In Fertility… Chapter Four: The Return of the VaJedi
February 10th, 2009 by Daddy

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:

  • Shark Week
  • Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System
  • Trolling for Vampires
  • Riding the Crimson Tide
  • High Tide at Red River
  • Saddling Ole’ Rusty
  • Fighting the Scarlet Crusade
  • Hemorrvaging
  • Fighting the Red Baron
  • Falling to the Communists
  • Moontime
  • The Painters are In
  • Arts and Crafts Week at Panty Camp

And many, many more. I suppose it’s only fair considering how many names we men have for our “understudies,” but I must admit I was surprised. My favorite reference to that time (or the time just before that time) came from a friend of mine in an Irish band who once asked if I knew why they call it PMS. When I said I didn’t, he replied, “Because Mad Cow Disease was taken!” I must admit, I laughed. Very hard.

Whatever you want to call it, unfortunately, Lyena’s arrived. Alright, we knew this was a possibility. Even a statistical probability. What now?

Lyena calls Dr. Vajayjay’s office and makes another appointment. He decides it’s time to put her on a drug to help make sure her little eggies develop. I guess this is different than the “ovulation overdrive” drug in that this one makes sure they develop and that one makes sure they release. To be honest, I don’t really understand this female hormonal stuff (though I am trying – there’s just so much of it), so I may have that totally wrong, but that is what I get from our conversation.

When she gets off the phone, Lyena mentions that the nurse said something about a “post coital” test. Now, I never took Latin, but I’m pretty sure that means “after sex.” I ask her what it entails and she says she’s not really sure. We’re not going to be doing the test she says, but if we were, she thinks that we would have sex first and then go in for … whatever the test actually is. It’s all pretty vague, and my mind is racing at the possibilities, so I file it away in my head to ask when we arrive. Just to be safe, when the day of our visit arrives, I make sure I’m wearing my nice boxers.

We arrive, check in, grab lollipops, watch a few minutes of The View and are collected by the nurse we chatted with the last time we were here. I wait as long as I can (about 14 seconds) before asking her:

So, when we called in they said something about a post-coital test?

“Really? I don’t think you’ll be doing that today.”

No, we didn’t think so either. But there is such a thing?

“Oh, yes.”

Is it, you know, what it sounds like?

“Pretty much.”

So … what? You have sex at home and then come in and have the test?

“Sometimes you do it here.”

It it?

“Yes, sometimes we have to monitor things.”

Monitor things?!

“Well, we don’t watch, but sometimes we have to make sure things happen properly.”

This seems like an odd statement, considering how functionally simple the act is to do – tab “A” into slot “B”. Doing it well, of course, is a different story – and doing it to my level of mastery is the stuff of dreams – but to functionally do it properly? If you need a team of doctors to monitor you in order to make sure that happens, I’m not sure how I feel about you procreating. But, anyway…

Where, exactly, does this happen?

“We have a room for it.”

Pause.

Somewhere in this office is a boom-boom room?

She smiles, and I could swear the slightest hint of mischief twinkles in her eyes.

“Oh, yes. It’s quite nice.”

Can we see it?

“Oh, no. Not unless the test is ordered. And I seriously doubt that will be necessary.”

Hmm. As we continue down the hall, I can’t help but sneak glances through as many doors as possible in hopes of catching a glimpse of the honeymoon suite, but don’t see anything that looks like it. Just ordinary exam rooms and offices. Yawn. They must keep it hidden. Which is probably smart, since I’m pretty sure every guy who hears about it secretly looks for it. Maybe one of the walls has a false panel.

We’re brought to the ultrasound room for our standard meeting with the iPhallus: on the table; Trojan Maxx; shadowy blobs; off the table; done.

We then go to see Dr. VaJayjay, who greets us at his office door as warm and relaxed as always. “No go, huh?” He leads us in and sits behind his desk. “Well, you know, it takes a while. We were one in four for our parents.” Not an image I want in my head, but I understand the sentiment.

We chat for a bit longer about how normal it is for this to take several months and that it’s nothing to be concerned about. We’re not particularly concerned, but it’s nice to hear it from the master. He reviews the latest ultrasound – “looks good” – orders the ovu-boost and tells us to go home and have sex.

The last go round, Lyena and I had a bit of a disagreement over the optimal number of times per day we should have sex. I figured it was best to water the garden as much as possible, but Lyena thought that would only lower the water table and limit its nutritive qualities (I love a good metaphor). I, therefore, feel the need to clarify.

So, how many times a day should we have sex? You know, for maximum effect?

“Three or four.”

I feel like I’ve just found God.

Really?

“Yes. Beer also helps. Pizza too. And watch some sports in between if you can.”

His face never wavers, no hint of a smile. It’s a prescription for perfection. I didn’t know sex could get more awesome.

Before we leave I ask him where the restroom is. He directs me down a secondary hall I’ve never seen before, and the hunt begins. As I slowly make my way, I discretely check out every room I pass. Lab. Nurse’s station. Exam room. Blood-drawing area. Two closed doors. Hmm… two closed doors. I wonder if the love shack is behind one of them. I’ll have to find an excuse to check them out. A subtle, mature excuse, of course.

On the way home, I remind Lyena that we need to swing by a grocery store to pick up some beer. She glares at me. “What? He said it: beer, pizza, sports, sex. And he’s the doctor.”

Up Next: You Have 15 Minutes… GO!


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