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By Mark Nethercote, September 23, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 19th September 2010

One year ago.

We’ve stopped having sex.  Since the reimplantation.  They say that you can, that there’s no risk in doing so, but, where’s the guarantee?  Is there a money-back warranty if they’re wrong?

No.

You just never know.

“Do you think we should?” one of us has invariably asked.

“I don’t know,” the other has said.

Really, it’s a small price to pay.  Anatomically, the uterus is closed. Physiologically, the embryo will be well-implanted by now, if it is ever going to be.  It’s not like I’m going to knock it out.  Is it?  That doesn’t make sense.  Does it?

If abstinence can infer a safety effect, we’ll be abstinent.  When shit like this has happened to you, you stop being logical.  You lose objectivity.

Frankly, you go a bit nuts.

If anything could possibly help, then you do it.  Even if it doesn’t make sense.  Shit, we’ve got a candle burning in the middle of the kitchen table.

We’ll do whatever it takes.

Whatever it takes.

* * * * *

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

Monday 6th September 2010

One year ago.

There’s a mini-crisis at breakfast.

“The candle is about to go out!” Suse yells.  We both leap up from the couch and over to the table.  The flame limps lowly, the wick bobbing in a sea of wax.  All around are high resin walls, trapping this moat of molten lava inside.

Over the last hour the flame has burnt high and bright, the strongest it has been for the last four days.   But suddenly it is fading.

I grab the replacement candle, tipping its stem to the blue flame to light it.  A drop of wax beads on it’s coated wick before falling, threatening to put it out.

“Stop, stop!” Suse says.  I take it away, and we both stand there breathless, watching for a moment.

“Hang on a sec, I’ve got an idea,” she says, running to the kitchen.  “I’ll use a match to transfer from one to the other.  That way it’ll be the same flame.”

Suse runs over to grab the matches out of the cupboard above the Rangehood.  She returns, slowing as she arrives.  The flame wavers in her breeze, contemplating death.  She brings the match to the flame, threatening to extinguish it, before the phosphorus crackles brightly.

We both take a breath.

She puts the match against the new wick.

“Isn’t that cheating?” I say.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s the same flame.”

We stand for a moment, the new flame beginning while the old one limps weakly.

“I think that’s cheating,” I say frowning.  “And I’ve got an idea.”  I slowly tilt the plate of the first candle, letting the wax move to one end of the molten pond, revealing the wick, and causing the flame to jump up.

“Blow out the new one,” I say.

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

Suse blows it out.

“Now light it.”

She takes the blackened wick from the new candle and touches it to the original flame.  It lights quickly.

I resettle the plate flat, causing the first candle to have one final burst and splutter, before turning blue, folding down, and going out.

“That was close,” I say.

“Mmmm.”

We both stand there staring again.

“Does it matter that the new candle wasn’t a virgin one?”

“Like there are rules to superstition, honey.  We make this up.  We can do what we want.”

* * * * *

Suse spends the morning at the hypnotist, going for a walk through the Botanic Gardens, and then heading to the acupuncturist for her pre-transfer treatment.

She arrives home just in time for lunch.

“I asked them if there was anything else I should do to increase my chances.  And they said that we should have sex.”

“Really?”

“Supposedly that increases your chances of success even further.  What do you think about that?”

“I don’t ask questions anymore.  I just do what I’m told.”

“So should we get to it?”

“Absolutely.”

“We haven’t got long.  Do you think we have time?”

“Honey.  We’ve been told to do this.  Doctor’s orders.”

I take my wife into an embrace, kissing her deeply.  After a few seconds, I break into laughter.

“What is it?”

“I’ve just realised that I’ve been given carer’s leave to have sex.”

“It’s a great country we live in, isn’t it?”

* * * * *

To be continued…

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

Saturday 21st August 2010

One year ago.

Frequent Ejaculation Improves Sperm Quality

‘Cosmos’, Wednesday, 1 July 2009

PARIS: Men who want to become fathers should have sex or ejaculate daily in order to maximise sperm quality, scientists report.

Australian fertility specialist David Greening recruited 118 men whose sperm had a higher-than-normal level of DNA damage.

Before the test, 34% of the group’s sperm was rated as damaged, meaning that it was classified as ‘poor’ in quality. For individuals, 15% to 98% of their sperm were classified as such.

The men were asked to ejaculate daily for seven days, but were not given any drugs or told to make any changes to lifestyle. After seven days, their sperm was examined again. The average of damaged sperm fell to 26%, placing it in the category of ‘fair’ in quality.

Greening presented his findings the European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology in Amsterdam, The Netherlands on Tuesday.

Dr. Greening says the improvements were “substantial and statistically highly significant” and that daily ejaculation not only boosted sperm quality for most of the men, it also helped sperm motility, another big factor in successful fertilisation – even though the volume of semen declined.

* * * * *

Suse isn’t interested in sex every day.  I’m yet to meet a woman who is.

So I improvise.

In the lead up to the big day, I’m doing my utmost to improve my quality.

It’s important.

* * * * *

We’re sitting in bed reading the paper, when Suse turns to me.

“So when you have to abstain for four days, are you going to get cranky?”

“Sorry?”

“Before the sample.  Are you going to get cranky again?”

“What do you mean, again?”

“Like last time.  ‘The horror, the horror’ time?”

“I was nervous about wanking in hospital, hon.  I don’t know that I was cranky.”

“You were cranky.”

“Really?”

“Really.  Is this news to you?”

“I’m not sure what the right answer is here.”

“Well, let me tell you.  It’s like a barometer with you.  When you don’t get it, you get grumpy.”

“Not all the time.”

“Really?”  I look at my wife.  “Let me test you out then.  How long has it been?”  I pretend to think, like I don’t know the answer.  “How long since we had sex?”  Again, I look at my fingers like I’m trying to figure it out.  Like I don’t know.  “Go and do your duty for this family, and come back when you’re less cranky.  I swear, Mark Nethercote, bodily functions and you.  When you haven’t eaten you get cranky, when you haven’t had a shit, ditto.  And when you have to hold off for four days…”

“…What?”

“I’m just saying.  You’re a bodily function kind of guy.  And when you delay your bodily functions, you get cranky.”

She’s spot on.  Absolutely spot on.  I can tell you exactly how many days it’s been since we had sex.   I know I’m supposed to be all cool and relaxed about it, like I’m not quite sure, like it’s not important to me.

I’m not counting.  Consciously, I’m not.  But the point is, all guys are counting, even if they don’t know it. We’re all aware.  It’s instinct.

“Go and clear the pipes, and come back to me in a better mood.”

IVF has taken the romance out of things somewhat.

But from a pragmatist’s viewpoint, it’s right on the money.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, July 19, 2011 10:10 am

Wednesday 14th July 2010

One year ago.

My wife’s a trooper.

Despite antibiotics causing an award-winning bout of thrush and ongoing nausea, despite ovulation pain causing a crippling ache requiring a hot water bottle and bowel-concrete-inducing doses of codeine, despite having been instructed to avoid the perils of condom-free sex for two weeks straight so as to not pass ureaplasma back and forth, and despite the fact that she is clearly ovulating from the right side, the blocked side, the side we have been told that we can’t get pregnant from – my wife is adamant about one thing.

She is adamant that we will be having sex tonight.

And we will enjoy it.

* * * * *

Which we do.

And consequently, we give ourselves the best chance of having a baby naturally.  Despite the fact that Western medicine has told us we’ve got bugger-all chance without a test tube.  Despite the fact that we’re doing it all wrong.  We’re doing it before the ureaplasma is irradicated.  We’re doing it without condoms.  We’re doing it on the wrong side.

So it’s the wrong side.  So it’s not supposed to work.

So what?

So fucking what?

We’ve got to hope.

We’ve got to hope that we can.  Even though we’ve been told that we can’t.  Even though we’re doing it all wrong.

What else can we do, but hope?

What good is there in turning over and giving up?

What good is there in waiting until everything is just right, just spot on, just perfect?

Life ain’t perfect.

It never will be.

Get on with it.

* * * * *

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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, May 27, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 31st May 2010

Gestation: 35 weeks, 3 days

One year ago.

“So you’ve decided to go on holiday?”

“Yep.”

“Great.  When?”

“Three weeks.  Well, not quite.  Two-and-a-half, really.”

The travel agent goes silent.  “Really,” she manages finally.  “In the middle of the school holidays?”  Her voice breaks slightly.

“Yep.  We’ve been waiting to hear about my wife’s jury duty for a while.  To see whether she would get it off.”

“You get it off for shitting in your pants, don’t you?  Wouldn’t have thought you’d need much of an excuse to get out of it.”

“My wife has a social conscience.”

“Okay,” says the travel agent, “one of those.”  I choose not to start a fight with the woman who may get us overseas.  “So what you looking for?”

“Fiji.”

“Mainland?”

“Island resort.”

“With just your wife.  No kids?”

“No kids.  Yet, that is.”

Jesus.  I’m like a broken record.

“You want romance for just you two?”

“Yep.”

“And you don’t care where exactly?”

“Just somewhere relaxing.”

“Then you need a kid-free zone.  A resort that only allows sixteens and over.  Email through your budget, and I’ll see what the hell I can organise with two-and-a-half weeks notice, right in the middle of children’s holidays.”  I hear a baby cry in the background.  “Don’t worry, I’m good.  I’ll sort you out,” she yells over the noise.

“That’s what we’ve been told.  Joel put us onto you.”

“Ah, Joel,” she says, her voice swimming slightly.

“Yes, Joel.”  I let it sit for a second.  “So, I want you to think of Joel in his speedos, on holiday, and wherever that scene is, is where we want to be.”

The woman laughs so hard that the phone goes dead.

I’m not sure if she meant it, or if she dropped the phone by accident, or if this mother went limp at the thought of Joel.

* * * * *

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

Tuesday 6th April 2010

Gestation: 27 weeks, 4 days

One year ago.

Each morning, the light goes on and the thermometer is placed.

“It’s important that the temperature is taken the moment that you wake,” Suse assures me.

This done, she sets her timer and then spits on the microscope.

“You have to leave it for ten minutes before reading,” she intones.

And after that, she rises to pee in a cup.

* * * * *

“I’m done with that test,” she finally said two days ago.

“Thank Christ,” I replied.  “I hate that damn test.”

“Should we drop it?”

“Please.”

On the saliva test, ferning only remained for one day.  The next day we were back to pebbling.  This on its own, was a little disappointing.  After all, everyone knows that pebbling is not as good as ferning.  Everyone who spits on microscopes first thing in the morning, that is.

The plants had hibernated for another month.

* * * * *

Suse’s basal body temperature was up, but less than the expected half-degree.  Again, on it’s own, we were left wondering.  After all, there was the night of mittelschmerz.  But since the ectopic there’s been so much phantom pain that it’s hard to know what’s what.

So this morning, I decide to tabulate it all.  I take Suse’s scribbled little note from beside the bed.

And I put it in a spreadsheet.

* * * * *

I’d completely forgotten the faint line we got on the LH surge test on day twelve.  As hated as that test is, I’d dismissed it out of hand the following day when it again returned a negative.  Hell, we both did.  For three months of wee dipping we’ve earnt a solitary faint line.  Whoop-de-doo.

Yet, when it’s all put together, it looks like this:

Pretty isn’t it?  As a scientifically trained male, the information above soothes my need for order and rational understanding.  And, viewed like this, it looks good.

My own spreadsheet has a sixth column that lists the days we had sex, but I’m quite sure that this is relevant to no one else but us – suffice to say that with Suse’s temperature rising on day twelve, her pee stick showing a faint line on the same day, mittelschmerz a day earlier, and the ferning pattern appearing two days later, that we did our level best to ensure that there were sperm in the right place at the right time.

But what’s more exciting, is that given the chart above, there is a burden of evidence.  And that burden of evidence says that – despite her greatest fears – Suse is, in fact, ovulating.

Sometimes, you need stand back and look at the cold hard facts.

Sometimes, nothing beats an Excel Spreadsheet.  And here, above – exhibit A – is a beautiful little table that warms the cockles of my heart.

Sometimes, when you’re in this far, you can’t see the ovulation for the tests.

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, April 4, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 1st April 2010

Gestation: 26 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

Mittelschmerz: Often mistaken for a German fighter plane from the 1940’s, it has nothing to do with World Wars.  Either of them.

Mittelschmerz is to do with another war.  One being waged within the ovaries.

Its literal definition is ‘middle pain’.  It is the medical term for the sharp ache that occurs mid-cycle, signalling fertility, as the egg is released from the ovary.  There are many theories for its mechanism – the swelling around the follicle just before the egg is released, contraction of the fallopian tubes just afterwards, irritation from the blood that is released -  but, as a simple man, and as a fan of the almost onomatopoeic term, for me it has to refer to that exact moment when the egg bursts out of the ovary wall.  When Jerry breaks through the line, releasing a live bomb, signalling action stations.  Game on.

Only about one in five women get mittelschmerz.  Suse is one of these women.

Or, should I say, Suse was one of these women.

For years, her cycles ran like clockwork.  She knew exactly when she was ovulating, because of the little German alarm clock in her belly.  It was so reliable that she was able to use it as part of her armoury of contraception.

Until the ectopic.

The bloody ectopic.

* * * * *

Since then, things have gone haywire.  There has been erratic, intermittent pain, at times a continuous grumbling pain.  The enemy has been setting off detonations at will – without warning or purpose.  Her cycles have been all over the place, still thrown by this new threat, a far uglier one – that of a repeat ectopic.

Since then, mittelschmerz has gone into hiding, scared off by this bigger, more threatening foe.  Since then, we’ve had to rely on fertility tests from the pharmacy – fat chapsticks and wee tests that have been no where near as forthcoming as the Teutonic reliability of ol’ mittelschmerz.  It brings a nostalgic tear to the eye.

Poor old mittelschmerz has dive bombed.

That is, until now.

Suse grabs my hand, staring straight at the wall.  And then she touches it to her belly.

“I think I’m having mittelschmerz, honey.”  She goes quiet for a moment.  “Whoa.  There it is.”  A grin plays across her face.  “It’s really full on.”

“Great.  That’s really great.”

She looks at me and beams.

Pain has never been so sweet.

And my boys, the allies, have been deployed just minutes before.

There they sit, waiting, ready to ambush.

The war has begun in earnest.

* * * * *

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

Thursday 4th March 2010

Gestation: 22 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

I walk out of the bedroom and into the toilet.  And there, seated, is Suse.

Peeing into a cup.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

The seven-day packet – the one with the purple bitch and her perfect baby on the front of it – has been cracked open.

Having sex like rabbits didn’t work.

It’s time to get scientific.

“So, what’s the go?”

Suse looks up.  “It’s an Ovulation Predictor Test.  It predicts when,” she picks up the box, “ ‘your luteinising hormone is elevated, which signals you are about to ovulate.’ ”  She pauses to see I am concentrating.  “ ‘You are most likely to become pregnant if you have intercourse within 24-36 hours after you detect the hormone surge.’ ”  She sits there, as serious as could be, with a the box in one hand and a cup in the other.

“Really?”

“According to her,” she says, pointing at the purple woman.

“So?”

“So what?”

“What’s the verdict?”

Suse holds up the stick, examining it intently.  “Negative.”

“So the test says that we shouldn’t have sex?”

“That’s what the box says.”

“Well, isn’t that just fantastic.”

I walk away.

Cursing that purple wench.

Her, and her tiny, perfect, purple child.

* * * * *

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

Sunday 28th February 2010

Gestation: 22 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

We roll in towards each other, hugging close.

“Morning, honey,” Suse says.

“Morning, love,” I reply.

We begin to kiss, Sunday morning’s laziness rolling into an amorous embrace.  Suse pulls back.

“Do you want to?”

“Did you think I’d say no?” I answer.

She looks as me and I smile.  I try to read her look, initially unsure if I need to elaborate.  I don’t.  But all the same, I find myself speaking before I can stop.  As if by compulsion.  Something primeval drives me.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m going to say no,” I add.  We kiss again, folding into each other.

“Why not?  You did a few weeks back.”

“Yeah, but this is different,” I say.

“Is it?” Suse replies, absently following my lead.  “Why’s that?”

“Well, you know,” I reply, as if she does.

Walking straight into my own trap.

“No, I don’t know.”

“Well,” I continue, pulling back again, “it’s been a while.”

“No it hasn’t.”

“It has,” I say.

“How long do you think it’s been?”

“Thirteen days,” I say, a bit too easily.

That’s right.  It’s been thirteen days.  We have not had sex for the previous thirteen days.

I know exactly.

I’ve been counting.

* * * * *

I know, I know, I know.  You’re not supposed to count.  You’re supposed to be completely oblivious to the time that has passed since you last had sex.  You’re supposed to be so deliriously happy in your relationship, so completely transfixed by the love and adoration you have for each other that time no longer counts.  You’re meant to have fallen into in a vacuum of emotion, where you are barely aware anymore what the hands on the clock are all about.

Unfortunately, that’s not how it works.  For a male, anyway.

And I’m male.  I’m a man who remembers numbers, no less.  Shit, I’ve got a counter on the top of this blog, counting out the age of a non-existent baby for fuck’s sake.  Stating exactly how old it would be were it still alive, in utero, un-terminated.  One hundred and twenty-four days un-terminated.  Twenty-two weeks, and four days exactly.

I’m a man who remembers numbers.  And a man with a libido.  A very dangerous combination.

Very dangerous indeed.

* * * * *

“Thirteen days?” Suse replies incredulously.  “No.”

“Yes,” I say.  I leave it, the air hanging thick.

“It’s a week.  Max.”

Again, I let the silence sit.  Wishing I was wrong.  Wishing I hadn’t mentioned it.  Wishing, in fact, that I didn’t know.

“You counted?” Suse says, the disappointment audible.

“Well… No.  Yes.  No.  Well, not really.  I mean, tomorrow is Monday, and, well… that’s two weeks.”  I stop for a second, knowing it just won’t wash.  “It’s not like I counted.  It’s just that tomorrow…”  I pause for a second, “is two weeks,” I finish, weakly.

I don’t count.  Not intentionally.  I really don’t.  It’s more an awareness of the date, and the day, and when the sun goes down, and how many of those make up a week.

There are seven of them.

And then, low and behold, if you’re aware of such things, then, yeah, I guess I do.

Yes, I count.

I’m a counter.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really,” I say, wishing it would all go away.  Wishing I was still asleep.

“Oh,” Suse says, deflated.  She lets out a big sigh.

I feel bad.  Suse feels bad.  We all feel bad together.  In one big bad pod.

“Thirteen days?”

“Thirteen days.”

She lets out another sigh.  We go quiet.

“Well, we did all right two weeks ago, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did,” I say, nodding my agreement.

“I mean – we were having sex every day.”

“I know we were, honey.  There was that one night when I nearly wasn’t interested.  You remember?  It totally freaked me out.”

“Yes,” she says, quietly.

“And I’m not complaining.  I’m not.  I’m just… aware.  You know how you’re aware exactly when you’re going to ovulate?  And you just know?  Regardless of whether you want to or not?”

“Yes.”

“In exactly the same way, I know when and where I’ve had sex.”

We lie there.

In silence for a moment.

Both staring at the roof.

“Humans are weird,” Suse says finally, breaking the silence.

“Absolutely,” I say, relieved to see this one suddenly defused.

Absolutely.

* * * * *