than me. I bit down harder on the tip of my finger. ‘Your
chances of natural conception are . . . well . . . remote.’ The
foot of her crossed leg bobbed up and down in my direction.
‘I suggest you go straight to IVF.’ She paused in a gesture of
respect before swivelling to face her desk, shuffling papers
and clicking her pen. ‘I’ll write you a referral.’
Benny stayed calm, and I panicked. He wanted to try
natural fertility treatment first; but I imagined a remedy
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of fruity tea, which I hate, plus sex according to the moon
and an attitude of calm and indifference, which I would
struggle to muster.
Dad’s a radiologist, so I have a politically incorrect
amount of faith in traditional medicine—I remember him
standing with his hand in his pocket in front of x-rays lined
up on a fluorescent-lit screen, speaking big medical words
into a dictaphone in a low serious voice. I wanted to go
straight for the shortcut IVF seemed to be offering—with
its convincing statistics, measured quantities and glossy
brochures of smiling blonde women holding fat babies—but
I agreed to give natural treatment a go.
We tracked down a specialist in Melbourne and went to
see her. She spoke quickly and without breaks, intermittently
sucking a thick white protein drink through an orange straw.
My pen flew down the page taking notes:
temperature chart
physiology of reproductive system
insulin
palmful of protein . . .
Benny, beside me, sat listening attentively while Deirdre
blazed on. We could hear the door to reception open and
close, open and close.
‘Hang on!’ I interrupted. ‘Can you go back?’
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After describing my back pain, I was directed to lie
down for a Bowen massage. I was sceptical of my back’s
relationship to my fertility, but lay down anyway—always
up for a rub.
After the session, we walked out into the chilly morning,
overwhelmed with information and knocked about by the
thousand-dollar bill. Ben carried a cardboard box filled with
bottles of pills and foreign liquids to consume with every
meal: vitamin E, selenium, vitamin C, magnesium, tribulus,
flaxseed oil, zinc and fish oil. Benny’s usually tough when
it comes to swallowing things that taste bad, but he pulled
faces with that zinc drink.
‘What can I wash it down with, Inky?’ He rummaged
through the fridge and cupboards. For a while he chewed a
garlic chilli olive to get rid of the aftertaste. He would line
up the olive, throw back the zinc, scrunch up his face, then
eat the olive with quick movements of his jaw and anguish
in his eyes. I was less disciplined than Benny—he later
bragged of drizzling linseed oil over my muesli and spiking
my water with selenium drops when I wasn’t looking.
I started going to acupuncture, sometimes twice a week. I
drove my mini panel van, its windows open in the violently
bright, hot sun, over the waterless Todd River into town.
‘Acupuncture is highly effective in the treatment
of infertility,’ said Grace. She wore leather sandals and
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deliberately pronounced every word. I was myself with her
and we laughed a lot.
‘Really? God, I hope so.’ I lay on her consulting room
table with my hands down by my sides. ‘But is there anything
you don’t think acupuncture can fix?’ She flicked a needle
into my ankle and I jumped: ‘Ow! Shit!’
‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘Sorry . . . That spot always hurts
a bit.’
‘I envy your conviction,’ I said, closing my eyes and
willing myself to breathe slow and deep. ‘I’m not sure
about a thing.’ The room had a clean citrusy smell, and I
made a mental note to light an oil burner when I got home.
‘Actually, that’s not true . . .’ I opened my eyes. ‘I’m sure
crazy about my man.’
Sometimes I felt different when I walked out of there,
and sometimes I didn’t.
Early each morning I reached for the thermometer on my
bedside table, held it under my tongue and wrote down
my temperature so that we knew when I was ovulating.
Early morning was the best time of day in Alice—the colours
were bright and clear, and the crisp, dry air breezed through
our bedroom, carrying bird chats and songs. Sometimes,
before work, Benny ran while I walked, with cold cheeks
and foggy breath, along a desert track not far from our
place. We would set out in the dark and return home in
full, revealing daylight.
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Most days in NICU were a bustling parade of people and
faces. When Peter first introduced himself to us, he was
self-composed and reverent, and he reminded me of a priest.
But he was the head of the NICU unit, and he would be
Jordan and Leo’s neonatologist. It was good to meet him
and have some continuity. With his shirtsleeves neatly folded
back at his wrists Peter held his hand out to shake Benny’s.
‘Peter Bennett,’ he said. He had intense big blue eyes.
‘Your boys are doing quite well . . . for such early gestation.’
A mixed report. We were standing beside Leo’s cot and the
room was a symphony of alarms—steady and soft, loud and
panicky. ‘Leo is particularly well in terms of his lungs; he’s
not needing a great deal of oxygen. And they both seem
to be coping with their feeds at the moment. I understand
you’re expressing, Ingrid?’
‘Yes.’ I was suddenly conscious of my full, heavy breasts
and hoped milk had not seeped through my t-shirt.
‘Good for you. That’s the best thing for them at the
moment. We will gradually increase the quantity as their
digestive systems adjust.’
‘Right,’ said Benny.
A phone rang from behind the desk and two nurses
hurried past. In a far corner a bewildered bearded man
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scanned the room, one big hairy hand resting awkwardly
on the cot beside him.
‘Peter, could you talk us through what other sorts of
hurdles we might be facing in the coming weeks?’ asked Ben.
‘Certainly, Ben.’
Ben’s a patient and practised listener, and never interrupts.
This was a serious situation, and Peter’s words were gold;
but Ben would listen just as attentively to the guy who
runs the caravan park or to a neighbour over the fence.
His lips don’t even part until the other person has finished
talking. He says that’s an exaggeration but I don’t think it
is. And if you interrupt him when he’s talking, he’ll stop
mid-sentence and won’t speak until there’s a chunk of space
again. I’d kill for his patience.
‘At the moment, growth and nutritio
n are a priority,’
said Peter. ‘As they grow, their lungs develop, and so does
their immunity. When they are strong enough, of course,
we can take them off the ventilators.’
‘Oh, I can’t wait!’ I interjected, with a small jump into
the air. (One of my school reports said: ‘Ingrid needs to
learn to control her natural exuberance.’ Tee hee.)
‘They will have their eyes and hearing tested in due
course,’ Peter continued. ‘Particularly in these early weeks,
they are susceptible to infections. We have to have the IV
lines in all the time, and we will continue to take their
blood daily, to watch for infection or disease.’ He chose
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and delivered his words with care, consciously offering
equal eye contact to Benny and me as we nodded our
heads. ‘They may also need blood transfusions from time
to time. This is not uncommon for babies born at such
early gestation.’ Leo’s hand waved in the air, pulling me
to get back to him. ‘They will have cranial ultrasounds
again at six weeks.’
Peter’s tone became more serious; he maintained focus,
despite the surrounding activity and the two men standing
by, arms folded, vying for his attention. ‘We were very
pleased to see positive cranial ultrasound results after the
first week. In most cases, if they come through that first
week without a brain bleed, their next ultrasound should
be clear. Though we just have to wait and see.’ He placed
his hand on my shoulder and smiled warmly. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said, nodding. I felt as if I were five. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thanks, Peter,’ said Benny.
Peter chuckled before walking off, tall and straight,
and I blew slowly out my mouth. We’re in good hands,
I thought. Phew.
Jordan’s midwife, Brenda, came over. ‘Who wants to
help with Jordan’s cares?’
I spun around to face her. ‘Me!’ I said.
‘You did them last time,’ said Benny, slightly cross.
‘Yeah, but . . .’
‘It’s my turn!’ Benny shoved me on the shoulder. ‘Go away!’
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Brenda raised her eyebrows.
‘Okay, okay . . . I’m going to read The Nutcracker to Leo
and hold his hand,’ I said. ‘Well . . . he can hold my finger.
Sometimes he squeezes so hard, his knuckles go white. It
makes him calm though . . . and he likes it when I stroke
his eyebrows, my little angel.’
‘I think it’s as good for Mum as it is for Leo,’ observed
Benny.
‘I think so,’ said Brenda.
I laughed and trotted off to get a chair.
The following morning, midwife Margie was looking after
both boys.
‘The doctors will be coming through on their morning
rounds in about five minutes, Ingrid,’ she said.
‘Shit.’ I was fumbling with Jordan’s oximeter—trying to
move it from one foot to the other, but struggling to get a
consistent reading up on the screen. ‘Can I stay?’
‘Hmm . . . You’re not supposed to.’
I was comfortable with Margie. ‘How come?’
‘Privacy. So that you don’t hear things about other babies.’
‘I’ll block my ears, I’ll tune out. I just want to stay with
him—he’s unsettled. And anyway I can’t get this oximeter
to work.’
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Margie rested a hand on my shoulder for balance, then
pressed her foot against her bum in a hamstring stretch.
‘Okay, we’ll see how we go.’
The medical team huddled around a wooden trolley,
shuff ling from one cot to the next, stopping to discuss
each baby’s progress and update treatments. They pulled
up beside Jordan and I kept my head down, but David, the
neonatologist on that day, addressed me directly: ‘How’s
Jordan this morning, Ingrid?’ David was relaxed and level-
headed. As with Peter, we trusted him completely and hung
on every word he said.
‘Oh! He’s good! Umm . . . actually he’s coughing a bit,
and he wasn’t before.’ I appreciated David asking me how
Jordan was going—I saw the boys more continuously than
anyone, so I was the one most likely to notice any changes.
‘Hmm, that could be reflux.’ He turned to Margie. ‘Put
him on some reflux medication if the coughing continues.’
‘Okay.’ Margie jotted notes.
‘He’s sleeping well, but also starting to have a bit more
awake time,’ I said. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
The registrar beside David smiled my way. Laila had a
sturdy feel about her, and I always felt reassured when she
was on duty. She looked like fun too. Benny and I didn’t
have friends in Adelaide outside the NICU, and I longed
for a good girlfriend to talk to.
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‘Yes, we expect that,’ said David. ‘Have you met with
the physiotherapist?’
‘Yes, just briefly.’
‘Good . . . good. She can explain how you can help
with his neurological development. There are particular
things you can do.’ I had been hungry for any strategies the
physiotherapist could offer for helping Jordan and Leo; at
our meeting I had taken notes and repeated her ideas back
to her to make sure I had understood.
‘Mum did these after the physio told us that black and
white pictures were good for stimulation.’ I pointed to the
drawings, slotted into the sides of the cot in Jordan’s line
of vision. ‘And there’s one up the top here too!’
David leant down to look at the drawing of a circus
elephant stuck to the cot roof. ‘Very good. Now, let’s see.’
He looked at his notes. ‘How much milk are we giving him
at the moment? Two mil . . . let’s try increasing that to three.’
‘Yay! Thanks, David.’ The team moved on to the next
cot and I turned to Margie. ‘Another mil! What a star my
boy is!’
‘Sure is,’ said Margie.
I dragged my stool closer to Jordan’s cot and leant my
forehead against the perspex: ‘You’re a star, Jordan-boy.
Grow! Grow!’
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6
There were good musicians in Alice. I pulled together a
band and called it Sweet Chilli. At our first show, my heart
pounded as I parked a brown bottle of beer on the floor
beside the mic stand, adjusted the guitar strap over my
shoulder and approached the mic: ‘Hi, everyone . . . we’re
Sweet Chilli.’
The music was folksy, with storytelling and melodies
over simple acoustic guitar, upright bass, drums, harmonies
and sometimes saxophone and mandolin. I wrote and sang
the songs, and played guitar. That first night my fingers
fumbled over the strings in my wobbly homemade picking
style as Marty, the bass player, gently nodded my way with
encouragement. He stood tall and narrow with his mop of
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light hair and sweet hippy face, comfortable with his upright
bass in his arms. He was in search of ‘self-mastery’, but was
most himself when he wasn’t seeking anything.
‘Agent P to Agent L,’ he said before the show. ‘You’ve
got the healing gift of music . . . You’re a lucky one.’
‘Thanks, Marty.’ I slipped my thumbs into the front of
my strapless dress and pulled it up an inch.
‘But this is the last time I tune your guitar before a
show,’ he added.
‘Okay . . . okay.’ He handed me the guitar, then pressed
his palms together and dipped his head in a small bow.
Bec, in coloured beads and dangling African earrings,
sang beside me. She came in with buttery harmonies, and
played tambourine on her hip with her easy musicality.
Our drummer finished the song with a fading trill on the
high-hat cymbal, then looked my way, resting his fists on
his thighs, holding a stick in each, and mouthing the words:
‘Nice one.’
We played regularly around town and, on Sundays,
at the Date Farm—where they sold date ice cream, date
yoghurt and dates.
‘We get a free drink and twenty bucks each, Matt,’ I
said, handing our mandolin player a crumpled twenty-dollar
note. His fingers had skipped over the notes so much more
easily than words ever came to him. ‘And here’s a twenty
for you, Emma . . . You can make that phone call.’
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Emma laughed softly. After Bec left town, she had joined
us to sing and play percussion. She was exotic, with her
New Guinean frizz of hair, and quietly looking for love.
She and I giggled together when we saw the slogan on the
back of the staff t-shirts—‘World’s Best Date’.
I started a job, working for local musicians. My first
project was to put together half a dozen gigs and some
music industry workshops around Alice, as part of the
Darwin-based Original Recipe music festival. I streamed
my favourite Melbourne radio station through my computer
and Blu-Tacked the word ‘RELAX’ to the bottom of the
screen. (Once an astrologist did my chart and scribbled
these words at the bottom of the page: ‘Do this all day,
every day—relax, relax, relax.’ I haven’t forgotten.) I shared
the office with Di, the Alice festival director, and a bomby
blue couch.
Di wore loose cotton shirts and a string of wooden
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