...Same as the Old Boss

"TELL ME WHAT YOU WERE TOLD ABOUT YOUR SEMEN SAMPLE!!!!," an accented voice bellows as the door to the office where my wife and I sit bursts open.

Our new doctor sits down at the table opposite us and places all of our records in between.   He has the analysis of my sample on top of the stack of papers.  We'll call him Dr. Bean McScreamy.

There are a couple of immediate differences between Dr. K and Dr. McScreamy.   The first thing we notice is his manner.   If Dr. K was a sunny day for a picnic in the park, Dr. McScreamy feels like Hurricane Katrina.

"Well," I begin to stammer, "I have a diminished number of motile sperm?"

"Zero," Dr. McScreamy says.   You have zero.   This makes things very difficult, if not impossible."

He starts to scrawl numbers on a piece of scratch paper.   He is writing levels of various hormones that are ideal for sperminess in men.   He then writes the levels that my blood samples show next to them for comparison.   And the weird part: all my numbers are within the brackets he gives. Hmmm...

But, at any rate, my sperm numbers are still alarmingly, strangely low. Low enough where Dr. McScreamy feels like he should keep us aware of what might hinder the IVF process.   I find it odd that Dr. K looked at these same numbers and gave us a 70 to 80 percent chance of success, but also a little reassuring.

We get thrown for a loop when he asks us to consider donor sperm. "It's just an option I want to put out there.   When I see numbers like these...," he trails off. "I just want to open that door and let you think about it."   We don't really need to think about it.   Not that it's a bad thing, but I think we both feel a definite negative on the topic.   After coming all this way, the last thing on our minds is the idea of using donated sperm.

"Well, I think we need to do a few more blood screens on you," he says, indicating me.  Great.  More needles.

"I would also like to get multiple samples frozen to see if we can find more motile sperm."   Wait-multiple?   He continues: "I'd like for you to go to this facility in the morning and make a deposit.   Then go downstairs.   Have a cup of coffee.   Go back up and make another deposit.   Then go to the mall and wander around a bit. Go back again and make another deposit."

I must've been looking at him like he was crazy because he tries to explain this by saying, "Just remember your college days, ok?"

Now, I'm not sure what he's heard about my college days, but it seems my reputation is highly exaggerated.  I must look like a stud to this guy.

Hey!   I can hear you laughing!

Anyway, he gives us all the information on the blood work and deposit facility.  He wants to do a sonogram on my wife which comes back great.  He also schedules an ultrasound for her as well, to get a complete picture of what he's working with.

Here's the second major difference between our two doctors.   McScreamy's office makes Dr. K's look like a set from the Flintstones.   Don't get me wrong. Dr. K had all the equipment he needed.   His labs and office were great and there was nothing wrong with it.   They fit his personality.   Older decor, older tools, tried and true and good as new.

McScreamy, however, has essentially tricked out his office.   The waiting area is fancy, there are widescreen HD monitors in the exam rooms, and music piped everywhere.

One office is quaint and comfortable and the other is a technological fertility Narnia.

By the time it's all over, we leave heavier than when we came in. We both thought the appointment was going to be a conversation, a glance over the medical information, and then an in-depth discussion of getting the IVF party started.   Dr. K was at that point and ready to go pending 15 grand.   Dr. McScreamy wants more tests and samples.   More data.   Which really is a good thing, just not what we wanted to hear.

So we get the ball rolling again.   And there's a definite bright side if you ask me: at least I didn't get sodomized again.

...Same as the Old Boss

"TELL ME WHAT YOU WERE TOLD ABOUT YOUR SEMEN SAMPLE!!!!," an accented voice bellows as the door to the office where my wife and Isit bursts open.

Our new doctor sits down at the table opposite us and places all of our records in between.   He has the analysis of my sample on top of the stack of papers.  We'll call him Dr. Bean McScreamy.

There are a couple of immediate differences between Dr. K and Dr.McScreamy.   The first thing we notice is his manner.   If Dr. K was a sunny day for a picnic in the park, Dr. McScreamy feels like Hurricane Katrina.

"Well," I begin to stammer, "I have a diminished number of motile sperm?"

"Zero," Dr. McScreamy says.   You have zero.   This makes things very difficult, if not impossible."

He starts to scrawl numbers on a piece of scratch paper.   He is writing levels of various hormones that are ideal for sperminess in men.   He then writes the levels that my blood samples show next to them for comparison.   And the weird part: all my numbers are within the brackets he gives. Hmmm...

But, at any rate, my sperm numbers are still alarmingly, strangely low. Low enough where Dr. McScreamy feels like he should keep us aware of what might hinder the IVF process.   I find it odd that Dr. K looked at these same numbers and gave us a 70 to 80 percent chance of success, but also a little reassuring.

We get thrown for a loop when he asks us to consider donor sperm. "It's just an option I want to put out there.   When I see numbers like these...," he trails off. "I just want to open that door and let you think about it."   We don't really need to think about it.   Not that it's a bad thing, but I think we both feel a definite negative on the topic.   After coming all this way, the last thing on our minds is the idea of using donated sperm.

"Well, I think we need to do a few more blood screens on you," he says, indicating me.  Great.  More needles.

"I would also like to get multiple samples frozen to see if we can find more motile sperm."   Wait-multiple?   He continues: "I'd like for you to go to this facility in the morning and make a deposit.   Then go downstairs.   Have a cup of coffee.   Go back up and make another deposit.   Then go to the mall and wander around a bit. Go back again and make another deposit."

I must've been looking at him like he was crazy because he tries to explain this by saying, "Just remember your college days, ok?"

Now, I'm not sure what he's heard about my college days, but it seems my reputation is highly exaggerated.  I must look like a stud to this guy.

Hey!   I can hear you laughing!

Anyway, he gives us all the information on the blood work and deposit facility.  He wants to do a sonogram on my wife which comes back great.  He also schedules an ultrasound for her as well, to get a complete picture of what he's working with.

Here's the second major difference between our two doctors.   McScreamy'soffice makes Dr. K's look like a set from the Flintstones.   Don't get me wrong. Dr. K had all the equipment he needed.   His labs and office were great and there was nothing wrong with it.   They fit his personality.   Older decor, older tools, tried and true and good as new.

McScreamy, however, has essentially tricked out his office.   The waiting area is fancy, there are widescreen HD monitors in the exam rooms, and music piped everywhere.

One office is quaint and comfortable and the other is a technological fertilityNarnia.

By the time it's all over, we leave heavier than when we came in. We both thought the appointment was going to be a conversation, a glance over the medical information, and then an in-depth discussion of getting the IVFparty started.   Dr. K was at that point and ready to go pending 15 grand.   Dr.McScreamy wants more tests and samples.   More data.   Which really is a good thing, just not what we wanted to hear.

So we get the ball rolling again.   And there's a definite bright side if you ask me: at least I didn't get sodomized again.

Meet The New Boss...

Well, it's been a while.

I had plans, you know.  Such great plans.   I was going to update this thing daily with all kinds of different things.   I'm sure I've mentioned it before? Stories about our life, our adventures, music, food, pictures, movies, more baby stuff. I can't really take all the blame, though.   In the last few weeks there was baseball, Angry Birds Halloween, baseball, reading, Fruit Ninja Arcade mode, and baseball.  If it weren't for the constant badgering from a certain Nigerian prince who loves this blog, there's no telling when I would've been back!

So, let's get this thing back on its feet and try again, shall we?

For a while the baby stuff has been in a kind of holding pattern.   We met with Dr. K not too long ago in an effort for us all to be on the same page.   Basically, given all the medical data he accumulated, IVF will be our most effective shot at getting pregnant at this point in the game.   Not that this information came as much of a surprise, mind you, but even the Gambler would tell you it's good to have all the cards on the table.

But then comes the clincher...cost. Dr. K is not on any insurance plan.   In fact, I swear the room grows dark at the mention of the word.   These things run about $15,000 to $18,000.  Which he needs up front.   Before we begin anything. My poker face remains on when this number drops, at least I think so, but the doctor could probably see right through it as he suggests banks that might loan the amount.

We leave that afternoon, heavy with knowledge.   My mind swirls with thoughts about how to get this money?!

My first idea comes in the next few days.   I never took it past the kernel stage, so you'll have to forgive that it's a little underdeveloped.

A dime drive.

$15,000 in dimes.

150,000 donated dimes. I thought about using the blog, Facebook, Twitter, Paypal, and whatever other monster the internets has to offer to ask people to give one dime each.  Of course more if they wished, but all we were asking for was a dime. I even floated the idea of writing Oprah for a dime.   Or a dime jar in her studio.  Celebrity guests could donate dimes!   It was going to be huge.  But after explaining it a few times and the weird looks I received, I figured I had reached for the skies, but fell short.  Oh well.

Some good comes out of this idea, though.   In talking with a coworker, I discover she is pregnant through IVF and her doctor was on our insurance plan.  What the what?!?   I get this doctor's name and we make an appointment right away!   We really, really, hate to leave Dr. K, but we just don't know if we can pass up using the insurance.   We spent the next few weeks gathering up medical records and info in anticipation.

Untitled

Found this article and it really moved me.  I'm not sure if I'm allowed to copy and paste it here or how to share it besides linking to it from this post, but it's too good to let it go by or forget about it.

Clicky-click it!

To Whomever Is In Charge of Programming at the Food Network

Complied for your reading pleasure are these ideas that flooded my Facebook status feed one Sunday afternoon.  See, around this house, we love food.  So by association, we love cooking and cooking shows.

However, this particular Sunday, after being subjected to endless promos for a new show called The Great Food Truck Race, a show whose most dramatic development concerns parking according to my new favorite podcast; a show that is EXACTLY what its title suggests.  I felt that if this is the direction they're heading at the Food Network, then I could come up with some concepts as well.

So here we go:

1. "Where's the Razor Blade?"- contestants are blindfolded and gave to guess which food item has "The Blade!"

2. "You've Got Salmonella!"-each week a new food poisoning is given to the contestant and we watch as they experience it.

3. "Knife Fight"- the TV chefs engage in a knife fight.

4. "If I Could Cook a Panda"- chefs imagine what recipes they would use if they were to cook a panda.

5. "Carb OverLoad"- chefs compete against the clock to create the most carb heavy, unhealthy food item possible.

6. "Saturated Hats"- fashion designers marinate and cook their clothing creations.

7. "Blackout!"- cooks must prepare meals in pitch black darkness.

8. "Bobby Flay Will Beat You"- celebrity chef Bobby Flay discovers your talent and then attempts to beat you at your talent. If he loses, he then beats you physically.

9. "Is There Sage In This?"- contestants try to determine if the dish they're eating has sage.

10. "The Innuendo Chef"- regular cooking show preparing normal recipes, but the chef can only speak in innuendos.

11. "If You Ever Want To See Your Children Alive Again, You'll Cook..."- producers abduct contestants' families and their release is dependent upon the dish quality.

12. "Cooking Charades"- chef must prepare a recipe that is acted out by their chosen friend.

13. "You Wanna Cook It? You Gotta Kill It!"- self explanatory.

14. "There's More Than One Way to Skin a Cat"- self explanatory.

15. "WipeOut!"- each week and certain animal/other food item, cooking it until it is wiped from the Earth's surface.

16. "You Said A Mouth Full!"- couples must communicate with each other with their mouths full of food.

17. "Around A Taco"- typical late night talk show format that takes place in a circular booth in a diner. A small plate with a taco sits on the table. Whoever holds the plate gets to talk and the host eats the taco at the end.

A good friend of mine started joining in and soon we were brainstorming not just a whole new schedule, but a whole new network!

Feel free to add your own suggestions!  Let's get the attention of the Food Network!  :)

State Fair Photos

Texas Star

Whirl

Whirl (color)

Here We Go!

Fried Butter

Fried Apples

Step Right Up!

Lady Bugs

Magic Maze

Monks and Mandala

Mandala in Progress at Crow Collection

Mandala

Monks at Work

Monk Working

Monk Working

Storms

Sent from my iPhone

Storms

Sent from my iPhone

Clouds

Sent from my iPhone

The First 100 Pages: Thoughtacular Spectacular

So yeah, 100 pages down.  Doesn't sound like much, but it's further than I've ever made it in this book.   And I know there are things I've missed, so I'll be going back and rereading a lot.

The quotes I shared seem to center around two related ideas.   Ideas that feel central to my behavior and thought patterns but put into words that I could never find.

When Allander writes of the hatred and mistrust that the abused person feels toward their own desire for intimacy, he really hits something huge for me.   It stems from being abused by someone who was meant to be a nurturing role in my life, in my case my stepfather, and instead, betrayed that role for sinful actions.   That alone creates a distrust in people who mean us good and that makes sense.   Even more than that, victims blame themselves for desiring a nurturing relationship and responding to that attention, emotionally, physically, etc.    There's an abundance of guilt for not stopping it.   It takes an overwhelming amount of effort to view the abuse as, not just the sinful act that it was, but as a result of a sinner in a spiritual battle.   One that he lost and where there are horrible repercussions, but not where I was a silent accomplice.  Effort that I confess I don't have most of the time.

The wounds go so deep that the abused person develops an inherent distrust in people and, even worse but true, a self-hatred of our yearning for a vulnerable, intimate relationship.   I can relate to that more than I would ever want to admit.   What more of an intimate, molding, safe relationship should there be for a boy than his father?   What more intimate of a relationship are we made to seek than one with the Father?   It's hard for me to define a relationship in those terms based on my experiences with fathers.

It makes sense to me that I've always approached relationships cautiously.   My thoughts range from "How can I best squash or change myself-who I am, what I like, what I feel and think and need and want?" to "How can I starve those things and become exactly what someone else needs or wants?" or "I'm not good enough for this person to like me."  This both creates an artificial connection and protects me.  By adopting a disdain for my yearning for connection and an expectation of either abuse by others or not good enough for them, I have stepped away from many true connections.   By assuming someone else doesn't really want to get to know me, but only wants something from me or abuse me, I end up becoming an abuser of myself and by extension that potential relationship.

I struggle with a stronghold of condemnation.   That could also easily be translated to me finding it impossible to accept grace.   That grace is not for me.  I seem predisposed to taking every awful thing I've done or that has happened to me and seeing it as something I directly deserve and/or specific punishment from God.   It's not that I can't see where Satan would want me to doubt God's love and would exert power to convince me of such things.  I guess the abuse makes it easier to believe the opposite? I mean, where did the abuse come from?   It's easier for me to think that God sent the abuse to me because of some punishment or, even worse, because He hated me, than to think that I was conveniently in the wrong place at the wrong time and God wept for the sin and my abuse.   It's that mindset of condemnation that's colored so much of my life and I've worked so hard to hide it.

But God doesn't want to curse me.  He wants to bless me.  He loves me.   And I want that too.   Pair my human sinful nature with an emotional pattern of despising the need for intimate relationship, and it's easy to see that there are huge obstacles facing my relationship with God.   Obstacles that can only be overcome by the Father.   My Father.   I have to run to Him.   To trust Him and ask Him to do what He does best: the impossible.

 

All I Need is A Miracle

The newest letter arrives and it's not really anything we wanted to hear. Essentially, what the microscope showed us previously is true across the board for my sample. There just aren't enough mobile sperm or correctly shaped sperm present to be conducive for our desires. Dr. K is befuddled by this given my blood tests, but this is what the test showed. Couple that with our ages and the MTHFR problems and the doctor thinks our chances of going the old fashioned route are very, very slim. Not to say it couldn't be accomplished. We've achieved it before. Just that realistically, not very good odds.

 

He wants to talk to us about in vitro because he feels that it would be a very successful process for our case. We've been on the fence regarding this for a bit. Dr. K told us that he really doesn't like going this route because it feels to him as though he failed us. I find comfort in that. We don't feel so alone. He cares so much about helping us accomplish this. We haven't made an appointment yet, but I think we're at least going to go and get the information. And if anyone has an extra $15,000 laying around and wants to clear some space, give us a call! :)

 

 

We've also been giving adoption some serious consideration. This is all in fact collection mode as well. I know there's a long process and financially, there's a cost as well, but we've only just begun to Google and put out feelers.

 

 

Despite all the things that seem like setbacks, I just don't feel like this door is being closed. I know that earlier I wrote very confidently about us having a child. When I look back at that entry, I wonder if some of it comes across as prideful or arrogant. I don't reallly think that it's wrong to pray for a miracle regarding our situation, but I'm not sure if I'm also telling God exactly how He should fulfill that request. Sometimes it feels like holding onto this causes more harm than good. The crushing monthly disappointment is hard for both of us and here I am setting us up for more hardship next month. I'd be lying if I said it doesn't make me second guess what I feel like God is saying. I wonder sometimes if I'm being fair. I continue to pray about it and I still feel like it's a "just wait" kind of scenario.

 

 

We hear so many wonderful stories from amazingly supportive people about other couples who have been in similar situations and God just blessed them with a child that's it hard not to put ourselves in those scenarios. To think that it's going to happen for us in the same, exact way. Quite simply, we'd love to just get pregnant the good, old fashioned way and give birth. Just something incredible that we want to experience together.

 

 

This exercise in patience can be excruciating. I guess the overall point here is where do our hearts lie? Are we dedicated to continuing in prayer over this? To continue trying in this? To accept however God is working here? I know that keeping in constant prayer keeps that relationship open not only between my wife and I, but between us and our Lord. And I know that whatever comes from this, He will be glorified.

Gotta Collect 'Em All!

I spent the rest of the weekend amused about my impending doctor's visit. Monday morning comes and I call the number to the lab/clinic.  The receptionist is right to the point.

"It's $135 and we don't take American Express," she quickly tells me.

Um...ok. I make the appointment for Thursday and get the necessary codes to bill my insurance company.  I'm about to hang up when a question crosses my mind.

"Um, I'll be going over there on my lunch break from work.  Will there be a long wait or anything like that?"

"No, sir.  You'll come in, give us $135, you'll collect, and you're free to go!"

I had to stop myself from chucking like a twelve-year-old at "collect."

Next comes the anxiety:

First off, how much am I supposed to collect exactly?  What if I'm handed some gigantic nine million gallon jug or something?

Furthermore, my time there depends on my collection time.  So, how long is long enough?  I mean, should I just waltz in there, collect, and then BAM! I'm out the door?  Will I be judged?  No, it's probably better that I take a little while, but how long is long enough?  Twenty minutes?  Thirty?

And $135?! I have to PAY someone to do this?!

My wife asks me if I will be ok with all this and I laugh and tell her I got this one.  No prob, babe.  I can handle it. I also think that, despite my first time with the doc, she's had the worst of the experiences.  I just have to collect.

Thursday comes and I head on in to the office.  I have to fill out more paperwork and give them their well-earned $135.  I actually do end up waiting a bit before I'm escorted back.

Now if old, crappy sitcoms have taught me anything, I'm expecting some cold examination room stocked to the gills with porn.  But what I'm led to is more like a glorified bathroom.  On first inspection, I see no porn whatsoever.  Not that I'm looking for porn so I can have some crazy pornapolooza or anything.  It's just what you always hear about this kind of thing.

Anyway, this nurse gives me more paperwork and a small cup wrapped in plastic.  She tells me to write my last name on the side and when I go, to leave the cup on the counter and ring a doorbell that is inside the room, signalling them I have left.

She leaves and I have a seat and finish the paperwork.  I leave to door wide open and start to wonder if I should go ahead and close it.  Full disclosure: it takes me a minute to realize that I should write my name on the side of the cup BEFORE I collect.

I shut the door and that's when I pay attention to a magazine rack that is on the wall.  I didn't give it much thought coming in, as magazines in a doctor's office are Good Housekeeping, Time, and Texas Monthly issues from the last decade.  But these titles are different:

Curiosity gets the best of me and I wonder how recent these are.  I pull a few up to glance at the publication date on the covers.  These are new issues for this month and the last.  My mind starts to wander.  Who goes into the bookstore and picks up the new porn?  Dr. K?  A nurse?   Or do they have a subscription which I guess would be the wiser financial move?

Then I look down and see this:

More things race through my mind. VHS?!  I'm not expecting Blu-Ray on a 72 inch HD plasma surround sound 3-D or anything, but has anyone heard of DVD?  You have current magazines, but VHS tapes from the eighties?   How about a little quality control here?  Even more creepy is this:

I can't even form a theory about why there's a picture book of Scottish golf courses.  Men are sick.

In addition, even if I wanted to, I didn't see a TV with one of those antique VCR's anywhere.  Then I notice this:

Turns out they call this stuff "the kit."  My brain must have been in full stress mode.

Well, to make a long, gross story shorter, time passes and I leave.  But when I leave and for the rest of the day I feel awkward and out-of-place.  All my joking leading up to the appointment has vanished.  Now I'm left with a bad feeling I just can't shake.

Part Two: Just Keep Swimming

There is a film that redefined cinema for a generation.  A movie that raised the bar for the art form.  A motion picture that turns the mirror on our lives and reflects truth back to us.

That film is Pee Wee's Big Adventure.

OK, maybe it's not all of that, but it does come close to cracking my top ten.

Take a look at this clip, where, after just having his prized bicycle stolen from him, Pee Wee is trying to adjust to life without it, deal with its loss, and search desperately for the bike:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4-2NckEAGI]

This perfectly represents what the rest of this afternoon, and sometimes days at a stretch feel like.  Lunch at Chipotle and we see new parents with a baby in a carrier.   A trip to Borders for the new Scott Pilgrim comic and there's babies in strollers, more carriers, crying babies, babies in slings, and my personal favorite, toddlers and children with baby dolls.  And, oh look, coming soon to DVD: Babies!

Don't get me wrong.   I'm not hurt by other people's joy and blessings or jealous of others' familes, at least not anymore.   It's just that after trying so hard, after so many tests and no conclusive actions, and still more tests to come, it just feels sometimes like that yearning for a baby is this huge, empty vacancy.   And everywhere we look are lucky people who get to enjoy something that we are looking at from a distance.   Something we got to taste, but have to find again.

My wife and I discuss our discouragement over lunch.  We feel like we're not making any real progress.   We question whether or not all this is something we should even be doing.  Things really start to fall into place for me. I once listened to a sermon podcast where the pastor said that God always answers prayer.  He says either "Yes, No or Later."   The scriptures he was preaching from was the beginning of Luke: the account of Zachariah and Elizabeth, ironically enough.   The pastor then asks his audience to examine their prayer life for anything they had ceased praying.

Now, I'm not comparing us to that couple.   When it comes to us praying about having a child, I've always gotten a very clear feeling that it's in the "Later" column.   I don't know how or when or by what means, but I feel strongly that it's a "Later" issue.  We are just supposed to hang loose. When we are blessed with a child, there will be no other possible way to tell the story without pointing directly to the glory of the Father.  This child will not be here because of us, prescriptions, procedures, tests, or doctors.   It will be our testimony of the power and glory of God.

I've got an appointment to make.   And Steve and his buddies need swimming lessons. Maybe Dory can help.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmyUkm2qlhA]

Part One: Swim At Your Own Risk

Letter #2 arrives Friday and we're certain that this time there will be answers! This extensive, painful, and pricy test is the one that illuminates our issues and puts us on the road to septuplets!

Not so much.

Once more, everything is normal. Nothing more to see here. Move along.

At the end of this letter, Dr. K asks to see my wife on the tenth day of her cycle to perform a regular ultrasound and see how things are developing. Turns out that would be the very next day, which is a Saturday. No way he'll want to do this on a weekend. We resign ourselves to ride out this cycle and pick up the following month, but we call the doctor anyway, letting him know that Saturday would be the day he was wanting to see us.

He surprises us with these instructions: "Why don't you two have intercourse at 9 and then come into my office around 11? That way I can also take a look at the sperm quality."

Have I mentioned that I like this doctor?

Racing through my head are: "Doctor's orders, baby!" and "He probably meant 9pm and am, right, honey?"

Instead, we look at each other and giggle. And it is funny that with all the uncertainty, all the ups and downs, all the oddness, we giggle at the thought of being instructed to be initmate.

So it's 11 the next morning and we're walking into his office. The doctor's finishing up at a conference. That means snooping, giggling, and Angry Birds while we wait. I will be the champion of Angry Birds.

SItting out on the counter is an old, worn medical bag. Something you'd expect to see a TV doctor on some frontier show sporting as he makes house calls to different cabins in the ol' West, curing cholera and the Plague. It's got all the "tools of the trade" and it's embossed with Dr. K's name. It feels so simple, yet dedicated to the craft. Purposeful. An actual love of practicing medicine.

Many exploded pigs later, Dr. K arrives. We feel slightly awkward being in a room with someone who, not only knows what went down a few hours ago, but who asked you to do it.

As he sets up, he tells us more about growing up in Oak Cliff, playing ball and fishing out where we live. He tells us about a farmer that would let the young Dr. K and friends fish on his property, give them water, and let them use the bathroom. One day the man sold the farm and moved East. Dr. K said the farmer had turned to drinking because he wasn't farming anymore. Suddenly, I'm even more thankful for the medical bag. I get lost in the idea of our individual purposes and the choices we make to hold onto or follow them. Or what we choose to follow instead of that purpose.

Back to the ultrasound. I guess you need a medical degree to read one of these things because it looks like the cable or satellite went down to me. Every so often he measures a black shape, pointing out follicles and tubes, but it's all snow to me. I'm just glad all is normal.

He also takes a fluid sample so he can take a look at my sperm quality. He spreads it onto a glass slide for a microscope.

C'mon boys, make me proud.

He literally runs out of the room, slide in hand and makes a passing reference about the appointment being finished. We look at each other, not sure if we can leave or not. My wife gets dressed and we peek out into the hallway, toward his office.

"A picure's worth a thousand words," he says to us, coming out of his office. "Want to take a look?"

He has to ask? We are both excited to look! Speaking for myself, I assume I'm going to see fleets of swimming sperm, verile and numerous, covering the slide and charting a new level of masculinity that makes both Dr. K and myself medical marvels.

But once again, not so much.

My wife looks first and as I soak up his cluttered office and various baseball memoribilia, I hear things like: misshapen, not moving, fewer than I'd like.

I try not to let my shoulders sag too much when it's my turn to take a look. Surely it's not that bad, right?

My wife rubs back arm as he points out one that has a weird bump on it, another that has a flat head, and so on.

"Here's one that's moving," he says. I try not to knock over anything while he moves the scope to a fast moving sperm. Sure enough, there's one swimming up a storm.

In a perfect circle.

Chasing its tail.

I have since named him Steve. And, as if I couldn't tell, he tells me Steve's circling.

"There are some normal ones here," he adds quickly. "I'll show you what they look like." He proceeds to switch magnification back and forth and move the slide around, scanning for one. It feels like one of those movie montages where the hours pass by, but nothing really changes. I honestly can't remember if he found one or not.

He decides to schedule me for an appointment to check out my sperm quality and sets up another ultrasound for my wife to check that the follicle released. He walks us out of his office, gives us both high-fives, and sends us out to somehow enjoy the rest of our weekend.

The First of Many Answers

Time passes and we receive a letter from Dr. K.  He likes to write personal letters to his patients, detailing the outcomes and diagnoses.  We like that a lot.

All the blood work came back normal.  It's both reassuring and not.   We expected the tests to point out a glaring, obvious thing that the doctor could say, "Well, all you have to do to fix this is A, B, and C, and you're good to go!"

Oh well.

Forward we go.   Dr. K wants to do tests as my wife's cycle progresses, watching how her body works.   This translates to, first, more blood work, and second, some kind of "Ultra Ultrasound," which sounds kinda cool.

Turns out not so much on the cool.

Apparently, they inject dye into her fallopian tubes to see if there are any blockages preventing normal body works.   And it hurts.

I took off work to go with her to the test, but found out all I could do was wait around.  While we wait, I take in the first waiting room.   It's full of people, all waiting for some type of test.   A television with poor reception delivers a Cosby show episode from 1,000 years ago.   A man in a wheelchair, whose legs are nearly twice as small as the rest of his body, plays with his daughter while his wife remarks that this is their first in a series of stops in various departments.   An elderly couple enters, snacking on popcorn.  The husband is wearing a wristband labelled NUCLEAR.  A mother wheels in her baby, the child's head strapped into some type of brace.   People come and go.

I think about all these different lives, all intersecting at this one place, all for their various medical reasons.   What are they here to uncover?   What are they hoping for?  How is God working in their lives?

Once again, I'm struck by my girl's bravery.  She would deny it, but it's true.   I know she's nervous, yet here we are.  She has her wristband.  DIAGNOSTIC. We wait for our call.   We snuggle and laugh at the Cosby show.  Cockroach and Theo are going to shave their heads for a rap video.

"Jennifer?"

It's time.  Back we go, past people laying in hospital beds, to a new waiting area.  I have to stay here while she goes in alone to an unknown.   See what I mean?  Brave.

She changes and heads to the room.   I say a little prayer and disappear into Angry Birds again.   She returns soon enough, changes, and falls into my arms.  It was not a good experience.  But it's over now.   She did it and she's safe.

We collect a copy of the results and run them up to the doctor's office.

Time to wait for another letter.

The Wounded Heart

I'm reading

 

The Wounded Heart.

It's a book about dealing with past sexual abuse in a Christian focus.  I've started and stopped this book so many times, I've lost count.   I'll get a few pages into it and I'll read something that hits so close to home I have to stop.

I decided to give it another shot, only this time my mentor is reading it with me.  Kind of an accountability thing and to help me with perspective on what I read.  It's helping because I aim to finish this book.

I don't really know what I expect from it.

I know I need to make peace with what happened to me.   I know I need to make peace with God.   Just writing this and I struggle with just typing the sentence, "I was sexually abused," knowing I might be posting it out there fills me with fear and shame.   I've spent so much time minimizing what happened instead of grieving and facing it.  I let my circumstances define me.

I don't expect one book to fix everything.  But it's more of a start than just acting like it was no big deal.  Like it didn't damage me.

So, like I said, I'm starting the book again with my mentor.   I'll be writing about things I learn and feel while reading this book from time to time.   So look out! :)

There's so much more I want to put in here, but it feels very disorganized.   I'll collect my thoughts and start working them up into their own posts.   I swear all these posts won't be total bummers or all baby stuff! :)

On a slightly side note, I purchased a used copy for my mentor to have as he reads with me. I found this inscription inside the front cover:

"To Josh-with all my love & prayers. May grace, guidance, love, protection, wisdom, peace, blessings, and favor from our heavenly Father be poured out on you daily.  May He heal your hurts and restore you to wholeness.   Love always & forever, Mom."

I don't have the first clue who Josh is or where he is.   What prompted him to let go of the book?  Did he learn all he could and wanted to pass it on?   Did it help?  All I know is that sounds like a powerful prayer.   If he received even a tenth of all that, Josh was a blessed man.

I know I could use a prayer like that.  We all could.

A Bit of History

I kind of hit the ground running there, so perhaps I should backtrack. Take it down a notch for a second?

About Christmastime two years ago, my wife and I discovered we were pregnant. We had been trying for a bit, so it was very welcome news at a very joyous time. Near the end of January, however, we lost the pregnancy.

I don't think I can describe how devastating it felt. It was hard enough on me, but even harder for my girl. I can still feel the loss, anger, confusion, sadness...it doesn't really seem to go away completely. It lessens, but I suppose it's not meant to disappear.

We soon began trying again, clinging to hopeful reassurances from wonderful people who either, had a miscarriage themselves or knew someone who suffered one, but became successfully pregnant immediately afterwards.

It didn't work that way for us.

Month after month, we would get our hope up and be let down again. And again. And again.

We finally made another trip to her regular doctor with our troubles. This was confusing to him as well, so he performed a series of in-depth blood tests. We discovered that my wife has something called a MTHFR defect. It's essentially a rare genetic defect that causes blood clotting, preventing embryos from attaching to the uterus. One of those things you don't know about until you look.

So he puts her on a regimen of vitamins and, here's an example of how she's my hero, injections. She has to give herself shots twice daily for a few weeks a month; if we get pregnant, for the full term. Now, I'm terrified of needles and she's injecting herself two times a week for our family. I don't know that I could do it.

We begin again, fueled by hopeful encouragements from the doctor about the success of the treatment. But once more, our pattern is hope followed by disappointment.

Almost a year later, we return again to this doctor and voice our frustrations. The first time he wasn't too receptive, but the second time he gives us Dr. Keillor's name.

"He's the smartest man I know," Doctor One tells us. "His waiting list is about a year long, but call his office and give them my name."

We take the paper and hold back tears.

"He's not on any insurance plans. You have to file with your insurance, but he's the best at what he does and I expect the next time I see you, you'll be pregnant!"

We leave the office and my girl is dialing furiously. I figure the name dropping thing will get us in the door around a month or so at least. I'm more concerned with how we're going to pay for what may come.

Turns out there was a last minute cancellation for the very next week. Turns out the insurance process is fairly easy with a minimal out of pocket for us...for now, anyways. :)

So we go for it.

I Was Sodomized By Garrison Keillor

Ok...not THE Garrison Keillor.


My wife and I went to our first appointment with a specialist not too long ago and the man could've been a double for Mr. K. Anyways, typically for these appointments, I've been along for support and info. This time I discovered that this really was OUR appointment, which I figured out very slowly.

My first inkling that trouble was afoot should've been when I was handed a clipboard of paperwork and promptly began filling in her info.

"That ones for you," my lovely said, scribbling on her own clipboard.

Ok...let's see...

"Honey, are we confident my semen is fully deposited each time?"

We're soon called back and meet the doctor and he is an amazing man! He also could be a double for Garrison Keillor. Mannerisms, speech pattern, humor...it's uncanny.

He performs various exams on my wife as I sit in the room, simulanteously supportive and occupied by Angry Birds. I can mad multitask. As soon as Dr. Keillor finishes with my wife, he strides toward the door instructing her to get dressed and that now I should "strip down to your shorts" and he would be right back.

Wait...what? My shorts? Underpants? Man-ties? I do as instructed, but as I sit on the examination table, my thought turn on me.

"What if we heard him wrong?" I ask. "What if he comes back in here and I'm plopped up here in my underwear and he freaks out?! What if he's kidding?!"

"No, I'm sure that he intends to examine both of us," my wife says.

"Well, I'm drawing the line at the protate thing," I state. Pause. "You don't think...?"

GK returns, and sure enough, he wasn't kidding. He takes my blood pressure, does the stethoscope, all the usual, and I'm starting to feel better.

"Well, why don't you take down your shorts and I'll get something from over here?" he asks, walking back over to the counter. Rummaging around in a drawer, he tells us that what he's getting was illegal to have in the country in the seventies, but he found a way of getting it in. He pulls out a big piece of string, tied in a circle, with lots of bright, yellow ovals attached all around the ring. I'm laying back and he pulls my covering to the side and begins to prod my testicles. I cannot look.

"I like to call it my family jewel measurer," he explains, as he finishes and returns them to their home. Here we go...I think. Of course mine must be off the charts, right?

"You're a little smaller than normal," GK tells me, each word a bullet to my male pride. "Have you had a prostate exam?"

"No...," I reply, and I'm not going to today.

"I ask because sometimes diminished size is a result of prostate cancer. So, why don't you lay back down and we'll get this taken care of?" He's already pulling out rubber gloves. "Don't worry. I'll use lubricant."

I didn't realize lubricant was a choice.

I look to my wife. I love you, she mouths to me, getting up to hold my hand.

And faster than you can say "finger up your butt," there's a finger up my butt.

And it's over. And everything is normal. Which is a relief, except that I have small balls, of course. Oh, sorry...DIMINSHED.

He leaves and I get dressed. When he comes back, he gives us possible diagnoses, sends us to get some bloodwork going and disappears to think.

We go up front and give them blood and $1,386.

And we leave, violated and hopeful.