessaries.  And don’t forget, this is the one that had the pamphlet with a woman hugging her belly, as she grins happily at the ground like she just found a piggie bank.

Or just before she doubles over in crippling pain.

* * * * *

In the last few days, Suse has had:

- Continuous nausea;

- An insatiable appetite for Rice Bubbles;

- Lethargy and tiredness;

- A swinging mood;

- Frequent abdominal pain (which can be misconstrued as either period pain or pregnancy pains, dependent on your swinging mood);

- prize-winning, yet very tender breasts;

- a nose like a blood hound.

Last night, as she got into a friend’s car, she began:

“My God, Ella, how do you drive in this thing?”

“Sorry?”

“It stinks.”

“Of what?”

“Well, someone’s dragged dog shit in with their shoes and wiped it on the car mat in the seat behind me. There’s been an over-ripe banana eaten in here,” she says, craning distractedly to look for it, “the skin was left in here for a while.  That shirt in the back seat really needs a wash, and this,” she says, taking the disposable cup from the console and pointing at it, “this soy latte had burnt beans when it was made.”

Ella looked at Suse for a second, before bursting into laughter.

“What?”

“You’re so pregnant,” was the response.

I guess only time will tell.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, August 26, 2011 10:00 am

Tuesday 31st August 2010

One year ago.

Suse is all over the shop.

In the last two days, she’s smashed the Pyrex jug, made a cup of tea with cold water, left me several unexpected presents in the toilet, and strewn an entire box of used tissues all over the house.  She’s got a constant headache, her skin has broken out, she feels increasingly bloated and nauseated, and her memory is shot.

This morning when we woke, I could tell she was on edge.

“Remember I’ve got my phone thing this morning?” I said.

“Sure.  But you’ll be done by 9.15?”

“No, it might take till 9.30.”

“But last night, you said you’d be done by 9.15.”

“No, last night, you heard that I’d be done by 9.15.  I very definitely said it might take till 9.30, because I thought it might be an issue.”

“But you’ve got to give me my injection!”

“Which I’ll do at 9.30.”

“But I’ve got to go to work!”

“And I’ve got to be on the phone.”

“Don’t you want to have a baby?” she said, breaking into tears.

It’s like a dose of turbo-charged PMS.

* * * * *

PMS is the acronym for Pre-Menstrual Syndrome.  We all know what it is, but approximately 5% of the female population know better than most.  According to Wikipedia, PMS is ‘a collection of physical, emotional and psychological symptoms that are related to a woman’s menstrual cycle’, above and beyond the normal discomfort expected of menses.

There are well over two hundred symptoms that have been attributed to PMS.  And these don’t include any of those experienced by their partners.  As an interesting aside, there is thought to be an evolutionary function to PMS, as it only occurs when a woman is about to menstruate, thereby reminding all around her that she has not fallen pregnant.  If her male suitor fails to impregnate her on a monthly basis, then irritability, tension and mood swings are potential motivators for rejecting him out of hand, making way for a more virile partner to move in, get her knocked up, and get on with the breeding.

Ain’t nature grand.

Technically, PMS is a phenomenon isolated to the final days of the Luteal Phase, the period between ovulation and menstruation.  And right now, thanks to our suite of injections, we are well and truly in the trenches of the Follicular Phase.

So, I can’t truly say that this is PMS.  While the symptoms may be similar, it’s a slightly different beast.  In fact, what’s going on here is a fully-fledged dose of POS: Pre-Ovulation Syndrome.  Or, as I like to call it, thanks to the drugs, PT-COS:  Pre-Turbo-Charged Ovulation Syndrome.

With Suse, PT-COS has been triggered because they are totally messing with her hormones.  She’s getting extra doses of some, and antagonists to others.  And while this may sound counterintuitive, it’s not.  It’s actually fascinating.

Unless you’re Suse.

The system in the body that controls hormones is known as the endocrine system.  The adrenals, the thyroid and the testes and ovaries, among others, are examples of endocrine glands.

Endocrine glands receive messages in the bloodstream from other organs further upstream.  At the top of the message system, unsurprisingly, is the brain.  A part of the brain known as the hypothalamus releases a whole bunch of hormones, including one called Gonadotrophin Releasing Hormone (GnRH).  This then floats downstream to the pituitary gland, which sits right at the base of the brain.  When the pituitary gets the GnRH signal, it releases two more hormones:  Follicular Stimulating Hormone (FSH) and Luteinising Hormone (LH).  These, in turn, circulate in the blood stream until they reach the ovaries.  The arrival of FSH and LH is like the green light for ovulation, and on getting this message, the ovaries begin to release their own hormones, estrogen and progesterone. These enter the blood stream, and float all the way back to the hypothalamus, like a messenger letting headquarters known that the signal got through.

The whole thing is a finely tuned balancing act.

Except in IVF.

* * * * *

With IVF, we’re messing with the whole project.  We’re deliberately unbalancing the whole act.  For the last five days, we’ve been injecting FSH straight into Suse’s belly.  Her ovaries, being obedient little things, have start to ripen the follicles.  This is all good and well, except that it means we’ve got extra estrogen and progesterone leaching all around the circulation, having a right old party.  The messengers are telling the hypothalamus to slow down the GnRH release, but with two of the follicles already at 16mm, the message isn’t getting through quite quick enough.

So this is where the Orgalutran comes in.  If you read the pamphlet, you’ll see that it’s ‘a GnRH antagonist, modulating the hypothalamic-pituitary-gonadal axis by competitively binding to the GnRH receptors in the pituitary gland’.

And while it sounds more like something that might occur to insurgents in Afghanistan, what it really means is that we’re blocking the release of anymore GnRH from the brain.   We are competitively antagonising those receptors.  And we wonder why my wife is moody.

LH is the enemy here.  If LH levels get too high, then the follicles will burst early, and we’ll lose the eggs.  So we’ve highjacked the system.  We’ve closed down the natural release of FSH and LH by stopping the GnRH with Orgalutran, and yet we’re continuing to pump her full of pharmaceutical-grade FSH to ripen her up like a battery hen.

And then, in two day’s time, we’ll give her one last jab of artificial LH, to get those grapes good and ripe, and thirty-eight hours later, they’ll pounce.  They’ll grab the biggest needle they can find, and suck out as many as eggs as they can.

But only after she’s knocked unconscious.

* * * * *

So, it’s semantics, really.  Whether this is technically PMS or not, we’re messing with Suse’s hormones.  We’re blocking the messages to her brain, and we’re overdosing her with messages to her womanly bits.

And if there’s one thing I have learnt about my dear wife, it’s that when we mess with her hormones, I will surely know about it.

* * * * *

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

Monday 2nd August 2010

One year ago.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Hello, Shelley speaking.”

“Hi Shelley, my name’s Mark,”

“Hello, Mark.”

“And my ID number is 181769,” I say, my fingers slipping across my laminated card.

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” she says curiously.

“By my number?”

“You’re Susan’s husband, aren’t you?” she asks, ignoring the question.

“That’s right.”

“Yes, I’ve seen your paperwork recently.  Dr Fleischer has set up a regime for you.”

“Right.”

“Yes, you’ll be on an antagonist regime.”

“That sounds like my wife.”

“Sorry?”

“When she’s hormonal,” I add laughing, “that sounds like Suse.”

“Oh, no, I’m talking about the medication she’ll be on.  A hormone antagonist.”

“Oh, right,” I say stupidly.

“She’ll be starting with injections of FSH to stimulate her follicles, and then she’ll take the antagonist injections of Orgalutran.”

“Orgalutran?  Wow.  Sounds like a Transformer.”

“No, that’s the name of the antagonist injection,” she repeats plainly.  “To halt her ovulation from progressing.”

“Oh, right,” I repeat.

“And then, a few days after that she’ll have the egg collection, and then a few days after that, the implantation.”

“How many days are we talking?”

“Hard to say.  The FSH starts on day two, and goes for nine days.  The Orgalutran goes for three to five days, the eggs are collected on about day thirteen, and we reimplant them on about day eighteen.

I scribble notes wildly, arrows across the page, trying to understand.   “So, ostensibly, we could be conceiving…” I say, flicking through my calendar, “…On what date?”

“Depends on Susan’s period.”

“And when will that be?” I ask, before I realise what I’ve said.  Shelley doesn’t even bother answering.  “Sorry about that.  I meant, when do we need to see you?”

“On the day the injections start.”

“Which will be when?”

“On day two of her period.

“And when will that be?” I ask again. “Just joking,” I say, trying to cover. This times, she lets out a little squawk.

“That one, I can’t help you with.”

“Right.  Well, she’s like clockwork.  She’s just had her period last week, so…”  I stop myself.  “I won’t even hazard a guess.  Can I ring her while you’re on the phone?”

“Sure,” she says, sighing.

I pick up my mobile and speed dial.

“Hey, love,” she says.

“Hey, hon, I’m on the phone with Shelley, the IVF nurse.”

“You managed to get onto her?”

“Yes.”

“How many times did you have to ring?”

“Like I said, she’s on the other line.”

“Right.”

“And we’re trying to figure out the cycles.  Do you know when you’re period is due?”

“Ahh, I left my diary at home.  I’d only be guessing.”

“Well, have a guess,” I say.

“No point guessing,” Shelley says in the other ear.

“No point guessing,” I repeat.

“Hang on, let me get to a calendar.”

“She’s pretty much like clockwork,” I say again, “she’s just getting to a calendar.”

I sit there, waiting for a pin to drop.

“Maybe the 25th August?”

“Maybe the 25th,” I relay.

“Well, we can start with that,” Shelley says.

“We can work start that,” I repeat.

“What if it doesn’t work with my deadlines?” Suse asks.

“Like I said, hon, Shelley’s on the other line.  I’m going to finish this conversation and call you back.”

“Okay,” she says, hanging up.

“May I continue?” Shelley asks, like a teacher interrupted by a tempestuous student.

“Yes,” I say sheepishly.

“So, if day two is the 26th August,” she continues, “then we’d start the injections that day.  And we’d see both of you at that time.”

“Can we see you any earlier?”

“What for?”

“Well, Wednesday isn’t that easy for us.  But Monday 23rd might work?”

“Yes, you could, but you wouldn’t want to pick up the drugs until you know you’re not pregnant.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you can,” she says, correcting herself, “but if you do, and you find out you’re pregnant, then you’ve just wasted $2000.”

My head spins, doing the maths.  “The drugs are $2000?  I don’t think I knew that bit.”

“Well, yes.  But they’re subsidised.  The Government pays for them.  Unless you get them and find out you’re pregnant, in which case you foot the bill.”

“The drugs are $2000?” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“For how many injections?

“About six or seven.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say.

“No, Orgalutran,” she says, finding her humour.

“Maybe I was a bit harsh on the Government.  I didn’t know they paid that much for drugs.”

“Consequently,” she says moving on, “you want to know you’re not pregnant.

“Bloody oath you do.”

“So, I guess you could do a pregnancy test on the Monday morning?”

“To see that her period will come on Tuesday?  What if she’s out by a couple of days?”

“I thought you said she was like clock work.”

“Well, she’s not a Swiss watch.  I mean, what if she’s out this time?  What if she’s not due till Thursday and we are actually pregnant?  The tests aren’t as accurate that many days ahead,” I say.

“Oh, they’re pretty accurate,” she offers.

“They’re, like, 99%.  And sorry, I’m not a betting man.  I don’t even bother with the Melbourne Cup.  So for two thousand bucks, I want 100%.  I want a guarantee.  I want blood,” I say, a little too dogmatically.

“Right,” she says.  I can hear her tapping away at her keyboard, making a note:  ‘Idiot husband, unaware of periods, swears a lot.’

I think for a moment.

“How about we come and see you on the Monday, get the work up, give you the forms, sign our lives away, and then, if she’s bleeding on the 26th, we’ll pick up the drugs?”

“That sounds a little complex.”

“We live in Richmond.  The hospital is five minutes away.  It’s on the way to Suse’s work.”

“Who’s going to give the injections?”

“I will.  And if her period starts on the Tuesday, or the Wednesday, or even the Friday, I’ll give the first jab the very next day.  On day two of her period.”

“Oh,” she says.  “Okay then.”  She pauses for another moment.  “Right.  Well, that works then.  Well done.  Good problem solving.”

“Thank you.”

Problem solving is easy when there’s $2000 on the line.

* * * * *

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

Friday 30th July 2010

One year ago.

Suse still hasn’t got her period.  Her breasts are still tender.  She feels like shit;  lethargic and irritable.

“The only thing that would make this okay, would be being pregnant,” she says.

She’s pre-menstrual, but more than that, she’s pre-pregnant.

That’s the bitch about all of this.

She doesn’t want to be waiting for another period.

She wants to be waiting for a baby.

* * * * *

Meantime, I head off to work.  I’ve got a week working in the neonatal ICU before I start working for NETS, the Neonatal Emergency Transfer Service.

There are gluttons for punishment, and then there’s me.

As the final six months of my six years of Paediatric training, I’ve had this set up for a while.  But the timing is just priceless.  If I can’t have a baby, then I’ll surround myself in everything to do with them.  I’ll work in a place where every single employee and every single visitor is totally devoted to the brand new babies that have just arrived into this world.

That’ll help.

Still, all the same, it seems to work for me.  I’m as busy as hell on the first day, and two hours in, my phone beeps.  I check it, and find a text from Bel and Dan:

‘We are downstairs having a coffee.  We’re sure you are flat out, but give us a call if you are on a break.’

I juggle the thought, before deciding to run downstairs.  There I see them sitting in the café, staring off into nothingness, lost in thought.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?”

“Just had to come in to check on things.  They’re a little worried about the heart rate.  They say it’s sitting a bit high.”

I look at both of them.  Given what they’ve been through in the last two years, this isn’t fair.

“Can’t this baby give you any piece of mind?”

“Clearly not,” says Dan.  “He’s determined to give us grief right up until he’s born.”

“He’ll be right.  He’s just trying to give you grey hairs.”

I look at both of them and smile.  I can see both of their shoulders drop at the reassurance.   “Seriously, this sort of thing is routine.  Totally routine.”

I wouldn’t have a clue.  I know nothing about what the CTG looked like, what they found on examination, or any of the medical staff’s concern.

But sometimes, it’s all people want.  All they want to hear is that everything is going to be all right. Whether you’re a friend, or a doctor or both.  Even when you can’t be sure.

That’s all they want to hear.

* * * * *

I rush back to work, having left them both with higher shoulders than before.  I think of them all through the day, hoping they remain upbeat.  It’s a battle when they’ve been beaten down so long.  After four egg harvests and countless rounds of disappointment, your shoulders have trouble going up anymore.  It’s barely worth raising them before you know they just have to go back down again.  ‘But not this time,’ I say to myself, ‘not this time.’

The day flies by, and as I finish work, I dial Suse.

“Hey love,” she answers.  It’s like there’s been a shower, and her voice has come out.  “I got my period!”

The clouds have parted and the sun is out.  There’s even a rainbow.

If you can’t have a baby, then sometimes, a period can be the next best thing.

It’s time to start a new month.

* * * * *

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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, June 3, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 6th June 2010

Gestation: 36 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

“It came.  Finally.”

“Your period?”

“Yes.”

Suse looks at me with relief.  I take a breath myself.

But with that, I feel a pinch of sadness as well.

Despite what I knew, and what I’d hoped for, despite what it would have meant, each time she has her period, each time it comes, it is the extinguishment of that underlying hope.  That underlying knowing that one time – one fucking time – some time soon, Suse’s period will be late.

And it will be late, because there is a baby growing in her womb.

Even though it wasn’t this time, and it was never going to be this time, and we did just about everything we could to stop it being this time, you just can’t help it.

You just can’t help it.

You just can’t help hoping that it was going to be this time.

* * * * *

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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, April 14, 2011 10:00 am

Saturday 17th April 2010

Gestation: 29 weeks, 1 day

One year ago.

We wake this morning, and instantly, I get that it’s going to be one of those days.

Suse has already applied her worry mask.

“My temperature is still up.”

“Right,” I say, before pausing.   “Is that good?”

“No, that’s bad.  That’s really bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your temperature is meant to go back down as soon as you’ve had your period.”

“And it hasn’t?”

“No,” she says, a little frustrated.  “It’s still 36.65.”

“That’s up?”

“What do you mean?  Of course that’s up.”

“Sorry, hon.  It’s just that…”  She looks at me with a stony face.  “I’m used to kid’s temperatures.  Thirty-eight or thirty-nine is up.”

“Well, I’m not a child, Mark.  So, 36.65 is up.”

“Okay.”  I pause.  “Well, you only did it when you woke up.  At 9.30am.  Other days you’ve woken at five.  Maybe that’s made the difference, love.”

Suse takes me by the hand, pulling me towards the chart.

“See here?  This is where my temperature was.”  She tape the paper with fury.  “This is where it is now.  It’s not good.”

I look at the numbers, and see that, in fact, it appears that her temperature has not gone down since her period started.  It’s been floating between 36.38 and 36.83.  Nothing as low as last month, when it was down to 36.08.  All the same, I can’t help but be impressed by how even they all are.

“Mmmm,” I say.

“And my period hasn’t been heavy enough.”  She sighs.  “Maybe I am broken.”

“What do you mean?” I say.  I bite the inside of my mouth, ensuring a serious face.

“None of the tests work for me.  Not the saliva test, not the pee sticks, and now not the temperature.  I’m broken.”

I sit there for a moment, saying nothing.  This is one of those moments I’ve learnt about.  The hard ones.  The unfixable ones.

Patience, Mark.  The answer will come.

Don’t try to fix it.

Eventually she opens her mouth.  I watch, waiting.

“I knew I should have made that appointment with that IVF lady.”

Ah.

There you go.

The answer.

Wait, and it shall come.

“So make an appointment with her.  On Monday.”

“But she has a two-month waiting list.”

“Look.  We spoke to Nadine, and she said that we’d want six months of trying before investigating.”

“Well, I don’t want to wait for six months before investigating!  I’m thirty-five-and-a-half!  I want to know now!”

“Okay.  So we’ll book an appointment on Monday.”

“I knew we should have booked ages ago.”

Groundhog day.

“We’ll book one on Monday.”  I look at my wife.

At that look of regret and worry and every possible anxiety in existence, all coursing through her brain.

“She’ll have cancellations,” I persist.  “You’ll get in.”  I take her hand, clapping it between mine.  “We’ll book on Monday.”

Suse looks up and me, frustration on her bottom lip.  It quivers slightly, before breaking as we fall into a hug.

* * * * *

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

Monday 8th March 2010

Gestation: 23 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

I walk down the hall, where I meet Suse, wearing another look of despair.  It’s becoming a trend.

“The test is still negative.”

That fucking test.

“Really?”

“It shouldn’t still be negative,” Suse says.  “I’m day fourteen.  Why is it still negative?”

I walk into the bathroom and start reading the packet.  That smug purple woman looks back at me.  I fish the pamphlet out, reading for the first time.  I’ve left this one to Suse.

A pregnancy test serves a purpose.  Being dictated to as to when we should be trying to procreate rubs me the wrong way.

Especially by a stick.

On the bench, a see the offending stick, with its single pink line.  It has a green bar at one end, little triangles in its centre, arrows pointing the other way, the words ‘test’ and ‘control’ bookending it, and then ‘ovulation’ in italics, repeated, on a pink background, at an angle.  Like it’s the brand name.

“Are they trying to copyright the word ‘ovulation’?” I ask.

“Sorry?”  Suse looks around the door, concerned.

“Which end did you dip?”

“The right one,” she says defensively.

“I’m not having a go.  It’s just – really confusing, isn’t it?”  She walks out.

“It is really confusing,” I repeat to myself.

* * * * *

I look at the pamphlet, it’s heading presented to me by a stork.  In its mouth is a napkin with words unfurling from it.  I read through the steps, eventually getting to the section titled: ‘Limitations of the test.’  I keep reading, until I get to a relevant passage.

“ ‘Certain medical conditions may adversely affect the reliability of this test for predicting ovulation.  These include pregnancy, post-partum, post-abortion.’ ”  I stop.  Suse looks at me.

“The ectopic was five months ago!” she yells.

I go silent.

She grabs the pamphlet and starts reading herself.  She reads to the same part as I get to – as I got to – before choosing not to finish.

“Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, Ovarian cysts, the onset of menopause…”  She stops.  “Menopause,” she says, her voice having dropped another octave.

“You’re not going through menopause,” I say.  She says nothing.  “Maybe the test isn’t working?” I offer.  I grab back the piece of paper from her, reading for the right phrase.  “It claims to work in 98% of LH surges.”

“Yeah, that’d be it.  I’m the one in ten, one in fifteen, one in twenty for everything else.  Why not this?”

I let it go.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, I hear weeping from the bedroom.  I walk in, to see Suse bundled up in a ball, crying.  I lie down beside her, cradling her.  As I do, she begins to sob, spilling out more emotion.

“I just want to die,” she finally says.

“You don’t mean that,” I say, alarmed.  She pauses, realising how this sounds.

“What do I do?  Who do I go to?  I don’t know what to do!  I’m a mess!”

She breaks into sobs once more.

I think.  I scramble.  I shoot around thoughts, ideas, phrases, arguments.  I paraphrase, rephrase, un-phrase.  I run over it, and over it, flipping ideas, trying new ones.  Trying to come up with something.

We lie there as I feel my shoulders tight, the exertion of attempting to fix it, when there’s nothing to fix here.

I feel myself fall loose.

Eventually I open my mouth.

“I don’t have the answer, Suse.”  I pause.  “I don’t know.”

* * * * *

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

Wednesday 24th February 2010

Gestation: 21 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

Suse’s period hit yesterday at noon.

Four hours after the pregnancy test.

* * * * *

We sit watching TV, when Suse grabs at her side.

“Bad pain?”

“Just the usual these days,” she replies.  “You know, it’s uncanny the number of women whose period starts minutes after peeing on a stick.  There’s something biological that they’re playing on here, that fools us into spending ten bucks to pee on a stick just before we spend ten more bucks on pads.”

“Hormones are a bitch,” I reply.

She looks at me, deciding on her reaction.

I wait.

Suse is in fine form.  By which, I mean, her hormones are in fine form.  Right now, her fuse is pretty short.

Add to this yesterday’s negative test and the fuse is lit.

“Yes, hormones are a bitch, Mark.  They’re responsible for bringing my period forward.  I’m three days early, you know.”

“I thought you weren’t sure of your dates,” I say, stupidly.

“Well, I am!  And they are!  Besides, it doesn’t if I’m three days or one day early.  Early is bad.”

“Early is bad?”

“Yes!” she yells defiantly.  “Everyone knows that early is bad!”

I think I missed that lecture at University.

“Okay,” I say.

I stand and start to slowly back away.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”  I stand dead still.  “This way?”

A frown lines her face.  And then the façade falls.

“I just can’t believe it,” she says, her face dropping in defeat.  “I can’t believe this has happened to me.  It’s just not fair.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Neither of my sisters had this.  They both got to…”  She pauses.  “They both got to keep their innocence.  To have an experience of pregnancy without it being tainted.  Without all of this worry!”  She stands, having gone moved from defeated to enraged.  “It’s intruding on my every thought!  Every hour of the day!  I don’t know how to stop it, Mark!  I don’t know how to take it easy with it any more!”  She takes a breath, before finishing, this time more calmly, “I don’t know how to have a natural experience anymore.”

Her heads falls, and she sits heavily on the couch.  I approach and sit with her, my hand on her back.

I go to say something.

But there is nothing to say.

* * * * *