Serenade for a Small Family
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gown and the sheet pulled over me suddenly felt very thin.
Also, I felt embarrassed that I looked so pregnant when I
was only about a week along. I felt like some kind of a fake.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said. A pink blush crept up
his neck into his cheeks. I didn’t know why he was there,
but I sure wished I could make him feel better about it. ‘I
just wanted to thank you in person for the good job you’ve
done,’ he said. ‘Arranging our visit.’
‘Oh, no worries—thank you.’ I tucked my unwashed
hair behind my ears and smoothed it down at the sides.
‘I’ve brought you this small memento,’ he said, stepping
bravely towards me and handing me a white porcelain mug.
‘Oh, that’s great . . . thank you . . . thanks.’ I took the cup,
mindful of the pile of used tissues and puddle of spilt tea
on my bedside table. And where are my undies, I thought.
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‘I won’t disturb you further. Thanks again . . . And all
the best.’
‘You’re welcome. Thanks for coming in! It’s lovely to
meet you.’
Particles of his captain’s aftershave hung in the air after
he left. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned the cup over
in my hands to read the words: ‘CONQUER OR DIE’.
Benny and I used that line to sign off on notes and emails
for some time: ‘Hey Benny, gone to get milk, Conquer
or Die’, or ‘Stinky, your mum rang, Conquer or Die’.
We even came up with a more constructive alternative:
‘NEGOTIATE AND LIVE’.
For two weeks I lay breathless with stiff and aching limbs
and a hot, sweaty back—unable to eat, drink, poo or wee
without assistance. I came to care less about whether or not
I was pregnant, and railed against the relentless discomfort.
‘I can’t stand this!’ I stood leaning with my hands flat
on the bed.
‘You’ll get there, darlin’,’ said Benny. ‘Let’s go outside.’
I lowered myself into a wheelchair stacked with pillows,
and Benny wheeled me into the lift, where an elderly man
turned to me. ‘How long have you got to go?’ he asked
jovially.
‘Oh . . . no . . . I’m only like . . . umm . . . a few weeks. I
just look pregnant . . . I’m just . . .’ The lift bumped to a stop
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and the man mumbled an embarrassed apology, indicating
‘After you!’ with a wave of his arm.
Outside, Benny and I lay on our backs on the grass.
Because I was pregnant, I was famished. Even mushy hospital
veggies and gravy-soaked lamb made my mouth water, but
my stomach was too painfully tight and swollen for me to
swallow a bite. I would pass the plastic tray into Benny’s
hands and watch with envy as he cleaned up the plate and
asked what was for dessert. As we lay looking at the sky,
a man walked casually over to a nearby bench, sat down
to eat a sandwich and drink a juice, then stood to stretch
his arms up towards the sun with fingers linked. God, he’s
lucky, I thought. I will never complain again.
My body had shut down, and I didn’t know how long
it would be before it started up again. The hospital had
no experience with my condition, so reassurances were
not that comforting. I rang IVF in Darwin—they had to
know about this stuff. ‘It’s Ingrid . . . Ingrid Laguna. I’m
in hospital in Alice Springs. I’m really sick with ovarian
hyperstimulation.’
The nurse told me it was not possible for the IVF doctor
to speak with my doctor at the Alice hospital and swiftly
changed the subject: ‘So are you happy to be pregnant?’
she asked breezily.
‘Well . . . yes . . . yes, of course!’ She was throwing me
off course, but I quickly veered her back on. ‘But I’m really
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sick . . . And the doctors here have not seen many patients
with hyperstimulation . . . Only one actually. Hang on a
sec . . .’ I was breathless—a horrible suffocating feeling.
I placed my free hand on my chest as I took a few focused
breaths, then continued. ‘The hyperstimulation is from the
IVF and you can’t do IVF in Alice, you know? So they’re
not used to it here. Please . . .’
The sun poured in through the wall-to-wall window
behind Benny, who stood frowning beside me with folded
arms; I could not see a single cloud—just a typical Alice
sky, so blue it looked like a painted backdrop.
‘It’s really not part of our service,’ said the nurse, her
tone more determined now. She clearly wanted me to go
away. But we had paid these people an absolute fortune,
and we needed help. How could my physical wellbeing,
every detail of which they had followed through three IVF
cycles in a year, be suddenly no longer their concern? I held
out the phone towards Benny: ‘You talk, Benny. I’m not
getting anywhere!’
Benny took the handset and pleaded in his very reasonable
yet authoritarian tone until the nurse eventually conceded.
Later that day a doctor from IVF rang my doctor and had
a brief and reluctant conversation that was only minimally
informative. I was mad, and Benny was madder.
After ten days in hospital, it was decided that I needed
to go to Ultrasound so some of the fluid could be drawn
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out of my stomach, despite a long and ugly list of risks. I
was wheeled into the lift, where the rancid smell of old
sweat hung in the air and fresh lumps of spit stuck to the
back of the doors. I angrily cursed the two guys who had
just come out of the lift before we went in.
The radiologist had lank brown hair that greasily touched
his shoulders. He fumbled clumsily, and something metallic
hit the floor with a nerve-jangling ding.
‘You’ve done this loads of times, right?’ I asked nervously.
‘Oh, aah . . . I did it just recently, actually.’ He laughed
nervously back and I chose not to force the issue. I focused
my gaze on Ben’s face while the radiologist inserted a long
needle into my side, guided by the ultrasound screen. ‘Now
I need to go through the thicker lining,’ he said. ‘Take a
breath, hold it, and don’t move.’
He used his weight to shove the needle through with a
firm jolt, causing me to grunt involuntarily from the impact.
As the fluid was drawn slowly out, I was relieved to feel
the pressure coming off my stomach. That afternoon, I ate
a cracker with cheese and three pieces of a sweet, juicy
orange, the first bites I had taken in ten days. Heavenly.
But to my alarm and dismay, within a few days my
stomach was tighter than ever.
‘I can’t bear it,’ I told Michael, tears streaming down my
cheeks. I was so uncomfortable. ‘My body’s not working . . .
it’s just fucked up. I’m sorry . . . .’ I blew my n
ose noisily,
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and nodded yes to his suggestion of repeating the procedure
that afternoon: ‘Okay . . . okay . . . Fuckit—I’ll do anything.’
But the morning after the second procedure, I discovered
to my horror that my labia were swollen with fluid. I lay
with a pillow under each knee and rang Mum.
‘It’s out of control, Mum . . . My body feels out of
control. And no one seems to know when I’m going to
start to feel better.’
‘I’m coming,’ said Mum.
When she walked into the room two days later, loaded
with books and bags of rags and fabrics, the sight of her
filled me with relief. ‘Mum! Yay!’ I was so grateful that
she was in the world and that she had come all the way to
be with us in Alice.
Mum and Benny came and went by day, bringing books,
DVDs, treats and distraction. The nights were long and
sleepless. Despite the pethidine shots, sleeping pills and
midnight talks with midwives by night lamp, I lay awake
and uncomfortable, listening to the tick of the wall clock
and longing for the morning.
At first light each morning, I would use the handle over
my bed to sit myself up, plant my bare feet onto the clean,
cold f loor and slowly stand. Then I would lean on the
bathroom door handle and heave myself into the bathroom;
finally, puffing, I’d lower myself onto the plastic chair under
the showerhead.
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After two weeks, my stomach finally began to go back
to normal, and I started feeling better. Benny brought in
a pot of homemade chilli tuna pasta, a jar of fresh purple
veggie juice and a bottle of wine. The midwife leant her
head in the door. ‘Something smells good . . . We can smell
it all the way down the corridor and it’s making us hungry!’
Mum, Benny and I sat poised over bowls of steaming,
saucy pasta, generously covered in parmesan. ‘Stay for a
bowl, Maya,’ I said to the nurse on duty. ‘There’s plenty.’
‘Really? No, I couldn’t.’
‘Come on—it’s delicious,’ said Mum, patting the empty
chair beside her.
‘Oh, alright . . .’ She pulled the curtain across behind
her. ‘But I didn’t see the wine, okay?’
Ben was at work when Mum peeled the waterfall picture
off my wall, threw my things into a bag and helped me into
a pillow-packed wheelchair to take me home. ‘We’re outta
here, baby!’ she said, nudging off the brakes and wheeling
me to the car past a Mexican wave of arms at the maternity
ward’s front desk.
‘Good luck, Ingrid!’
‘We thought you’d never leave!’
‘Keep us posted!’
As my slippered feet touched down on the gravel of
our Winecke Avenue driveway, I let out a heartfelt groan
of relief.
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I was stuck horizontal on the couch for weeks of recovery.
I didn’t feel like reading but I had to do something, so I
made dolls from the silk shirts and bits of Japanese-y rags
Mum had brought, even though I’d never sewn before.
‘I’ve waited all my life to see one of my children being
crafty and now it’s happening!’ she spouted with delight.
I lay on my side with a pillow between my knees—
stitching, cutting and threading, from first thing in the
morning until last thing at night. Cut-off fabric bits,
unwanted shirtsleeves, cotton threads, wool and stuffing
accumulated on the floor and couch around me, and I spread
it further by swapping ends when my back and neck were
aching and stiff. Mum drove into town in the baking heat
to get supplies from the sewing shop.
‘I’ve got balls of wool for hair, fabric samples, ribbons,
beads, buttons, elastic, bags of stuffing and lace from the
“Oh my god” box . . . The lace is for me. Polkadot’s great!’
‘You don’t pronounce the “l” in “polkadot”, Mum.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘No, you don’t . . .’
‘Don’t be a pain . . . Is it five o’clock yet? I’m ready for
my glass of wine with lots of ice.’
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My first doll had gold hoop earrings and silk shirtsleeves
for stuffing. Later came Rocco with a surfboard and a frizz
of brown wool hair over his eyes, Pam with plaits and a
green felt guitar, and Kiko and Shoyu—named after the
soy sauce—who held hands against a green felt background.
I made a doll in pyjamas clutching a pillow, a doll with
a rolled-up newspaper poking out of her handbag, and a
wall-hanging of dolls surrounded by a moon, a house, red
flares and a fabric book. Rocco’s Hawaiian shirt alone took
a day and a half, but I was addicted. Sewing made me calm
and kept me sane. I may never so much as sew on a button
for the rest of my days, but I do not know how I could
have endured immobility for that long without it. And if
I’m ever stuck horizontal again, I will not hesitate to pull
out the sewing basket.
‘Hey,’ said Benny. ‘Isn’t that our tablecloth?’ He fingered
the fabric backing of the doll wall-hanging.
‘Yep, it is.’
‘But . . .’
‘We can get another one for four dollars from the op
shop, for god’s sake . . . It’s doing a good job there.’
‘That’s Madeleine’s influence!’
‘Rubbish. It makes sense.’
The first time a sheep had been killed on our farm,
when I was eleven, I burst into the dining room to see it
laid out in pieces on the table—individual chunks wrapped
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in see-through plastic and labelled with black texta. Slack-
jawed, I gripped the table’s edge, horrified and sickened. I
imagined I had known that very sheep, and even named it.
When I finally tore my eyes from the gruesome sight, I ran
to my room and lay down on my bed. I didn’t eat meat for
a long time after that, and have struggled with it ever since.
But when I was pregnant with twins, my appetite ballooned,
and with it came a craving for meat, which shocked Mum
and Benny, and made them laugh.
‘Steak, Mum! I’d really love a steak for lunch!’ Mum
was heading out to get a few things.
‘But it’s only ten-thirty.’
‘I’m starving. Or a hamburger . . . or meatballs . . . please!’
I stayed on the couch for my thirty-sixth birthday pancake
breakfast. Girlfriends brought berries, maple syrup, whipped
cream and yoghurt, and Mum made oven-baked cream
cheese pancakes, plonking them onto the table beside me.
‘Thanks, Mum! They look fantastic!’ The baked, lemony
smell filled the room. Seriously mouth-watering.
‘I hate the word “Mum”—it’s a fat, round word,’ said
Mum, leaning out the front door and dramatically waving
fresh air into her fac
e. ‘And I’m allergic to cooking . . . I
hate cooking . . . Oof! . . . Get me out of that kitchen.’
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‘God, Mum, relax. Ell reckons your fear of kitchens and
cooking is because you associate it with women’s oppression.’
‘I do!’
‘Anyway, you’re a great cook—I wish you’d get it into
your head.’
‘I’m hopeless.’
‘Okay, you’re hopeless.’ I levered a parcel of pancake onto
a plate and ran a finger through its leaking cream cheese.
‘Mmmm—delicious.’
Mum came with me to the hospital for an ultrasound
while Benny was at work. The doctor ran a probe over
my abdomen.
‘How many embryos did you put back?’ She adjusted
her glasses and leant closer to the screen.
‘Two. Why?’
She swivelled the monitor towards me: ‘I can see two sacs.’
‘Really? You mean twins?’
She pointed to one tiny dot, and then another: ‘There . . .
And there.’
‘Oh my god!’
When I walked out, Mum and I locked eyes, and I slowly
raised two fingers.
‘Two?!’ she exclaimed. ‘Really? Oh, Inky . . . are you sure?’
Back at home Mum lit two small candles, and placed
them on a ceramic saucer.
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‘They’re for the babies,’ she said, blowing out the match
and slotting it back into its box. ‘We’ll keep them burning.’
It was two long months before I was well enough to go
back to my council job, proud and excited about sharing
my pregnancy news and showing off my protruding belly.
One of the two women with whom I shared an office was
also pregnant. ‘There’s six beating hearts in this office!’
I exclaimed.
Debbie had always intimidated me, but now we talked
about having babies. ‘There’s a website where you join up
and tell them your due date,’ she said. ‘Then on Mondays
they email you an update of what’s happening with your
pregnancy in that week.’
I swivelled around in my chair to face her. ‘Sounds
good!’ I held out a plate of apple slices and chunks of cheese.
‘Hungry? We grew up on green apples and cheese,’ I said.
‘My mum’s Dutch . . . which may or may not explain it.
All four of us kids would have an apple in bed last thing at
night and, when we were finished, we’d throw our cores