Oh and it turned out that we did have fertility issues. Which I found weird since we’d managed on our own, but there you go. It was a little bit of him and a little bit of me. Combined together and *whammo* I found myself referred to a fertility doctor, a no-nonsense, crazy Nordic bald guy who was obviously raking in tons of cash.
Sitting in his waiting room, surrounded by annoying Anne Gedes prints and a I-kid-you-not-larger-than-life-sized-stork statue, the phrase “vaginas on a conveyor belt” popped into my mind. It was everything I could do not to post that on Facebook.
Turns out I had a small thyroid issue that was technically acceptable as long as I wasn’t trying to have kids. (Something a previous doctor had perhaps failed to mention when telling me I was ‘just fine’.) I also have low progesterone. Both ‘minor’ conditions alone can terminate an otherwise perfectly healthy pregnancy. As for Oliver, he was instructed not to go to the sauna and give up the long hot baths he loved so much. A champion swimmer in his teen years, he was apparently killing off his best guys now.
This fertility doc’s bedside manner was beyond business-like into minor asshole territory, but I liked him because he told it like he saw it and didn’t waste any time. From opening the door to tossing his rubber gloves in the trash and leaving, I’m not sure more than ten minutes ever went by. After one month of monitoring, we did a trial run with hormones. In the last appointment of the trail run, he suggested that if nothing happened we move straight onto intrauterine insemination. Technically, it was totally possible, but statistically I was setting myself up for disaster by waiting for nature to do its job.
Hmm. “Disaster”. Way to phrase it Doc.
That was my 35th birthday.