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

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

Suse strides over to the bench, sitting down hard.  I follow.

“Hello?” Suse says.

“Hi there, Susan, it’s Shelley here.”

“Hi Shelley.”

“Have you got a minute?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” she says, pausing again, “I can’t tell you this officially, as the analyser is still not functioning.  But your beta-HCG level is positive.”

We both sit there for a moment, before looking at each other, our eyes wide.

“Sorry?”

“It’s just the progesterone level that isn’t through yet.  But the beta-HCG, the actual pregnancy test, is positive.  And… Well, we don’t like to give out the result until we have both, but, unofficially, it’s really the beta-HCG level that counts.”

We both sit there, a little stunned.

“So, that’s good, right?” Suse says eventually.

“Yes.  Absolutely.  And the level is nice and high.  Like really high.  It’s 703, and we like it to be above a hundred.  So you’re definitely pregnant.”

“So, unofficially, you’re telling us we’re pregnant?”

“Unofficially, yes, I am.  I just didn’t want you to be waiting till tomorrow to find out.  I didn’t think that was fair.”

“No,” I pipe in, “we were just talking about that.  We were about five minutes off ringing back.”

“Well, there you go,” she says laughing, “I beat you to it.”

We all go silent.

“So, where to from here?”

“Well you know, you still need your ultrasound at five weeks to check that it’s not an ectopic, which will be a week from now.  And, like I said, I’ll give you a call tomorrow to confirm.  To re-confirm.  But for now, it’s congratulations.”

“Thank you, Shelley,” we say together.  “Thank you.”

“Okay, talk to you tomorrow,” she says, hanging up.

I sit there, still.  Still dazed, before Suse falls into my arms.  I hear her begin to cry, and instantly my own shoulders begin chugging, convulsing, as the tears drop from my eyes.  Suse throws her legs over mine, hugging herself into me.

“We did it, honey,” she mews, barely able to speak. “We did it.”

“We did it.”

“We did it!”

“I know.”

“How are you?”

“Stunned, you know.  A bit shell-shocked, really.  I’d been bracing myself for the worst.”

“Same!”

We fall silent, staring out over the water, watching the swans as the silently float around.

“Oh my god,” Suse says, exhaling heavily.  “It wasn’t all for nothing, you know?  The herbs, the acupuncture, the hypnosis…”

“…The candle.”

“The specially concocted pre-conception recipes.”

“The meditation.”

“Ella saying I was pregnant.”

“Meg’s dream we got pregnant on the first round of IVF.”

“The Garfield doctor telling us someone had to be lucky first time.”

We both watch as the birds draw up against one another, rubbing their backs together.

“I was trying not to read too much into it all,” I say, my voice cracking.  “I was trying not to get too excited, you know, to not see too many signs.”

“Me too!”

“A winter baby.”

“Just like we imagined.  Just a year later.”

“Unofficially, that is.”

“Yes, honey.  Unofficially.”

We grip each other tight, and I place my palm against her belly, again imagining the cells multiplying, becoming a baby, a childhood lived out over seconds in my mind.  I smile.

“It’s poetic you know,” Suse says eventually, “that, in the end, it’s unofficial. The whole thing, the whole damn thing, until your child is in your arms, on the day that they are born, is unofficial.  Isn’t it?”

I look at my wife, and I smile, shaking my head slightly at her insight.

I watch as her brow furrows into that familiar frown.  “She said the level was high, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean it’s twins?”

I laugh so hard that I almost fall off the bench.

THE END

To be continued in three months…

* * * * *

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By Mark Nethercote, September 29, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

I pace around, chasing my own tail.

I’m beginning to get dizzy.

Suse bursts in.

“Let’s go for a walk to the gardens,” she says, sounding almost light.

“Good thinking,” I mumble.

We walk out, along Punt Road, down under our bridge, and along the bike track.  We leave the din and congestion and smell of the evening traffic, crossing onto Morell Bridge.  I look at the lattice work, the ornamental Victorian lights, thinking of a simpler time in which this was built.

“What are you thinking?” Suse asks.

“I’m pissed,” I say.  “I’m frustrated.  This is a test that takes ninety minutes to run, and we’ve been waiting all day.  You went in at 9.30am, and we have to wait for six hours?  For what?  So that it can get to tonight, to now, to this point where they won’t be able to tell us tonight?”

We go silent.

“I have to know tonight, honey,” Suse says, slightly desperately.  “I can’t cope having to wait another day.  What am I going to do if I don’t have the result tonight?” she says, her voice rising.

“You’ll just have to cope,” I say testily, “just like I will.  We’ll just be left in limbo for another fucking night, just like the last eleven months.”

We let go of each other’s hands, waiting at the lights.  I walk off ahead, without the green man’s permission, and in through the garden’s wrought iron gates.

Suse catches me, taking my hand into hers.  Through all of this, we’ve tightened as a team.  People say that IVF will make you or break you as a couple.

If nothing else, through all of this torture we’re closer than ever.

As we walk, I squeeze my eyes tight, thinking of the last month, of the last year. Lighting the candle and surrounding it with salt to cleanse the house.  Our fertility ritual under a full moon in Fiji.  The boats that Suse made, to float away the spirits of past pregnancies into the sunset.  Our counselling with Jules.  All of Suse’s medical trials;  her trouble with both shoulders, her ectopic, her blocked fallopian tubes, her brush with multiple sclerosis and a spinal tumour, and then her varicella reaction.

And then I think of this last month.  Of all of her pregnancy symptoms.  Of the incident with the dishwasher.  Of Meg’s dream that we would get pregnant this first time.  Of Ella’s comment in the car.  Of what the Garfield doctor said about someone having to be lucky.  Of that feeling I’ve had, ever since we lit the candle two weeks ago.

That something has got to go right for us.

I open my eyes, and I contemplate the opposite.  The reality of where we are right now, somewhere on the road of IVF, trying to lift our feet into the next heavy step.

We continue along quietly.  The gardens now surround us, the smell, the tranquillity, the soft air.  We walk down our curve, winding right around the lake.  We walk along the path, and as we do, I see Suse’s shoulders rise, the weight lifted slightly in the presence of nature.

“If it gets to five, I’m calling back,” I say.  “I’m not…”

“…It’ll be okay,” Suse says, once again composed.  “She’ll call.

She squeezes my hand, and we walk some more.  We round the bend, past the lawn, the lake in front, a couple of birds fluttering at its edge.  As if on cue, as we pass the park bench, the phone rings.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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By Mark Nethercote, September 27, 2011 10:00 am

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

The hours pass slowly.  I start the plumbing job, but having never done anything like this before, I have trouble judging how long it’ll take.  Added to this it is uncertainty of whether it will another minute or another hour before I’m cradling Suse in the bedroom with bad news, while water slowly fills the house through a leaky tap.  So I sort of start, and then I stop, and then I start again.

I end up not doing it.

Meantime, Suse sits in the lounge room, watching internet TV.  She devours several episodes of marginally talented singers standing in front of cruel judges and a loving audience, while shoving Rice Bubbles continuously into her mouth.

I check my watch at decreasing intervals.  I feel like a relative, having learnt of a disaster in a foreign land, awaiting confirmation of death.  Each time the phone rings, I jump up from my desk, running into the lounge room.  We both stare at the mobile phone screen, at the various names that appear, none of them Shelley.  We let them all go through to message bank.

“I’m going to ring,” I declare, finally, at 3.07pm.

“She said she’d ring us,” Suse protests weakly.

“You don’t want to know?”

“Not really,” she admits meekly.

“Well, I do,” I say.

I pick up the phone, and dial.  The phone peals five times before it answers.  I feel my heart in my mouth.

“Hi, You’ve called Shelley from Monash IVF,” begins the recorded message.

My heart starts again.

* * * * *

I return to my job of doing nothing in particular. Seconds take far longer than they should.

Never before have I been so inefficient at being inefficient.

It crawls all the way to 4.12pm, before the phone finally rings.  I run out to find Suse there, the shrieking of a contestant’s final flat note cut dead with the pause button.  The mobile rings again, the ‘old phone’ ringtone breaking the silence, sounding like something from a Hitchcock movie.  We both look at the screen to see the name: ‘Shelley’.

Suse answers on speaker phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi there Susan, it’s Shelley here.”

“Hi Shelley,” she says, sounding like the scolded child, about to be punished.

“How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Have you got a minute?”  She sounds apprehensive.

It’s bad news.

Fuck it all.

“Yep.”

“Look…” she says, pausing, “your result isn’t through yet.  They’re having some troubles with one of their analysers.”  I take a gasp.  “So, I’m just ringing to let you know that I haven’t forgotten about you.”

“But the result will be through today,” Suse says, as statement more than question.

“Most probably.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll give you a call when it does.  Just hang in there, okay?”

“Okay.”

The phone goes dead.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, don’t you?” Suse says, her head falling into her hands.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

I stand.  And I walk out of the room and into the study.

Looking for something expensive to throw at the wall.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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

Monday 20th September 2010

One year ago.

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

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

I walk back through the maze, remembering my to Bay Three.  There I see Suse, a blue jacket over her white

“How are you, love?” I ask, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.  She looks

“They only got three.”  She sighs.

“Three?”

“Yup.”  She sighs again.  “And when they only get three, they only want to incubate them to Day Three.  Not to Day Five.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  I guess with so few, they reckon it’s better to get them back in there as soon as possible.”

“Okay.”

“They reckon Day Three transfers still have a 20-25% success.”

“Down from 30-35% with Day Five?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

We both sit there silently.  I feel the furrow deep in my brow.  A tear streams down Suse’s face.  “I’m sorry honey.”

“Shut up, Suse,” I bark back.  “Stop apologising.  Stop saying it’s your fault.”

“But it is.”

I find myself sighing.

It’s an old argument this one.

It goes nowhere but down.

So we sit there in silence, staring straight ahead.  Past the dried club sandwiches, and into the murky eddies of our own thoughts.

Three eggs.

A bunch of sperm.

One candle.

And we still have to wait to see how many fertilise.

We might get none.

A tear rolls down my own cheek, as I take Suse’s cold hand in mine.

* * * * *

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

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

The instructions reiterate that I wash my hands, like I’m not about to touch my own penis.  They ask me to print my name on the pot and the consent form.  I one-up this by writing my full name, date of birth, ID number, wife’s name, and her ID number.

I’m not taking any chances.

I turn on the TV, and open a web browser.

I Google: ‘Porn’.

I open about ten tabs.

And then I sit there, butt naked, the heater on full, scanning through free porn, in the comfort of my own home, and knob myself.

And I do a very good job.

* * * * *

I head to the bathroom, again slowing as I pass the candle.  It flickers as I go.  The pot sits in the warm palm of my unused hand while I use the other to clean up.  I return to the living room, holding my pot, before re-dressing in the clothes that are strewn across the floor.

The pot goes straight into the jeans pocket.

‘Keep warm after production,’ the instructions warn, ‘but do not heat above body temperature.’

I grab the keys, the consent form and the biological hazard bag, and I jump back in the car.

It’s 10.02am.

As I drive back up the road towards the hospital, the sample jar sticks uncomfortably out of my jeans pocket.  At the lights, I wrestle it out and check the lid one more time.  I hold it up to the light to check the volume, surprised to see a few bubbles.  I guess anything liquid that sits in your jeans pocket is likely to bubble a little.

I feel a creeping over me, as I look to my right and see a woman in her car, staring.

Her jaw wide open.

The lights go green, and I floor it round the bend, pressing the jar against my warm palm.

* * * * *

I sit in the same seat, near the receptionist with the allergy to sperm, like I’m waiting to see the principal.  Occasionally she looks across at me, forcing a smile when I catch her staring at my Biological Hazard Bag.  I keep it on my lap like a loin cloth, ensuring the pot is upright.

My phone rings.

“Hello, is that Mark?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dorothy from Monash IVF.  I believe you were going to provide us with a sample?”

“I’m holding it in my hands as we speak.”

“Oh.  Are you on your way in?”

“I’m here.  I’m waiting for someone to come down and collect it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Day Procedure waiting room.  My wife is getting her eggs collected right now.”

“And where is your sample?”

“In my hands.  I’m holding a jug of sperm in my hands.”  The receptionist looks up like I just swore.

“Right.  Sorry.  I didn’t realise.  Someone will be there in a few minutes.”

I hang up and look around.  The waiting area is filled with seventy-year olds getting their hips screwed and their colostomies hemmed.  Not one other person in the room has a jug of sperm in their hands.  I concentrate very hard on the middle distance, staring carefully like there’s something important for me to see.

Eventually, a woman appears.

“Mark?”

She beckons me to the same corridor, forty-eight eyes following me as I go.

“Is that the sample?” she asks, pointing from hands hinged close to her body.

“Yes.”

She takes out a pair of purple gloves, putting them on theatrically.  “Could you repeat your full name?”

“Mark Edward Nethercote.”

“Date of birth?”

“29th May 1975.”

“ID code.”

I pull out the card from my wallet, repeating the number.

“Great, thank you.”

“It comforts me that you do that,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Check my details.  To make sure you’ve got the right person.”

“It’s not something we want to get wrong.”

With that she turns on her heels, and leaves.

I stand there for a moment, before turning back towards the waiting room.

Everyone is watching.

Everyone.

I wave.

Three of them wave back.

* * * * *

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

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

Suse’s name is called, and we follow an impossibly small nurse wearing oversized Crocs through the doors and into the next section of the maze.  She trips on her own tiny feet;  in even the smallest sized shoes she wears two pairs of socks, and yet she still trips every three or four steps.  When we sit, requisite questions follow about Suse’s teeth, her lack of pacemaker, if her blood pressure is always that low, and whether we’d like them to pinch her jewellery while she’s asleep.

Suse then follows the tripping nurse to the change rooms, and returns wearing a large art smock, a hair net, and cloth foot covers.  She looks like a lunatic art teacher who works part time at the deli.  We sit for two more minutes, and then we’re ushered through to the departure lounge, where she gets the chair that goes up and down, and I get the footstool.  In turn, we sit here for a few minutes in awkward repose, until a man who has been passed several times finally gets the courage up to say hello.

“Hi there, Susan, I’m Martin.  Martin,” he repeats, turning to me.

“Mark,” I say.

“No, Martin,” he says once more.

“And I’m Mark.”

“Right you are,” he says, laughing awkwardly.  He crouches close.  “Now I think you guys are aware that Dr Fleischer won’t be performing the procedure today?”

“Yes.”

“And that Professor Vermeulen will be supervising?”

“Supervising?  She’ll be doing the procedure, won’t she?”

“No, I’ll be performing the procedure while she looks over my shoulder and says, ‘yep, great, looks good.’  Do have a problem with that?”

I look at Suse, her eyes having gone wide.

“No disrespect to you Martin, but I’ve only just met you, and I have a great deal of respect for Professor Vermeulen.  She was a lecturer of mine at University.”

“And you would like her to perform the procedure?”

“We’d feel more comfortable with that, yes.”

“So in that case, I’ll be looking over her shoulder while she performs the procedure, and I’ll be saying, ‘yep, great, looks good.’ ” We all laugh easily at the break in tension.

“Do you have any questions, Susan?”

“If you could just walk me through exactly what will happen, that would be great.”

“Okay,” he says, beginning to move his hands animatedly, in a game of Charades.  “We’ll place a needle into each of the follicles, and see how many of them have eggs.   For someone like yourself who has limited follicles, we’ll puncture each of them, even though the smaller ones probably won’t have eggs in them.  We’ll flush them out, searching for eggs – just in case.  To get as many as we can.”

“Sure,” I say.

“You’ll be under a light anaesthetic, you see, and you’ll be out the other end in no time.  You may have a bit of spotting and some period pain for a couple of days, but it should all settle down pretty quickly.  Do you have any questions?”

I look across at Suse, who is staring blankly ahead.

“I’m fine.  Suse?”

She shakes her head.   Martin gets up and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Well, for someone like me with such limited follicles, I guess I’m as good as I can be.”

* * * * *

I drive down the back streets towards our house.  As I brake behind the one-hundred-and-seventy-year-old man they hire specifically to piss off the residents of Richmond, I quell the urge to beep.  I ride the break down Lennox Street, through the repeated roundabouts and over the speed bumps towards Swan.  Eventually – despite having until eleven – I overtake him, almost causing him to crash.  I round the corner, heading west up Swan before pulling down our street to the end, squealing the breaks as I zoom under our roller door and pull up hard.

As I enter I walk slowly, careful to not blow out the candle that we lit last night.

Suse has always been a candle-kind-of-girl, but ever since the clairvoyant at the café with the salt and the candles, I’m also a convert.

“Let’s light a candle for incubation,” she said last night, out of the blue, “inviting a soul to join us.”

We lit it together, both striking the match, both saying something softly as we did.

And while I don’t know anything about the rules for this sort of shit, accidentally blowing out our candle when I’m – blowing out my own candle – would surely not be good karma.

I pass the quiet flame and walk towards the kitchen bench.  I take the pot out of the plastic bag and unscrew its lid, placing it down on the couch.  I pull out the consent form, reading the instructions:  ‘How to Wank 101.’

I’m not joking.

There are instructions.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

We sit down in the waiting area, the same waiting area as before.  The same place as for Suse’s shoulder operation.  The same as for her laparoscopy.

And now this.

I stare at my watch.

It’s 8.13am.

I jiggle my knee up and down.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“I’ve got to give them my sample, love,” I say, edgily.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Well, they told me I’ve got to get it to them by nine.  You know how I don’t like to be rushed.”

“You’re going home to do it?”

“Bloody oath.  I’m not doing it here again.  No more ‘MILFs in Heat’ for me.”

“Did you line anything up last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you find some material on the internet to help you out?”

I feel something crawl up my back.  “I guess I didn’t plan that far ahead,” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” she repeats.

“Yeah, sure.  You know how much I love a dry wank.”  The man two seats down shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Either he’s got piles, or he just heard me.  “I just love the pressure of all of this.  With $2500 riding on my performance.  I just love it.”

“Just, pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Come on, Suse.  How about you do the same.”

She looks at me, in a look of truce.  “Just go up to the desk and ask them about it.  Find out the deal.”

I sigh dramatically, like a teenager whose just been told sense.  I stand, and approach the counter.  The man with the piles watches me warily as I go.

“Hi there,” I say in a low voice, “my wife is here for egg collection today, and I have a question about my sample…”

“…Oh,”  the plain looking lady interrupts, “I don’t know anything about that.  I’ll call someone down from Andrology.”  She refuses to meet my eyes.  “Just have a seat,” she says, shooing me and my dirty hands away from the desk.

I sit back down.

“What’s the go?”

“They’re sending someone down to give me a lecture on technique.  Probably Cheryl and her purple gloves.”

I pull out my phone and begin to play with it.  The plain looking lady and the man with the piles both eye me as I do.

“Anyone would think you were the one having the operation today,” Suse smirks.

“If it goes like last time, I might just need one.”

“Honey, if I had the choice between dry wanking into a cup and having a large needle stuck up through my vagina and into my guts, I’d happily swap.”

Yeah, yeah.  You got me on that one.

* * * * *

Two minutes later, an attractive young woman wearing surgical scrubs walks through the door.  She spots me instantly – like I’m exuding nervous adolescent pheromones or something.  She beckons me with a finger.  I follow her halfway down the hall.

“Hi, she says, “I’m Cynthia.  I believe you had a questions regarding your sample?”

“Yeah,” I begin, shifting edgily from one foot to the other.  “My wife is having harvest at nine a.m.  And it’s…”  I look at my watch.  “…8.19am already. I’ve got to produce my sample.  And I’m running out of time.”

“Running out of time?”

“Well, there’s only forty minutes to go.”

“Oh.  No, there’s no rush,” she says, smiling kindly.  “The sample just has to make it to us by eleven.”

“Really?  I’d been told to drop off Suse, go home, produce the sample and be back by nine.”

“Wow.  That’s some schedule.”

“Tell me about it.”

“That’s enough to put anyone off.”

“I know!”  I laugh with relief.

“We don’t even start preparing the sperm until early afternoon.  So, stay here with your wife, get her in for the procedure, and then produce the sample at your leisure.”

At my leisure?

“Okay.  I don’t know that I’ll do it at my leisure.  I’ll still get right onto it.”

“Whatever works for you.”

At my leisure.

Whatever works for me.

This is so much better than last time.

* * * * *

To be continued…

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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 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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