Daddy-Issues

Two days have gone by since our first visit to the fertility center and it’s time for us to return to Dr. VaJayjay’s office. This is the last pre-go-have-sex visit, and today we will do another ultrasound and Lyena will get a shot that is supposed to boost her into ovulation overdrive (which I think would make a great name for a band).

This is it. The moment I have been waiting for. Doctor ordered sex!

I’ve never been ordered to have sex before, but I have a sense I’m going to enjoy it. In the process of having a baby, sex is, in my opinion, the single best part. We leave the doctor’s office and I start counting the miles until we get home. At one point, I even suggest we simply pull into an alley and crawl into the back seat, but the radio must be up too loud, because no matter how often I offer, Lyena doesn’t seem to hear me.

Not pregnant. Period.

In doing a little research for this piece, I have to say I am amazed at the number and variety of terms society has for a woman’s period. There are the common ones I’ve heard during my lifetime – “menses,” “Aunt Flo,” “that time,” “monthlies,” “the rag,” etc. Then there is a whole other far more creative class (or crass) of terminology that I had never heard before, but that seems to be in fairly common use. These include:

It’s been said that sex is kind of like pizza … even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. I think there are other ways in which the analogy fits as well, though. For example, there are many different kinds. There’s complex, multi-layered Chicago deep-dish; and there’s satisfyingly shallow New York thin-crust. There’s the kind that’s all about the extras, the little toppings necessary to mask the blandness underneath; and there’s the kind that are all about what’s below, where any additions must be carefully considered, lest they detract from the simple joys of substance deeper-down. There’s slow baked, time honored, forged in fire; and there’s pop it in, get it out and get it done. There’s order in, take out and, in some states, delivery.

Despite our best efforts, which were many and often, we are, alas, still not pregnant.

As soon as I find out we’re not, I do what any mature, level-headed man would do – I immediately start to question my virility. Actually, question may be the wrong word. Slander may be a better one. Impugn, perhaps. In fact, I become convinced that I’m sterile. Not just sterile; I begin to believe it’s possible my sperm may have lethal qualities. That they may be little deadly ninjas assassinating any eggs they find. I have an immense capacity for self-flagellating imagination and I utilize every bit of it as I imagine my deadly ninja sperm attacking my wife’s uterus. Soon they have evolved in my mind into sentient beings hell bent on rendering my wife completely, inexorably sterile. “Why would they do this to me,” I ask. “What have I done to them?” “Is it revenge for my previous negligence of their brethren?” “What,” I demand … “WHAT?!”

[NOTE: This piece, though not vulgar, includes mature content and may not be suitable for some audiences. You have been warned.]

This is going to be awkward. After a couple of medically-assisted attempts without a pregnancy, it is now my turn to get tested and make sure the problem isn’t with my “swim team.” There isn’t any particular reason to think it is – I have no genetic or physical history to suggest it would be – but after what Lyena has had to go through, it seems only fair that I should go through the one big test us guys can do to make sure. What can I say? I’m a giver.