Piddle Sticks and Bad Memories

Things had been pretty damn good since that weird moment in the bedroom. I was in a place I’d never thought possible. Married, content and regularly getting some. My beloved, being the queen of organisation that she is, drew up a chart highlighting appropriate times and days to…um…how do you say this without it being crude and crass…get jiggy with it? No. Dance the horizontal Lambada? Nah. Fire my love gun? Hmmm don’t think so. Deploy my boys into the deep unknown? Sure, why not. All in technicolour I might add. So as it was, I was regularly getting it on. Like clockwork. And I’d even come up with a way to distract myself from her post-coital gymnastics practice. I called it ‘sitting on the couch, watching TV’. As a means of distraction, it works a treat. You should try it.

We were following her meticulous schedule for a few months and I things were going great. Swimmingly in fact. Apologies for using that awful pun. But apparently, not all was well. And instead of euphoria I started to detect growing anger and frustration after every sweaty embrace. See, we weren’t pregnant yet. The myriad of little plastic wee sticks thrown into a cupboard drawer were proof of that. I hated going to the supermarket, because no matter how hard I tried to steer her away, we invariably cruised through the ‘pharmacy’ section and ummed and ahhed over the respective nuances of about two dozen types of pregnancy test. It got to the point where we tried every single different wee stick we could find, hoping that eventually, we’d find one that showed us that we were pregnant.

I say we. Because that is how it is termed these days. I know. I don’t like it either. But after five years of marriage, to the same woman I might add, I have learned to not argue semantics in the ‘heat of the moment’. This entire ‘we’ thing started from the moment that she said ‘we’ were trying to have a baby. To be fair, I can’t ever recall actually trying. Maybe that was why we weren’t?

Anyway, to distract her from stabbing me to death with a plastic wee stick, I organised a trip away to sunny Port Douglas, to you know, shake up the routine. Her disposition was altered immeasurably. Full of smiles, handholding, compliments (real ones) and all the lovey dovey crap that men secretly love but never admit. There I said it.

We were at the hotel. A lovely little place with shiny white tiles, shiny white walls, shiny white air-conditioning and a very tanned blonde receptionist with shiny white teeth. They shone with the brilliance of a supernova. I stifled a laugh, reflecting on how they beamed from the dark recesses of her tan.

We were booking a snorkelling tour, scanning over the many different brochures, each one with an identical picture of coral and the same turtle swimming happily in the water. My wife was taking her time, chatting to Fangs, while I was sweating like a hog waiting to be stuck on a spit. I could feel the heat of the flames licking at my soon to be crackling skin. It was hot and I was a little sunburnt.

"Have you forgotten anything?" She asked as we left reception, her face hidden behind a pair of knock-off sunglasses we bought in Thailand earlier that year.

"No,” I responded, my brain slowly melting under my hat.

"Are you sure?” She asked again, pecking away at me like a hen at a worm.

"Yes I’m sure. I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“Have you got your wallet?”

“No, I figure on paying for lunch with some rocks we collect on the way.”

“What about the keys? Have you got the keys?”

“Of course I have the keys. Hear the jingle jangle in my pocket. Keys.”

“And you’re sure you have your wallet?”

“For Christ’s sake, I haven’t forgotten anything. Why do you always have to ask me?”

“Because you always forget something.”

“What? You’re talking rubbish. When was the last time I forgot anything?”

“…”

“See! I knew you couldn’t come up with an example.”

“I was merely taking a moment to trawl through the vast database of examples. Like yesterday for instance, when you forgot to pack the sunscreen and got ridiculously sunburnt, or last night when you forgot your phone and we couldn’t call a taxi to get home. Or on Sunday, when you forgot to take the chicken out of the car and we had to have toast for dinner. Or last week when you forgot that we were having my parents over and you stayed back for a drink after work.”

“…”

“Or two weeks ago when you for…”

“OK I get it.”

“Good. Now, have you forgotten anything?”

“Bloody Nora! No, I’ve got everything. Can we go now?” She looked me up and down, satisfied that she had beaten me down. Again.

We boarded the bus and took it to the marina. She was talking to an English backpacker about crocodiles or sharks or bikinis or something and I was desperately trying to get as much air from the open window as I could. She turned to me, her fingers playing with hair sticking out form under my hat and smiled. She seemed happy, as if the thought of not being pregnant hadn't entered her mind. She was looking forward to going on the tour.

"Hun, do you think we have enough time to look at the shops before we leave? Jenny says they have a wonderful baby store at the marina." Baby store? But we're not even pregnant, I almost blurted out, until the tiny part of my brain that still processed thoughts kicked me senseless and took over.

"I think so. Depends on what time we have to meet the guy at the boat."

"Can you check the tickets?" As I began patting myself down like an overweight, very sweaty cop, an image of two tickets resting forlornly atop the reception counter flickered momentarily into focus and suddenly vanished like a mirage.

"Shit!" I muttered, steam rising from my sweat soaked skin.

"What is it hun?" Oh crap. What do I say now?

"Uhhh...about the tickets"

"Yes."

"..."

"Spit it out Ed."

"I...uh...I...kind of left them on the counter at the hotel."
"You forgot the tickets! I can't believe you forgot the tickets! You really are the stupidest...
...I have ever met."

"..."

"So what now Ed?"

"At least there's plenty of time to go shopping."

The Fear of Naked Acrobatics

The air was thick with it. That smell. You know the one. The heady aroma of crisp freshly laundered sheets, rain on the wind, coffee and three different types of bodily fluids. There I was, standing over the toilet bowl, reflecting upon the “morning greeting” my wife gave me, while adding a fourth bodily fluid to the mix. I wiped the crustiness of sleep from my eyes and splashed some water in my face and gazing at my reflection, recognised the almost familiar look of a man who had just got some.

Awash with surprised satisfaction and greedily dreaming about the freshly brewed cappuccino I was about to start sipping, I waited in the kitchen for my wife to join me. I wanted to share my happiness with her, given that she was the chief provider of it. A couple of minutes had elapsed, my coffee was half finished, but she hadn’t emerged. Maybe she was in the bathroom. I left her be. I sipped more coffee. I switched on the telly, barely aware of Homer dreaming about thigh slapping monkeys. I said barely aware...OK c'mon, it's the Simpsons...you're always kind of aware.

Anyway, five minutes had elapsed. Still no wife. She could be getting dressed. These things take time. I waited some more. Maybe some eggs for breakfast. Yeah. I could cook her eggs. As a thank you. A token of my appreciation. Fifteen minutes later, dishes washed, second coffee made and two platefuls of scrambled eggs and toast resting neglected on the dining table, there was still no sign of my beloved. What the hell?

You know when you're sitting on the couch, shoving fistful after fistful of salted snacks in your gob, flicking channels on the telly for sport and you happen upon something that stops your demented surfing in its tracks. Something that stops you so suddenly that your salted snacks fall like autumn leaves from your mouth. Something akin to secret footage of a genetically enhanced Emperer Penguin mating with a dwarf pony that makes your mind scream WTF? They have weird crap like that on the Discovery channel all the time. You know what I'm talking about. Just think about that moment, the utter absurdity of it. You thinking about it? You know what I'm referring to? You can feel it yeah? OK...this is what I felt when I walked through the bedroom door and discovered my wife, counting out loud, laying on her back, her legs splayed and almost touching the ceiling, her hands under her arse, gently massaging the cheeks.

"Ahem," I coughed loudly, hoping to gain her attention.

"Be with you in a minute honey. I just have five more revolutions to do." she puffed between numbers, her legs now rotating as if she were riding an upside down, invisible bike.

"Ummm." How do you respond to that?

"...four...five. OK done," she stated emphatically, repositioning herself and wiping away beads of sweat from her forehead. She gazed up at me happily, a sense of purpose and accomplishment smeared over her face.

"What are you doing?" I questioned, not sure I wanted an answer.

"What? Nothing," she answered, shoving her head through a jumper. Nothing? That wasn't nothing lady. That was definitely something.

"What d'you mean nothing?" Why did I ask? I knew I shouldn't have. You never should, and my next question was just another in a long list of stupid questions I'd asked in the last few months. "What was with the naked acrobatics?"

"Oh right, that." Go on. We're all waiting. "It's just some exercises that the doctor gave me to aid conception." Huh? Is that what you and cat-hair were scheming about at our last appointment after he insulted me for an hour? How could you betray me so?

"Aid conception..." I repeated, hoping that I had misheard her.

"Yeah. You know, so we can fall pregnant." No dice.

"How?" Another one of those stupid, stupid questions.

"Well, the idea is that if I elevate my bum and keep my legs in the air and move them about then your..." Don't say it! Please for God's sake don't say it. "...sperm will have a better chance of finding my eggs." Ugh...she had to didn't she...she just had to say it. I now had that image trickling in my mind like my boys were trickling in...well, you get the idea.

"Oh." I mumbled, horrified. It occurred to me that I wasn't the sexy beast that I thought I was. Oh hell no. Uh uh. Shit! She may not actually even want to dance the fandango with me at all. Not willingly at least. Not without some kind of result. That would be like working without pay. Like volunteering. It was all about you know what. "So our freaky make out session this morning had nothing to do with you being enamoured with my absolute manliness and obvious sexual charms either did it?" Oh you stupid, stupid boy.

She stood up, gave me a kiss, smiled and half-walked, half-skipped down the corridor to the kitchen, humming what I was sure was Baby Love by The Supremes. She paused at the end, laughed and slipped into the kitchen. I remained in the bedroom, feeling like a right stooge. I needed to find hope. Find something to cling to. Then it dawned on me. If this was how it was going to be, if I was to be nothing but the propagator of seeds, then I may as well get some enjoyment out of it.

"So, same time tomorrow?" I called out hopefully. She popped her head out from the kitchen, shook her head, smiling and went back into hiding. I could her the chink of a knife and fork against a ceramic plate.

"Oooh scrambled eggs! Thanks baby!" She hollered, blissfully aware of the rapid deflation of my hope bubble. Stupid, stupid boy.

You Gotta Aim High

Waiting is a terrible thing. You're always anxious, nervous, easily angered. The most minute annoyance rapidly escalates into a raging mass of frustration and hysteria until you snatch a blunt instrument and bludgeon the person standing next to you blue and black until they resemble a tattooed Smurf. And this is just when waiting in line for a movie ticket or at an atm. Waiting for test results...another level. Waiting for medical test results...well, that's a whole new game.

A few weeks had passed since my sticky incident and we were sitting, once again in the hospital waiting room. I hated this room. Hated the grey lino floors, the grey plastic seats, the grey particle ceilings and the grey dispositions of the staff. I even hated the magazines that lay strewn about. Not one of them was recent. You'd be lucky to find one less outdated than the 'other magazine' I recently came into contact with. And every damn one of them had Nicole Kidman on the cover.

"Nicole gets married." Good for her. "Nicole's husband is a drunk." Boo hoo! "Does Nicole's Bump Mean She's Pregnant?" Who freakin' cares? Everyone. That's who. Even my delightful wife started talking about Nicole and her bump as we sat there waiting for the results.

"Do you think it's true?" she asked, genuinely excited. How the hell should I know and why should I care?

"Nope, she probably just ate an apple or something," I replied, only half thinking about the possibilities. The results weighed heavily on my mind. What if they weren't...what if they couldn't...what if I was...bloody hell.

"Mr Vuck-oh-dick?" an agitated voice called from the distance, plucking my thoughts away like an old woman does stray nostril hairs. I looked up and noted that my wife had dropped Nicole and was already getting to her feet. A small, squinty eyed receptionist stood glaring at us and holding a manilla folder covered in stickers. That must be it. The future rested between those beige cardboard coverings.

She escorted us to the same consulting room we visited last time and motioned for us to sit down, her eyes impossibly narrowing further.

"Dr Lawson will be with you shortly," she said curtly and hurried out. I looked up at the wall, scanned the familiar posters and flyers and began waiting again. I hated this. Why do they call you in, only to make you wait again? What's the point of the bloody waiting room? My wife sat expectantly, cheerfully humming some stupid jingle that was playing on the radio in the car.

"The blind factoreee, the blind factoreee, the blind, the blind, the blind, the blind, the blind factoreeeee!" I hated that song. To be fair, there wasn't much that I was liking at this point.

"Misterand and Missussss Vuch-o-litch?" asked Dr Lawson as he stumble stepped into the room, his pants nestled tightly under his chin. How anyone can wear pants that high is beyond me. How does he pee when his zipper sits between his nipples? Neither of us responded and he nodded, his hair somersaulting into the air, twisting and landing back on his scalp. He sat down on the patched vinyl chair with a sigh and flicked through the file, quietly humming to himself, occasionally licking at his thumb as if it was made of stamps. For Christ's sake man...you're supposed to read the damn file before you see us...BEFORE!

With an exasperated sigh and a cluck of his tongue, he looked us both up and down before fixating on me.

"So," he began, the wispy hairs on his chin almost touching his belt buckle, his eyes stabbing me wildly with pity, "Mrs Vook-ah-snitch, it seems your tests results were all perfect. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you." Eh? Why the hell are you talking to her you crusty old git?

"Wow, that is good news," sighed my wife, clearly relieved, about what, I don't know. Not like she has dodgy swimmers or something is it.

"And as for you Mr Fuk-a-bich..." What's with the pausing??? Spit it out man! "There was an irregularity with the volume of the sample provided," he continued, the cat on his head doing a little lap, before making itself more comfortable.

"Oh yeah. Ummm...you see, the thing with that is...the whole in the container is really small and I'm not used to aiming...ummm." Dr Hair blinked silently, his lips displaying the faintest hint of a cruel smile.

"I see," he half muttered, half chuckled. Prick. "So taking your inaccuracy into consideration (which may or may not be one of your pregnancy problems) the strength of your sperm is, surprisingly high." Surprisingly? What do you mean surprisingly?

"Uhhh ok. That's great," I responded not really triumphantly. Dr Hair studied me closely, then shrugged his shoulders into his pant pockets and mumbled something about timing and practicalities and how something should affect something else. I kind of lost track a little bit, because, well, my boys were ok. Better than ok. Ok so they didn't swim too straight, but they could swim man, they could swim!

Again, he ushered us out of the room in double quick time, his hair bouncing about his head like a plague of mice, his pants creeping unbelievably higher still. He wished us good luck and extended his hand for me to shake and as I reached out to take it, he retracted it, shoving it deep into his shoulder high pocket, pleased he had psyched me out. Incredulous, my wife guided me back down the hallway and towards the lift well. We stood there silently for a moment, the two of us resting on our heels, when my wife turned to me and asked me if I really thought Nicole wasn't pregnant.

"I dunno, maybe. She could be, does it matter?" I said distracted.

"I guess not," she sighed disappointedly. That's right.

The Big Swim Test

"Good luck," she said, re-entering traffic and waving from her car.

"Hmpppphhhh fuggan!" Came my response. I did not want to be here and I did not want to be doing this. And it wasn't because I was going to be late for work. I'm a public servant, my care factor for being timely is pretty low. And it wasn't because I had a spilled coffee on my pants on the way, even though that irritated me a fair bit. And it wasn't because my wife thought it would be nice to keep me standing in the rain while she had some last minute words of wisdom. And it wasn't even being forced to listen to the ignorant rednecks phoning in on talkback radio, moaning on about shit that none of them knew anything about. No! It was something much worse.

Leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, headphones jutting out of my ears, I soon realised that I was the only male in the elevator. And by the time we reached the third floor, I realised that the five women glaring menacingly at me were all pregnant. Quick on the uptake you see. The elevator slowed to a halt, the delightful muzak interrupted by a gentle female voice announcing that we're on the fourth floor. The door opened and the mass of pregnant ladies shuffled out of the lift single file, tenderising the soft bits of my body (of which there are many), with their elbows.

The pregnant women waddled in unison down a corridor to the left. Nursing my wounds, I stumbled into an empty nightmare of white, and managed to prop my body up against a reception cubicle. A voice called to me from beyond a small opening.

"Can I help you sir?" It asked pleasantly. Some chewable morphine and a pint would be be a great help, thanks.

"Ermmm..."I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Like you do when you buy condoms for the first time. What the hell was I supposed to say? I delved into my pocket and retrieved a referral letter. I studied it closely, trying to figure out what was the root of my fears. I drew a blank. Actually, that was it really wasn't it. Mustering up whatever scrap of dignity I had left in me, I unravelled the paper and prepared myself for the inevitable. "I need to do this," I sighed, handing the voice the creased piece of paper.

"Hmmm," the voice behind the glass said thoughtfully. "Maureen, I have a mister Buck-oh-vick here for a nine thirty appointment," it called out to, well, Maureen apparently.

"Bug-oh-bitch? What's it for?" came a muffled screech in reply. I looked around nervously, the once empty waiting area had somehow populated itself in the last minute or two.

"He needs to provide a sample," said the voice, still sweet and gentle and calm. My hopes hinged on this voice. It seemed to appreciate the trauma I was experiencing.

"A sample? What kind?" asked Maureen, her voice ringing out across the waiting room, perking the interest of everyone seated there. Jesus, where did you all come from? You're like cells dividing exponentially.

"What kind...you know what kind." Please don't say it.

"Oh right! He wants to find out if he's shooting blanks or not." Thanks Maureen. Thanks a bunch.

"Mr Boogie-ditch, take this," the voice suggested, handing me a small plastic specimen container and a sheet of paper. "Go down the corridor and go into the first door on your right. Fill the container, close it and leave it in the room. Then fill out your details on the form and bring it back to me." I uttered a thank you and followed her directions, walking through a chorus of pitying looks and whispering.

The light took a while to come on. Another one of those god-damned fluorescent numbers. It's constant buzzing and flickering giving the moment a suitable level of seediness. The room itself was sterile. Surely a bad omen? It had some dull colourless prints scattered about it's grey-white walls, an uncomfortable looking single bed with a worn, eighties style blue-green quilt cover draped over it and a non-de script, single drawer bedside table next to it.

What's in that drawer?

Taking my jacket off, I sat down, the bed sucking me into it like a beanbag with only handful of beans inside. I sighed and opened the drawer. Inside was a pen and a not so glossy magazine. It read Playboy, June 1984. The tool to help me with mine? Picking it up, I noticed it was heavier than it should be and had that rippling effect that paper gets when it has absorbed too much liquid. Yup. That's what I thought too. The cover showed an attractive blonde woman with hair that rivalled Don King's.

I flicked through the magazine, well, the portions of it that weren't moulded together over time and by...ermm...a binding agent, and marvelled out how photography in the eighties had a much softer edge than now. The light above flickered and hissed menacingly for me to get on with it, so I dropped my pa....




...and wiping the sweat from my brow, I hoped that there was more in the canister than not.

"Are you alright in there?" the voice from behind the glass, now from behind the door, asked concerned. Shit! What the hell do I do with that bit? I hastily closed the magazine, shoved it back into the drawer and made a futile attempt at straightening myself up.

"Yeah, just filling out the form," I lied, panting and searching frantically for the paper she handed me earlier. I spied it laying face down on the floor. Picking it up, I noticed a small damp patch in the top corner and shuddered. Grabbing the pen from the drawer, I filled out the form, careful to not let my hand touch the paper, snatched up my jacket and opened the door. Standing before me was a short, attractive woman in her forties who simply smiled at me and pointed at the room. I looked at her incredulously, the sweat still beading on my forehead.

"Just leave the container in there Mr Vukovic," Hey hey! Finally, she got my name right! "We'll grab it later," she said softly, still smiling. Despite everything, I took comfort from her demeanour and smiling a stupid grin back, I apologised, more for the mess inside than for anything else, left the specimen container on the bedside table and left, relieved. I hurried past the huddled women, careful not to make eye contact and hoped to god that enough of my boys survived to take the test.

Inside the Small Room

The hand crushing continued as we sat side by side, in a small room, littered with ageing posters and pamphlets on fertilisation and pregnancy. It was quiet, the room sufficiently removed from the hubbub of the waiting area, the whine of air tickling nasal hairs the only sound. We'd been sitting silently for at least ten minutes, waiting for the nasally man, pouring over some files on his desk to say something. I looked at my wife and noticed her excitement had morphed into irritation. If he sat there musing over that folder for much longer, the irritation would soon become homicidal rage.

"So," he began, turning his head and peering at us over his old man glasses. He was easily over sixty and had that air of someone who had been around for a long, long, long time and therefore knew everything, whether you knew it or not. Slightly unshaven, he watched us, his grey hair dancing on his head as the breeze from the air conditioner played at it. It looked like he was wearing a home made wig in shape of a cat. He seemed tall, if anyone can when sitting down, and his pants rested uncomfortably above his waistline, creating a weird jelly like muffin top effect. "How can I help you today?"

"We want to fall pregnant," came the response from my wife, the irritation drained from her voice and replaced once again by excitement, though a much more tempered version. We? "We just wanted to make sure everything was ok first." What's this we rubbish? I take no responsibility for this woman!

"I see," muttered the doctor, scrutinising us, me. "What makes you think there's something wrong?" He asked, studying me again. Man it's hot in here.

We've been trying for a while now..." Eh? When? What the hell? "...and nothing has happened, obviously. So we want to make sure nothing is wrong," said my wife, oblivious to my ignorance.

"How long have you not used protection?" posed the doctor, his hair bowing for its audience.

"About nine months." Oh! That's what she meant. Hang on. So the recent routine of regular shagging had nothing to do with me looking hot then? The bloody cheek!

"I see. That's not out of the ordinary. A lot of couples say similar things. It can take up to twelve months of trying. It also takes a bit of luck and some careful planning. But that doesn't mean anything is wrong with you," he states. "Either of you." Is that aircon on?

"Still, we would like to, you know, be tested." Again with the we!

"Alright then," he said, scrabbling about his desk for a piece of paper. "Take this and organise a time to have your sperm tested", he mumbles, handing me the paper. "When you're finished, we'll have a better idea of what's what." You're bloody joking right? I can tell you what's what! There'll be no testing of my boys whatsoever! End of. Final. Fin!

"And for you my dear," he said, turning his attentions to my wife, his hair putting on an encore performance. "Here's a request to do some blood tests, as well as some information on scheduling for best results and some techniques to aid delivery," he added sweetly. What's wrong with my technique? I've never had any complaints!

My wife took the handout and shook his hand, smiling like an idiot. Doctor Hair then held his hand out for me to shake, knowing that I knew that he had been insulting me the whole time, and once I did, with a smarmy grin he told us to arrange another appointment with him in six weeks time to 'discuss' the results. We all stood up together and with some not so gentle guidance, he extracted us from his office, closing the door behind us.

"Well?" Quizzed my wife's eyes. Why didn't I say something? Why did I just sit there nodding like a poorly supported muppet.

"That was..."I began, without really knowing what to say. I racked my brain, hoping to find something that wouldn't upset her unduly. "...interesting," I concluded finally. Her eyes beamed.

"I know! How good is he!" she exclaimed. "My sister told me he is the best Obstetrician in town!" She clutched my hand, squeezing it forcefully. The poor thing will be left a mangled mess by the time we get home. "You have to organise your appointment as soon as we get home," she commanded softly, as only she could. Bloody hell. I didn't want to go through with this. I didn't like Doctor Hair. Not one bit. What if there was something wrong with my boys? "This is great," she continued. "I'm gonna call mum and tell her the good news." Oh no...not your mum!

Reconnaissance

We were sitting in a busy waiting room as nurses and other medical type people zipped past us. Other couples filled out the seating bays, their faces etched with an altogether familiar combination of bewilderment and uncertainty. Well, the males anyway.

I watched the couple sitting not quite opposite us. The wife was thumbing through a three month old copy of Woman's Day, while the husband fidgeted nervously with his shirt button. Occasionally, he glanced up at me, his eyes loaded with questions. As I had no answers, all I could do was avert my gaze, in the hope that my eyes wouldn't betray me. I doubted the success of this.

A fridge of a nurse, ensconced in sensible shoes and a cardigan that accentuated all the wrong bits, emerged from a hidey hole and barked out a pair of names. The couple opposite rose to their feet, the wife leading the way, her face beaming expectantly in the unnatural flouro lighting, the husband shuffling obediently behind. I watched him trail her pitifully, his fingers still working at the button as if sticking that little bit of moulded plastic through a hole would extricate him from his plight. Fat chance buddy! I swear to this day, that as they disappeared in front of the nurse's swollen body, I could hear the faint whimpering of his soul being crushed.

As the door slammed shut, I noticed my excited wife's talons slowly mashing my phalanges into paste, the accumulated pain working its way up my arm. Somehow, I wrangled my hand free and massaging the blood flow back into it, asked her again, why we were waiting.

"You know why," she hissed, soft enough to not rouse suspicious glances from the other couples huddled together, but loud enough to make me feel like I was five years again and wet the bed. "We need to know that everything is alright. With both of us. Now we've made the decision, I don't want to take any risks." Decision? We? That was all your doing mate, I played no part in it!

"Right, I just think that..."

"Don't. We've been through it before and I want the tests done. We need to know!" she countered emphatically. I wasn't convinced that we did need to know. I'd given this a lot of thought and was pretty sure that there are some things in life that you really would prefer to be completely ignorant about. You know, like the existence of ghosts, the prospect of your parents doing it and well, whether your plumbing had a blockage or not.

"What if my boys aren't, you know, swimming?" I ventured, hoping that she'd see my emotional distress. She didn't.

"Then we'll deal with it, won't we."

Deal with it? What the hell did that mean? And how exactly would we deal with it? Before I could get an answer, or even pose the question aloud, the Kelvinator Nurse stormed out into the waiting room, looked me squarely in the eye, pointed accusingly and read out our names. Incorrectly of course. Sighing and gulping simultaneously, which is a difficult and really painful thing to do, I closed my eyes and with a not so gentle tug, was spirited away beyond the enclave of plastic seats and tortured husbands, to a fate that I was not prepared for.