J went for some fertility testing a few weeks ago, which I’m sure he’s mortified that I’m sharing with the world wide web. It was quite the ordeal; we picked up the requisition form here at our GP’s office, drove 45 minutes away to the fertility clinic, and then drove to another city a half hour away to deliver the “specimen” to the large hospital there. J was super embarrassed, because there was no facility open at the hospital…just the large public washroom. I was a supportive wife…and waited in the car.
Two weeks later, I couldn’t wait any longer for results, so I called the doctor’s office. Sure enough, the results were in, but she couldn’t read me the numbers over the phone. Boo!
So J went in a few mornings ago, and got his results. Everything is perfectly normal, which is incredibly exciting. Also, the bets we took on his sperm count (yes…we took bets. Not just him and I, either. Our parents and siblings as well…) worked out – his mother guessed the right number! I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of or not.
I’m really glad that it wasn’t a problem with him…I think he was worried about that. But now this means that I must be the problem. Because really, fourteen months with no baby means that there’s something going on. So I did what I’ve been putting off for months, and I booked an appointment with the fertility clinic. A real live intake appointment, that will cost a fortune and everything. But hopefully, by this time tomorrow, I will have a plan of action.