Stephen Lacey - Henry Loves Jazz: The Diary of a Reluctant Father

HENRY LOVES JAZZ

The diary of a reluctant father

STEPHEN LACY

Dedicated to my darling mother, Irene Gai Lacey, 22 November 1942 31 July 2007

And well all sit up at that yellow formica table in the kitchen, Bob and Lucy, Mum and Dad, Uncle Les, Uncle Ronny, Uncle Neal, and me of course, and well eat roast beef, with Bobs vegetables, and mop up the gravy with slabs of bread until we can see the willow pattern on the plate. Bob might even pick up his saucer and tell us the story of the blue-and-white Chinese lovers and the spirit birds. Then Lucy will clear the table and set pudding and warm egg custard before us. Well laugh and drink Flag Ale, and play cards all night until the rooster calls in the dawn. And therell be no arguments.

It wasnt as if I was expecting a visit from an angel of the Lord, proclaiming prepare ye the way of the nursery and make its wobbly masonite walls straight and true. But I certainly thought thered be a little more fanfare. Maybe a bottle of Mot on ice or a lets-go-out-to-dinner-to-celebrate kind of fanfare.

Anyway, Im sitting here at home, typing away, writing a design feature on how mustard-yellow is the new black, when Marianne pops her head in the door and says: Im pregnant.

Just like that she tells me. No Sit down, Ive got something huge to tell you. Okay, so I was already sitting down, but you get the idea.

Im pregnant.

She always was a rather phlegmatic soul, but I never realised her phlegmatism stretched quite to this level.

Im pregnant.

And what are you suppose to say to a thing like that?

Oh, are you, darls?

She nods.

Thats great, I say, not sure whether I really mean it. Um, how do you know?

She produces the plastic stick from her home pregnancy kit. See ... two blue lines.

I stare at those two blue lines. Those two blue lines stare back at me. Theyre not more than five millimetres long. Two tiny blue lines. Parallel. Twin horizons.

I remember that day, about eighteen months before, when I was wandering along the beach. I was in the No Dogs Allowed area, but that didnt stop the big black dog from crawling over my shoulders and growling in my ear; a depressive anxiety disorder is an awful thing and sometimes even a sunny day by the seaside does little to help.

A crisp white gull moved across the sky. The movement caught my eye and I happened to turn and look out over the waves, towards that wide, terribly beautiful ocean we Australians all cling to. I noticed that thin blue line where the ocean and sky kiss.

Then it struck me. I wont call it a vision, because it wasnt an actual image. There wont be Catholic pilgrims paying homage to that spot on the sand where my feet were anchored. Nor will there be stalls fl ogging plastic snow-dome Marys, or dashboard Jesuses. Or perhaps there will be? Because something, or someone, put this feeling in my head. This jolt in my brain. The unrepentant certainty that I would have a child. A son.

And there was me. A bloke who hated kids. If there is a God, he picked the wrong bloody fella.

The stress of having this baby is killing me! Eight months into the pregnancy and my entire body broke out in hives. Big red welts. Ive got them on my thighs, my belly, my arms, my back, my neck and my arse. I feel like Job from the Old Testament. Although I doubt God was unkind enough to infl ict poor old Job with hives on his balls. No, he saved that particular indignity for me. Am I part of some cosmic wager between the Lord and Satan? Lets see how far we can push the bastard before he cracks.

Well, God, Ive cracked. You win.

Our father who art in heaven ... stop the bloody itching!

I cant stop scratching them, no matter how many times my wife tells me not to.

Youll only make it worse, she nags, slapping my hand away as I steer it towards my crotch.

I wait until she goes to the bathroompregnant women wee a lot, an awful lotand I go for it hammer and tongs, diving my hand down my trousers like a middle-aged scout master. Oohhh, feels good. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Hmmm. Bliss.

I hear the toilet fl ush and Mariannes footsteps in the hallway.

I quickly remove my hand and act natural.

Youve been scratching again, havent you? she scolds.

Its really spooky. How does she know?

Even the doctor was quite concerned. I knew it wasnt good news when I removed my shirt and he drew back, making a face that suggested he was thinking: Jesus Christ, I wish Id become a tax accountant. Remember, this is a fellow who looks at really nasty shit all day long; carbuncles on pensioners clackers, builders whove had an argument with a nail gun. We tend to assume that, just because doctors wear white coats, none of that stuff affects them. But it has to take its toll eventually. Imagine the nightmares these poor buggers have. The only way they can cope is by trying to laugh about it. Laughter is a common coping mechanism for people with shitty jobs. Its how ambulance men, coppers and telemarketers survive. So when a doctor encounters a middle-aged drycleaner with a giant parsnip up his khyber, what can he do but rush home and have a snigger with the missus?

Standing there naked in front of my doctor, I wondered whether my pitiful, fl accid, hive-covered body had now become a humorous chapter in his lexicon of boozy barbecue tales: You should have seen this guy in the surgery today, he looked like a Japanese sea slug!

I buttoned my shirt and set to leave.

Want a jelly bean? he said proffering the jar. Theres only black ones left. The kids dont like em.

Yeah, why not? Ive got about eighteen years of black jelly beans ahead of me. I better get used to it.

The real issue had been whether my malady was in fact a dose of chicken pox. In which case, I would not be allowed in to witness the birth. Marianne would never forgive me. Plus, Im just one of those folks who really hates to miss out on anything, even if its only a free sausage sizzle and tile-laying class at Bunnings.

The doctor was certain it was just a very nasty case of hives, brought on by the anxiety of childbirth. This news only made me more anxious. I could actually feel a couple more hives break out on my torso as he told me. He recommended I up my dose of Paxilor happy pills, as Marianne refers to them. Brain dullers. Dick droopers.

I took two instead of one. When I woke up the next day, the hives were even worse. I looked like an Aboriginal dot painting.

Then, being a cyber-chondriac as well as a hypochondriac, I went to my computer and googled: red spots all over body. Within an hour I had everything from leprosy to a very rare form of skin cancer. I took another Paxil. All hell broke loose. My body became the designated venue for the swanky hive convention silver jubilee dinner, and every hive in the world, even the unsociable ones and those with bad acne, had decided to turn up.

Im losing my mind, I confessed to Marianne, as she stood at the sink washing up. Im worried sick.

What are you worried about? Its just bloody hives, she said. Get over it.

What if its not? What if Ive got some horrible disease, and I never get to see my child grow up to become prime minister and win the Nobel prize, or walk away with the $200 000 on Deal or No Deal? I dont want to die and miss out on everything.