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.