This article is an excerpt from the book, ‘A Time for Grace’ - an uplifting story of love, loss and the miracle of IVF, written by Dr Mark Nethercote, a paediatrician who couldn’t have kids.
This whole process, this pregnancy thing, has taught me a lot about humility. Nothing in my life has ever been quite as confronting – as directly challenging of my sense of worth – as this ride my sweet wife and I are on.
I’ve had things come and go that have made me wonder about who I am and what I’m made of, but, generally, I’ve been able to go to sleep at the end of the day knowing I have what it takes. But this entire cascade of events that began with the act of Suse getting pregnant, through losing that pregnancy, to learning that we might not be able to get pregnant again, has taken us all the way down to the bottom of the valley. In that valley, Suse and I have had stare deeply within, to look at ourselves, at each other, and face a simple question with very humble hearts. And the answer to that question is this: ‘Yes, we will fight, we will do whatever it takes to have kids.’
Yes, we will medicalise it. Yes, we will surrender our bodies to science, to IVF, so that we can be given a chance of having children.
Yes, we will surrender our innocence, and, along with it, the assumption that having children easily, seamlessly, is our right.
That last idea has long since evaporated.
A stern teacher has checked our maths assignment and shown us that the figures don’t add up. We are going to have to repeat the course over and re-sit the exam.
So we do what we are told. With humility, we do what we are told.
We stand there in the lift, as it takes off for the top floor. My stomach lurches in that way that it does, feeling like it might fall through my boots. It’s funny how used I am to this feeling now; when it never goes away, that’s called being barren.
I look at Suse, no higher than her shoulder. I don’t want to make eye contact; this isn’t a moment of solidarity, it’s is a stolen glance. I realise how furtive I’ve become, how furtive our how relationship has become, a symbol for everything. It’s like it’s all built on shifting sands, and to stare it in the face risks dissolving it to nothing.
But standing here, there is one thing I do note, and it is undeniable. It is the space between us. There are studies looking at elevator behaviour, at how close we are comfortable being with complete strangers. Our personal space sits around us like an ellipse; we are not very happy when people get too close from in front or behind, but side to side, we are happy standing next to strangers.
Except for us, now. We’re not even standing as close as strangers. There’s something between even us.
I look again, and this time, she catches me.
Her eyes say something, but I can’t quite read it. The lift dings, and it opens, and she is out before me, leaving me standing, like I’m still in the deli aisle.
I catch her in the next few steps, and together, we stand as I knock. For a moment, I feel her cool hand squeeze mine. The door opens, and as we walk into the room, I hold my breath.
Suse hasn’t seen either of my brothers’ new babies yet. I know how hard it has been for her, how emotionally challenging, to have both of her sisters-in-law pop out a child within a fortnight of each other, around the same time she would have – had things worked out differently.
“Hello!” my mum says, welcoming us in. Everyone stands. We enter the hotel room, filled with grandparents, parents, a sister, and now an uncle and an aunt. My mum takes Suse in a hug, and my dad does too. Both wordlessly loving towards her, knowing how hard this must be.
“Come on over and have a look,” says one of my sisters-in-law excitedly, directing the comment straight at Suse. I pause for the reaction.
“I’d love to,” Suse says.
“Nice digs,” I say to my brother.
“Yeah, they like to ship you out of hospital as soon as possible. Don’t know that this is the hotel I’d choose, but it does all right.”
“It’s nothing on the Sofitel,” yells out my sister-in-law.
“Well, the room is smaller, sure, but the meals are okay ––”
“Yeah, but they make you pay for the movies,” she says in her Texan twang.
I look across at Mum, sitting perched on the edge of the bed. She has a broad smile on her face, her head cocked, as she looks across at her youngest grandchild. I follow her eyes, to check out what my new nephew is doing that is so cute.
And then I see it.
There is Suse, holding Zack. She has him in the crook of her arm, one finger in his mouth, while she strokes his soft brown hair. Born to it.
She looks up at me, and smiles.
Soon after, we sit in Chinatown, around the corner in the CBD, chewing away on lemon chicken. I look out the window at the neon world beyond. Neither of us says anything for a couple of minutes; the period of silence an indication of the quality of the food.
Suse looks up, licking her fingers.
“You did okay in there, hon?” I ask. “It wasn’t too close to the bone?”
“Nup,” she says simply. “Something happened in there with Zack. I had a little moment with him. I spoke to him, and he spoke back.”
I look at Suse curiously, knowing that this is something that my rational mind is never going to get, but that it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s true. “He told me that there was a little girl waiting, waiting to come down.” She takes another bite of her food. “And so I told him that I was ready.”
She stares up at me.
“I think it’s over, Mark. I’m over it. The wound is healing.” She nods, confirming the fact to herself. “Something profound happened in there. I’m ready to start to move on.”
I look at my wife, not quite understanding. Never really fully comprehending this marvellously complex, beautiful, exquisitely frustrating, lovable soul that I’ve found to match my own bizarre, eccentric, inexplicable one.
I guess that’s what we call marriage.
Pre-order signed copies of the book at marknethercote.com which will be released in March 2017.
