My wife may have PCS. Or, to give it it's less benign name, Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. At least, that's what the prepubescent nurse at the clinic told her. Her doctor - and her new online her who charged just $19 - think otherwise. After all, my wife doesn't have facial hair, bad skin or any of the other symptoms associated with this fertility-threatening scourge. We were still in the throes of getting to the bottom of all of this when my dad died. Just collapsed in the passenger seat of the car while waiting for mum to return from some errands. We were spending so much time trying to create life, and yet here it was, being unceremoniously snuffed out of my dad's body. Looking at my dad's lifeless body I was reminded of I Robot: just flick a switch, and life vanishes. Just like that.
That night, as I lay with my wife I told G-d he was in now in my debt. He owed me one.
Two weeks later, while saying my morning mourning prayers, my phone rings. It's my wife. I let it ring out, and call her back five minutes later. "I'm pregnant," comes the emotional voice on the other end of the line. I go all tingly inside. I smile. The only words I can muster: "Well done!" Now comes the really stressful part. All nine months of it.
