Free Avalanche by Julia Leigh Page B

proviso I don’t overheat. “And you can go to the toilet now, it won’t fall out.” I returned to the acupuncture clinic for a half-hour session of deep relaxation. Afterwards I walked over to the art gallery and saw an exhibition of exquisite Korean ceramics, Soul of Simplicity . As I was leaving I spied the bus up ahead and made a run for it. I felt a twinge in my belly. Oh no, what have I done! I’m an idiot! You idiot! Quietly now: you idiot.
    I began to wait. “What are my odds—of being pregnant?” was another question I’d asked Dr. Nell on the day of the transfer. Her reply: A Day 5 blastocyst has about a 40 percent chance. How wonderful, 40 percent! That night I felt extremely sensual, writhed like a snake, embodied metamorphosis, and avoided pleasuring myself because I feared contractions could disrupt things. Thenext morning I had a tiny amount of brown spotting which I’d read was an indicator of implantation. Oh the delight. And then, immediately, tamp down delight. Wait. Wait and see. My friend who subscribed to Chinese medicine strongly advised I cut out cold swims. “The little bean needs a warm nest.” So I did that. I was taking progesterone pessaries morning and night and my breasts swelled, grew sensitive. I hoped and believed I was pregnant. On Day 27 I noticed the slightest discoloration in my urine: a hint of blood. And I collapsed. Howled. Wept. Even though there was no full bleed I sensed my period was imminent. Down, down, down the rathole. The air there was thick and dull. My skin flushed, goose-pimpled. My eyes stang red-raw. My jaw clamped tight. I felt utterly bereft. Alone, alone. You have fucked up your life. The rats of the world scuttled and gnawed. I found it impossible to leave the house.
    To make myself feel better I broke a vow and Googled my ex-husband. (A frightening thought: am I a brilliant masochist?) There he was—happy, smiling. In a Facebook photo his new partner sat on the sidelines watching him play cricket. Resentment is a curse. Repulsive: like putting on a soiled garment. Parading around in it.
    This didn’t happen: I went to a Goddess Weekend where we worked on our inner Ancient Greek. We sharpened our swords and swore revenge. We hacked our way through grief.
    All time was measured according to my menstrual cycle. “January” meant nothing to me. Days closest to my “due date” weighed heaviest. By Day 29 I still hadn’t had a full bleed. In the morning I did a blood test and then went to spend the day with my sister. She was eight months or so pregnant. We had lunch at an inner-city café that was popular with young families because of its mock-farm design: wooden pens with some real chickens and a well-fed pig. Little Elsie pointed to a rooster on a weather vane and said “Sky Chicken!” I was overwhelmed—by all the children, the Yummy Mummies, by Café Potemkin. Later we watched The Wizard of Oz while I gave my sister a foot massage. My phone rang: it was the nurses calling. From the measured tone of voice I could instantly tell the pregnancy test had been negative—as expected. “You can begin another antagonist cycle now if you want to.” When I spoke to the doctor she was gently reassuring: it was good that I had responded well to the egg collection; often it took people two or three tries forchromosomal reasons. “Sometimes an embryo won’t implant because of the chromosomes and there’s nothing we can do about that.” My sister consoled me. I tried to be brave because I didn’t want to pollute her.
    I went to a dance class. A kind of free-form hippie dance class. A woman in face paint smudged me with burning sage at the door. It felt so good to reconnect with my body. During the night I had an orgasm in my sleep. Throughout my treatment I didn’t have sex, which made for the longest period of sexual inactivity I’d ever known.