As I’ve mentioned previously, one of my goals for this blog—as we chart our course through “Infertilityland” and beyond—is to add a male voice to discussions of these topics and to encourage other men to participate likewise. In particular, I’m interested in going beyond issues of “male factor” infertility, which is somewhat but not adequately covered. Rather, I’d like to explore more the role of men in cases of “female factor” infertility too.

Just say “no” to gendered infertility…

Why? Well, I don’t really believe in the concept of a gendered infertility.

That’s not to say that I’m some sort of scientific wacko without a shred of basic medical knowledge. In clinical terms, I understand that “male” or “female” factor infertility (along with a more specific diagnosis) is important to conducting an appropriate treatment course. So, yes, in that sense I believe in gendered infertility.

But, in emotional terms, I see little benefit in gendering the infertility in a relationship.

As a couple, we’re infertile. We’ve gotten into this together; we’ll get through it together.

Of course, together doesn’t mean that we start by sharing the same thoughts, fears, or perspectives. No, I think together means building a shared understanding and then executing on those plans to achieve a goal. I’ve always believed that, in the words of Antoine de Saint-Exupery, “love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction.”

To that end, I’m trying to chronicle my journey. In doing so, I hope to help other guys in going to the optometrist, and I hope that someone will be there to help my put my contacts back in if (or when) they pop out along the way too.

Talking to men about infertility…

Here’s an article on talking to your partner about infertility. I thought it did a pretty good job of addressing some of the concerns a “prototypical man” might have when initially facing the prospect of infertility.

I know it raised some of the issues—such as the possibility of having to perform in the collection room—that initially worried me.

This man walks into an infertility clinic…

Here’s another issue bought up in the above article that resonated with me:

I sometimes feel, especially at the infertility clinic, that I’m not a real “partner” in the process of infertility treatment. Mind you, it’s not the big things… just little things.

For example, our clinic doesn’t have a chair in the exam rooms for men to sit in – just the doctor’s wheeled stool. So, I wait… standing until I’m/we’re ushered off to somewhere else. A minor annoyance, yes, but it was a huge pain in the ass when I broke my leg earlier this year.

Sometimes, the staff at the clinic doesn’t even acknowledge my presence and often they don’t speak directly to me. Here’s what a typical welcome for an appointment seems like to me:

“Hello, L. How are you doing today? Oh, I see you brought the sperm production machine with you. Please stand it in the corner over there.”

One time, I even had a physician refuse to give me the results of my semen analysis over the phone. She insisted on only talking to L. Why? Good question: I wasn’t the patient of record! I’ll happily grant that L’s an amazing woman, but did the doctor really think that she produced the sperm sample by herself?

Good luck explaining that one to the medical insurance company.

My message to REs: I’m a fragile flower too.

Following last week’s IVF excitement (retrieval, transfer, etc.), this week seems to have pretty much returned to a steady state. If I understand the biology correctly, the blastocyst should have “hatched” yesterday and begun attaching to the uterus today. Of course, this presumes that everything has gone well. And, that’s a huge (and, statistically speaking, most likely faulty) assumption.

So, we’re just trying to go on with life as normal. We returned to work after the long holiday weekend. Tonight, I cooked a mustard and peppercorn encrusted pork tenderloin and roasted red potatoes. We ate and watched episode #10 of HBO’s True Blood.

After dinner, I gave L her nightly PIO shot, did the dishes (having taken over all domestic duties in an effort to “be helpful”), and wrote some posts/replies on the blog.

Thus far, the waiting for next Friday’s results hasn’t been too bad. Yet.

After her afternoon nap (and my afternoon of ongoing home improvement projects), I found L engaged in one of her favorite pastimes of late: reading IVF blogs. She was especially in a twitter over Murgdan’s recent post regarding her husband’s desire to not have children (update: this has subsequently been removed from her blog after touching off a number of unwelcome comments from “assholes”—including presumably yours truly—with opinions on fatherhood).

This is my summary of the story as initially related by Murgdan:

It seems that Mr. Murgdan, having never wanted children, relented and agreed to having kids. No success. Infertility diagnosis (male factor). Off to the IVF races, of which fresh cycle #1 failed. After this let down (and on the very night of the failure), Mr. Murgdan saw fit to remind Murgdan that he never wanted to have kids in the first place.

What the fuck?

In a comment responding to Murgdan’s post, Sarah—the blogger at Bottoms Off and On the Table—shared her fears about what the failure infertility treatments might portend for her marriage. I can only hope this is an overreaction. Remember: for better or worse.

I really don’t get either of these mens’ actions or reactions.

For my part, I’m totally committed to our infertility treatments. If those fail, we’ll pursue other options (unless we both conclude otherwise). If things go well, I’ll be the best father that I can figure out how to be. If things don’t work out and we end up childless, I won’t be crushed or devastated.

No, we’ll just pick up the pieces and continue building a meaningful life together.

I just completed administering today’s progesterone in oil (PIO) shot. Unlike the HCG trigger shot—the first intramuscular injection—of a few days ago which seemed daunting (more on this to come, as I’ve written a piece on that topic for the next issue of Exhale Magazine), I’ve become accustomed to “sticking it in my wife’s ass” each evening. L numbs up the target area with an ice pack, while I prepare the syringe and ice pick (might I add, BIG FUCKING) needle.  A quick alcohol rubdown, wait for it to dry a second, and then I plunge it in. No fuss. Little muss (thankfully no bleeders… yet).

We’re pretty nonchalant about the whole thing.

L’s noticed that her ass seems to get sorer, day by day. She takes that without complaint.

I’ve noticed that L’s tits seem to get bigger, day by day, too. I have no complaints, either.

We’re now 30 hours post embryo transfer. L’s spent the day relaxing, and I’ve been (perhaps obsessively) making sure that she pretty much does nothing on her own behalf. Medically, I’m pretty certain there’s no basis in my actions. But, at least I feel like I’m doing something to help ensure that things go smoothly.

While not waiting on L, I’ve spent the rest of the day organizing and cleaning at home.

I wonder if this is some sort of nascent paternal nesting instinct? Or, maybe I’m just tired of the fact that we moved into this house over two years ago and still haven’t finished unpacking yet?!?

In any case, progress has been made.