Because Sometimes the Magic Doesn't Happen In the Bedroom...It Happens In a Lab

There are few things in life that garner praises of perfection. My partner's uterus is one of them.  I was under the impression that I'd been intimately aware of my partner's reproductive system for some time now.  Apparently not so true.  Thus we found ourselves beginning our first fertility treatment.  Part three of the continuing saga in which I become a man required that I first understood a fraction of what it means to be a woman.  It also required that my sperm take devastating hits to its self-esteem because that builds character, or something.

The moment that I realized this was actually happening was when my partner returned home to report on her first "monitoring session."  As she began recounting the experience I was swiftly waylaid by something called an internal ultrasound.  I was under the impression that ultrasounds only happen outside the body and require an instrument that looks something like a defibrillator paddle. Why in the hell would you want to stick something like that inside a person?  I was assured the instrument was a bit more stream-lined.  So, she goes in for this vag-o-gram and apparently passes with flying colors.  And I quote, "Oh Kelly! Oh my! Oh Kelly! You just have the most beautiful uterus! I ought to take a picture of that and frame it to put up on my wall! Textbook perfect!"  The, "Oh Kelly"'s were uttered in a breathy orgasmic tone; apparently the nurse was very enthusiastic, which I guess is a good thing seeing as one problem is more than enough.  All the while my poor deformed sperm were sinking deeper into despair.  They're textbook too, just of a different variety.  Not only are they under-performing, come with at least two tails and few in numbers, but now they had to deal with the shame of entering a perfect uterus in order to do their job.  It wasn't looking good.

In a show of support and solidarity we decided I should probably witness this vag-o-gram for myself, not least because this was really all my fault.  And mind you, I wasn't expecting this to be any kind of a picnic.  I've had doctors' hands up my anus.  I understand uncomfortable.  I was woefully unprepared for what came next. Before things started the nurse pulled out the the vag-o-wand which resembled a miniature mace sans spikes.  Fear level was about a 3.  It took me a minute or two to realize that this thing was going inside my partner's body.  Fear level rose to a 7.  As the actual vag-o-gramming began the fear level spiked and I quickly became concerned that the nurse was damaging the one thing that was healthy and going to allow us to have kids.  That thought was replaced by astonishment at the actual range of motion the nurse was getting out of her inserted vag-o-wand which was again replaced by fear.  So there I sat, in mixed horror and fascination, trying to make out anything other than gray matter on the TV screen set up for our convenience.  By the way, I'm still not convinced anyone can see anything on those things.  There is literally nothing to see.  I'm operating under the assumption that the nurses are just making things up until such time as we manage a successful pregnancy.

So anyway, a number of these "monitoring sessions" and a shot in the stomach later (which I administered whilst groggy sometime around midnight thank you very much), we were back at the office preparing for our first IUI.  IUI stands for Intrauterine Insemination, which, obviously.  Essentially what happens is they turkey baster the sperm past the cervix (which is where most sperm go to die) and right into the uterus.  The hope is that the sperm won't need to do much to successfully find and penetrate the egg that will be happily falling down the ole' Fallopian tube any minute.  In addition to this express train into the uterus, they put the sperm through a wash which is basically a glorified tilt-a-whirl ride with chemicals that leaves only the best and brightest behind.  I had a bad feeling when the nurse came in and informed us we would need to sign an extra consent as my sperm numbers were lower than is usually considered satisfactory for an IUI round.  I, of course, was cursing my partner's perfect uterus and Nurse Uteran-Orgasm for dropping the guilt hammer on my poorly performing seed.

About two weeks later we got our results: negative.  We were kind of expecting  it though hoping for the best.  After the IUI we had looked up statistics on how effective this was supposed to be and essentially halved it because of the added consent form we signed which basically told us this is not going to be successful. The one positive that came out of it was that our insurance accepted the doctor's recommendations to move on to IVF which I guess we can thank my bogus sperm for seeing as they turned in an absolutely abysmal performance.  So now we're gearing up for an all together different and exponentially more intense experience trying to get pregnant; one in which my partner will be transformed into a walking pharmacy and we brace for the possibility of wildly outrageous hormonal reactions.  I'm sure I'll be displaying couvade-like symptoms through all of this as well so it could also result in the end of all living things on Earth.  For now, excuse me as I go and shove a needle in her stomach.  Practice makes perfect.