Xbox4NappyRash

As I sit in a pool of my own estrogen

2008-07-04T18:00:00.004+01:00

The clinic we visited on Tuesday is also a sperm bank, and so they help realise the 'child wish' of all manner of combinations of potential parents.

They help singles mummies, and mummies and daddies, and mummies and mummies, and mummies and mummies who pretend to be daddies, and daddies and daddi...er no, not that combination, but all others, it's great, really.

They advertise that there is NO waiting list for IUI procedures! Wonderful, off you go, pick your milkshake and a couple of squirts later you are good to go.

We, on the other hand, despite 15 failed attempts at the miniaturest version of paintballing known to man, have to wait 9 more months before they would consider squirting me into the missus.

So, as with everything in life, I've formulated a near perfect solution.

It takes 7 months to become a cleared sperm donor here in Holland.

That means I could donate samples, and have plenty of time to divorce ET so she's a single woman, or alternatively complete my transition into a woman (through a carefully planned process of infertility blogging) so that we would be a lesbian couple by the time my donated sample is cleared for use for IUI.

A saving of a whole two months on when we would be eligible for help in our current situation.

If they can be absurd, so can I.

Child wishing in the whispering room

2008-07-01T14:19:00.002+01:00

As much as it sounds like an Enid Blyton tale from 'the faraway tree', it's not. It's my somewhat hazy account of this morning's trip to specialist number 2.

I knew it just wasn't going to go according to plan when I saw the crocs.

Every single nurse, lab assistant, and doctor that passed us sitting in the whispering room was wearing them. Crocs.

So there we sat, in the whispering room where no one makes eye contact with anyone else.

Magazines got flicked through, phones got checked and doubled checked, and throats were cleared.

It took all my restraint not to lean over to the guy next to me and ask 'So, what are you in for then?'

One by one the names were called, and all manner of couples, individual ladies, and a uniformed police man gathered their bits and pieces and left the whispering room.

Our appointment time came and went, when ET had the audacity to announce she had to go to the bathroom.

No. fucking. way.

She was not me leaving there, undoubtedly to be called by the doctor while on my own.
Rubbing my beer belly, and slowly waddling after the doctor would have raised a few eyebrows, even here in the mix n'match mummy & daddy clinic.

So, she held her piddle, and I held my tongue.

Finally we got whisper-summoned, and took our places across from a very intelligent looking doctor.
'So, what can I do for you?' she asked, proving once again you should never judge a book by it's cover.

'Er, short back and sides with a little off the top you infuriating mare!' I didn't reply.

ET launched into our background which the good doctor ignored and quizzed us on anyway, despite having just been told, and having our records from the last specialist in front of her.

'How long have you had a child wish?' she inquired.

'A bloody WHAT?' we gaped at each other.

'You know, a 'child wish', - "kinderwens" '

Glad I hadn't actually taken a wrong turn and ended up in neverneverland, I accepted her horrifically literal translation of the Dutch term for a desire to have a family, and moved on with the discussion.

When I say 'discussion' I of course mean the 5 minutes she spent to tell us that they would normally do nothing for people in our situation.

ET: 'Nothing?'

Doc: 'No'

Me: 'Seriously, where are the cameras?'

Doc: 'What?'

ET & Me: 'Nothing'

We were advised to go home, keep trying, for 9 months more, which would bring us to the magic 24 cycles when mystical doors of opportunity and wonderous avenues of treatment would become available.

She shuffled her papers a few times, started to get out of her chair, but we just could not budge

Maybe it was the despair she saw in ET's eyes, or the plan to beat her about the head with the plastic uterus on her desk she saw in mine, but she caved a little and said she would discuss our options with "the board".

We 'may' have a possibility to check for tubular blockage, we 'may' have a cycle monitored, but it's all in the hands of "the board".

As Pacino-esque as it may sound, it's nowhere near as efficient, it will be 16 days before we get a phone call informing us of this almighty gathering's decision, which inexplicably takes place - this afternoon.

We went in with a lifeline, and brought it out in tatters.

Bring a friend

2008-06-30T17:07:00.004+01:00

Tomorrow we trot off to our 'specialist number 2'.

While I love the idea of that sounding like a turd with a purpose, it's not, it's just our second reproductive specialist.

With cycle 15 due to come to an end (or not) at some stage this week, we were hoping for one of those funny stories folk tell where we could say we went to a fertility expert only for him to announce we were up the duff.

Kind of an 'oh we've just adopted a bucketful of Chinese babies and now she's preggers' type thing.

Well, guess what? That's not happening.

Cycle 15 has left the building in such a hurry she forgot her purse. And shoes. And underwear.

The slut.

It's so many days early I can't even compute, but whatever the story, we will be bringing Auntie Flo to the clinic with us tomorrow, the bloody wench.

That should make any physical examination all the more, ahem, interesting.

So spare us a thought tomorrow, eh ?

I believe there is a real possibility that we may get treated for free, just on the basis of us being so pathetic.

The midget couple where the husband has missing teeth & braces and the wife is bleeding profusely from stirrups.

We will get to answer the same intimate questions about our sex life again, whether I had both my testicles upon birth again, and whether she ever had any sexually transmitted diseases again.

The only new answer we can give will be to how long have we been trying.

'16 cycles now doctor'.

16 you fucker.

Excuse me, waiter...

2008-06-28T14:30:00.002+01:00

I'm not quite in Bon Jovi territory yet, but (Whoooooah) "we're half way there".

Half way into the 'two week wait', that is.

Next week is going to be exciting....in more ways than one.

After our last visit to the reproductive specialist we were left pretty much helpless. The days that followed were desperate, and things turned nasty in a way I had not known possible before this.

So we let it sit for a while, we've let a cycle pass 'normally', had a bit of a breather from rushing for appointments and doctors but we have to move on.

Tuesday, July 1st, we have our first intake appointment with another clinic, a second set of fertility specialists, who actively promote their 2nd opinion services.

Incidentally, does it count as a 2nd opinion if the first specialist didn't actually have one?

I like a colourful turn of phrase here and there, and this hasn't gone unnoticed. Despite being currently sleep deprived John Braine has mocked up this picture which I can only pray hits the shops soon. Definitely my chuckle of the week. Cheers John.

Mind the gap

2008-06-25T11:03:00.006+01:00

I'm getting used to laughing in the face of the relative insanity surrounding my existence.

We have the whole short arse thing, yep, I'm small, and I live in Holland, where small is 5' 10. I'm, er, less.

We have the whole chubby and pale thing, goes with the Irish territory thing I reckon, so no big deal.

We have the braces at 30 years of age thing, okay, slightly embarrassing, but we struggle on yeah?

We have the whole infertile Irish Catholic thing, which let's face it, is an absolute disgrace, even the priests back home have kids.

Nevertheless, you get on with it, handicaps in hand and expecting better times ahead.

Then what happens? Your tooth falls out.

Yes, a front tooth has fallen out of my about-to-explode head.

I am an infertile Danny Devito lookalike with braces, and missing fucking teeth.

Braces and no teeth.

I'm going back to bed.

EDIT: 26-06-2008 13:01
Explanation - The tooth was a baby/milk tooth that had never fallen out.
It wasn't attached to the brace in the expectancy that it would.
Now the braces need to kick into action to close the gap and fast.....

A UV light at the end of the tunnel

2008-06-23T13:59:00.000+01:00

So, Spencer has been dispatched, hopefully with more success than the shaggin' Dutch, who rolled over for the Russians on Saturday night.

Now begins another two week wait to see if he has had any more luck this time than the previous (approximately) one billion and twenty six times he's been sent into action.

Which brings me to the revelation that I think I've hit a medical breakthrough, a concept that could change the lives of people trying to conceive (and possibly parents of teenage boys) forever.

Surely, the white coat brigade (scientists, not butchers) could come up with something that men can drink, which would turn their wee swimming troop luminous. Glow in the dark and traceable through human flesh.

Just like UV lamps can pick up certain stains and substances on surfaces, surely they can fashion something that can follow a guy's emissions internally?

So all that would need to happen is Mr Lubba-Lubba would drink this magic substance a half hour or so before ugly bumping, and it would turn his awesome sauce luminous.

Then by waving the 'Spencer Tracer' wand (trademark & patent pending) over Ms. Lubba-Lubba's funny bits, the participants can follow the progress of the wee buggers internally.

It would be possible to see which ones have put their feet up just inside the door, and which are beavering away and where they are beavering to.

Should none be heading in the right direction, then they can try again, or just go ahead and get drunk, 2 weeks early.

Aside from the possible issues arising from abuse of the idea, such as wives spiking their husband's porridge with the stuff, and then waving the Spencer Tracer around their babysitter's throat, it can only be seen as an idea full of sheer brilliance, I think.

An unlikely hero?

2008-06-20T11:33:00.006+01:00

I know it's been a while, but listen up old chap, I've got some news for you.

You have another chance.
Okay I know you've had lots, but this is a big one.

You see Spencer, I've told you before you are the chosen one, a natural leader among (se)men, you are the milky trojan warrior, explorer of fallopian wildernesses, captain upon mucus covered cervical seas, and hopefully, the capturer of eggish damsels in distress.

Your qualifications alone will not seal your place in history though, luckily the fates of football and ovulation have combined and lined you up the perfect opportunity.

Holland's quarter final game against Russia is on Saturday night, and we already know the benefits a drunken sporting celebration can bring.

Remember Ellie, that piece of skirt you've been chasing? well, guess what? She's going to be in town then.

So what are you waiting for? Everything is ready and waiting for you, (15th time around you lazy prick), the sun is shining (somewhere, probably), it's the weekend, you'll have a (socially acceptable amount to) drink, watch some sexy football, so why not top it off by hooking up with a nice bit of booty?

Tap that eggy ass for the love of God, you know you want to.

'What's the hurry?, why now?' I hear you say.

Well Spencer, balls are rolling once again.

Straighten yourself up and stop laughing, I don't mean those two plums you spend most of your day in, I mean 'metaphorical' balls.

Steps are being taken, and after this cycle, it may well be out of your hands, and well, you'll be back in mine, once again.

The bottom line Spencer, my favourite little Casper lookalike, is this - This.Is.It.
It's being put on a plate for you, physically, cosmically, romantically, and desperately.

Worm your slimey little arse all the way in and up, and hold on, by your teeth if you have to.

Otherwise, you face the sack, or worse still, the plastic cup.

Or maybe not enough

2008-06-18T10:49:00.004+01:00

I'm a believer in sticking with your gut. I am the proud owner of a considerable gut so it's especially wise to stick with it I think.

Despite my recent rambling on about keeping my trap shut, it's never really going to happen. I think if I didn't talk or write about all of this I would explode, and that gut of mine would be ground zero.

Thinking about it, the urges to hide away must just come with the territory this far along.
Every month is that little bit harder, and every month you need that little bit of time to hide away, stay in bed, drink yourself into a stupor and recharge ready to get up go again.

What does make me wonder though, is what would happen if we did get lucky?

From what I see and read, there are also relatively few recounts from people who have been here and emerged out the other side. I find it hard to grasp why they would almost pretend it never happened.

They must remember the sadness, they must remember the frustration and they must remember the prayers they offered, or deals they were willing to strike with anyone, just to end their longing.

I won't know (and frankly, may never know) the reasons until I get out the other side myself, but I'm already determined not to let this experience go to waste, regardless if it lasts 1 more month, 12 more months, or...

Maybe people are so relieved that they genuinely forget what they've been through.

Maybe the turning point is so joyous that they deliberately decide never to look back at a horrible time in their lives.

Maybe it's embarrassment, I can certainly understand the feeling of 'why am I making such a big deal of this?', and that's while we are in the throws of infertility, it must be a magnified emotion for those who have overcome it.

Maybe it's just human nature.

It's far too personal a thing for someone else to dictate whether you should share or not, I'm just curious.

Reading people's accounts of their ongoing experiences is great, you feel less alone. Reading people's accounts of past experiences is possibly even better, as you know there are often positive outcomes.
I trawl the internet for these stories and accounts, I gobble them up, hoover up every word, every detail of how situations differ or compare to ours.

It helps.

If you have a story, you can help.

A notable 'born again' infertility story teller is Karen MEG, who is now, years after the fact, writing about their struggles. I really enjoy this.

EDIT: 19-06-2008 20:29 - Veronica at Sleepless Nights has written in response to this, with an interesting view, from the 'other side'. It can be read here.

Too much information?

2008-06-15T20:32:00.000+01:00

Who do you tell when you decide you want a child?
Aside from each other obviously, pricking pinholes in your condoms or feeding your pill to the geranium plant unbeknown to your partner really isn't recommended.

Who do you tell about a decision to try to conceive ?

Who do you tell when it all starts to go arse over tit and you have to bring specialists, plastic cups, and stirrups into the equation?

In my naivety, I was fairly quick to tell a friend, and for a while it was a trolley full of humping jokes and willy in a sling gags.

Even when we got to the point where samples were being tossed about the place, there were plenty of black slapping and beer spitting moments to be had.

That's fellas for you.

Then things turned serious, and all that stopped. It was no one's fault, but for whatever reason the conversation rarely, if ever, arose once the complications did.

So we are left with a big infertile elephant in the room.

Deciding to start a family is a huge decision for a couple, and to be honest, once we'd made it, I felt people should notice something different about me.

It's big bloody news, and you burst to tell people.

What you don't realise, is that maybe, just maybe, it doesn't all go according to plan, and you are left with something very awkward.
You are left with people who were willing to joke with you about aching gonads, or were willing to turn a blind eye to your late arrival to, or early exit from dinner out somewhere, but are less able to be the support you need when your dreams are taken out of your hands.

It's this possibility that things don't work out like you planned that would make me say, with hindsight, that you should keep it as much to yourself as possible, and don't go shouting your mouth off, even to one person. It's one less person that you find yourself having to explain to 15 cycles down the line why "nothing's stirring".

If I could change the way I did things, I probably would, but there's no use in crying over spilled man milk.

Trying to conceive is an exciting time, a fun time, one of few times in your life where you can feel grown up and overwhelmingly excited at the unknown at the same time.

Infertility, is a far less exciting time. Reality starts to hit home, time goes by far too fast, and what was excited expectation turns to nervous uncertainty.

You used to see a parent and child in the past and look at each other with the 'that'll be us soon' grin on your faces, now you turn your eyes to the floor and look away, from the scene, and each other.

Acknowledging the sadness you see in someone else's eyes only leads to being reminded of your own.

I'm torn between what seems to be an instinctive urge to be frank and open (or immensely idiotic) about this, telling anyone who has a functioning eardrum, and a new gut feeling, an instinct to shut up shop.

Like closing the curtains for the weekend, or not answering the phone for a day, not telling anyone who'll listen that you are trying to conceive is just self preservation.

At a certain point, that's all you have left.

Now if you'll excuse me, the ice pack down my trousers is melting and dampening my chair.

A nation coming together...

2008-06-12T15:13:00.000+01:00

In June 1990 the Republic of Ireland competed in their very first World Cup finals in Italy.

The following three weeks or so were some of the best memories I've ever had, and even though I wasn't yet 13 years of age, I still, to this day, get shivers all over when I watch old clips from that tournament.

A draw against the old enemy England in our opening game, a draw against the highly fancied Dutch, and a penalty shoot out of Hollywood proportions against Romania which put us into an unprecedented quarter final against the hosts, Italy.

That was the end of the road but the beginning of something unexpectedly magical....

The celebrations, the feel good factor, and no small amount of alcohol during those few weeks all contributed in a mini baby boom in Ireland in the Spring of 1991.

So, as they say, any port in a storm, and we find ourselves living in Holland while the Dutch are flying high in this year's European Championships.

The place is starting to buzz and Friday night brings a big game against France, which the entire country will be glued to.

Which makes me wonder, if they progress to the later stages, and provide us with more nights of celebration, will we have a baby boom here in Holland come next March?

I'll try anything once, as they say, so I'm dusting off my clogs and cheese hat, and ironing all the orange clothing we own and heading into town on Friday to partake in the revelry and thunderously potent baby making that should follow.

As an experiment, I think everyone should try it, pick a team to support and fling yourselves around the bedroom with great gusto when they win. We could compare results in a few months.

While I am talking of all things Irish and baby-making related (when am I not?), I want to mention a success story, a real happy ending for Fiona & John B. this week. Congratulations guys.

It's definitely number four officer

2008-06-10T12:29:00.006+01:00

I have a funny habit of getting a moment of wonderment-stroke-clarity where my head just spins when I stop, take everything in, and wonder to myself 'how in the name of a randy badger did I end up here?'

It usually happens when I find myself in a strange place with strange company, or when I'm doing a job far removed from what I'm supposed to, or just in any bizarre situation that crops up.

What insane chain of events in my life has come to pass and put me in this spot, in this situation, at this very moment in time.

I had my very first one of these moments in respect to 'trying to conceive', today.

As a result I stopped and thought, and came to the decision that I need to soak my brain in bleach for a week.

It wasn't the fact I know more acronyms, thanks to TTC, than an Olympic texter.

It wasn't the fact I have a far too vivid understanding of things like luteal phases, and progesterone levels, and morphology.

It wasn't the fact I talk to my own baby gravy or christen ET's eggs.

It wasn't even the fact that I could probably identify ET's funny bits in a police identity parade at this stage.

This moment of 'how in the name of Jehova did I get to this' came today when I handed my timesheet to my boss and informed him that this was "my timesheet for the 'cycle' of May"

I might as well request that I get my salary paid per menstrual cycle.

Coming all over Dr. Phil

2008-06-06T11:58:00.000+01:00

Well Mr Fate was nice enough to give us the 4th of June, but we should have known that he had something up his sleeve for the 5th, the crafty git.

Not enough that I had to get my bloody braces tightened to the point that my hair hurts and eyeballs are bulging, but cycle 14 is finished, and failed.

No frustration, a little disappointment, a lot of sadness.

I'm glad it's over, it's been a particularly lousy one. A bloody hell. Literally.

So let me introduce you all to cycle 15, not the prettiest, but has a lovely personality.

Yet another of the 'No one told me that' moments is how it affects you as a couple.

People talk about how it brings you closer, and it does.
What they don't mention how hurtful you can be in the heat of the moment.

Spiteful, hurtful words, said, and taken, out of context.

People say I have a way with words, can you imagine the result when those words are fueled by anger, frustration, disappointment and sadness?

I can be be a hurtful bastard.

When I say things like "You either want it or you don't", the pillock that I am, I really wonder about how suitable I am for all this.

When I finally prized the baseball bat out of ET's fingers I started to think. Like, proper grown up thinking that adults do.

The thing is, I can't do this on my own in the way I want, and ET can't do this on her own in the way she wants.

We need to be on the same page, we need to know where we both stand, we need to know what we both think, we need to talk and listen and talk and listen and talk and listen some more, until our teeth fall out and our ears bleed.

Like a three legged race sometimes one person is a little behind and lacking in energy, or a little ahead determined to get on, but you both are both tied together and simply have to work together.

Ooooh, I've come over all 'Dr. Phil', (not 'come all over', you filthy minded beast)

...and exhale

2008-06-04T23:05:00.002+01:00

I can breathe again.

The cycle didn't end today, I'm resigned to the fact it will sooner rather than later, but if it doesn't end within the next 9 minutes (regardless of blogger's dodgy timestamp) as I write this then I'm relatively happy.

So, credit where it's due, fate gave me a break, and allowed me not to associate today with that.

Today was the 4th June, 2008.

Today was 20 years to the day that my mother died.

Nothing special was said or done today, I've never asked for it I suppose.

I was never sentimental about it very much, but I miss her, or at least 'the idea' of her, now more than ever.

10 years old is too young for a parent and child to be parted by a parent's death.

I don't think I ever realised I was missing anything as I was growing up, but when I think of her, I know she would have missed being there. That make me feel a bit guilty for not reciprocating.

I wonder how different would things be if she were here, how different would I be?

I think we would be friends.

What would she make of all of this madness?

She'd probably chase me around the kitchen with a tea towel as her weapon of choice, but after her initial faked shock and horror, I think she'd laugh.

Heartily.

She was fond of cheekines, the 'rogue' type, not the 'will you buy me beer mister?' type.

She'd laugh and shake until she'd start to cough, she always did thanks to the twenty a day habit.

Twenty a day that cost twenty years.

So you don't fancy my soul

2008-06-04T10:00:00.002+01:00

Dear decider of fates and destiny,

Fair enough, I can see a tarnished soul ain't for everyone, but if you don't want to take me up on that offer, I have a favour to ask in it's stead.

I know you're gonna kick me in the balls again. Soon. Could you just make it NOT today, please?

Not the 4th of June, with other fish needing frying and all that jazz.

Just wait 24 hours, and I'll accept it gracefully.

Don't be a bugger, ok?

Appreciated,
Me

I can't get off

2008-06-02T20:48:00.005+01:00

No, it's not some weird over-sexed climaxing problem, rather its another 'no one ever told me that' moment.

Once you start trying to conceive, you can never really stop, until the process ends one way or another.

The old analogies are still the best, this is one hell of a merry-go-round.

Even when you want to stop obsessing, if you know you need to stop for the sake of both of your wits, you just can't.

Here we are, on our 14th spin, and we are as certain as we can be that we either need a big slice of luck, or some medical help, whatever form that may take.

Yet, still, here we are in the final days of the cycle again wondering, again hoping, again allowing the flutters of anticipation to creep up from our guts, even though we all but know what the outcome will be before the week ends.

It's yet another thing slipping from my grasp.

Every step in this trying to conceive process seems to result in me losing control of yet another aspect I used to command.

Almost as strange, all I can feel about it is indifference, a resignation to the fact that I have no control in what the outcome will be. Sure, I can force certain paths, but the outcome, the end result, is 100% out of my hands.

I can no longer even 'opt out', this cycle has been the worst by far, lack of energy, unhelpful people, and frustration at the biggest disappointment yet, and I still can not bring myself to just stop.

There is no chord to pull, no emergency brake, no way to step off this ride.

So around we have to go again, like it or not, past the frustration, past the disappointment, past the sadness, and worst of all - past the hope.

I used to hope by choice, and now I hope by force.

Guys n' dolls n' dollars

2008-05-31T17:47:00.001+01:00

By now, you know how things work here, if not, it goes something like this:
I huff and puff and fail to get the wife knocked up, then I come on here and moan like a big gin soaked tart about it.

Repeat over and over, I get more desperate and idiotic, I fail some more, and moan some more and miraculously, some of you stay interested enough to come back for my next moan.

Anyway, some time ago, a reader, Lyssa mentioned that her work colleagues swore on the effectiveness of a fertility doll they had purchased. Being the open minded free spirit that I am (or desperate internet saddo, whichever you prefer) I decided to buy one.
Order placed and off I trotted happily, that was until a couple of days later when I received an email saying the sellers wouldn't ship outside the US.

'Boo on them' I thought, but never mind, no great loss.

A few weeks back we hit what was probably our lowest point to date.

Then came some pleasant surprises.

The day afterwards I received an email from Lyssa, and out of nowhere she offered to order and ship the fertility doll to us.
If this wasn't enough of a gesture of kindness, she refused to accept repayment of any kind.

Mulling over the offer, we decided we wanted the doll, (any and all help is welcome here, trust me) but we couldn't accept it freely.

We asked Lyssa to nominate a worthy cause of interest to her and we would make the a donation to them on her behalf.

Lyssa wisely chose Wolfson's Children's Hospital in Jacksonville, Florida.

We shook cyber hands on the deal, Lyssa ordered the doll and I set about attempting to donate.

Of course, as with everything else I attempt, it didn't go according to plan, the hospital didn't have an online or credit card donation facility, and cheques haven't existed in this part of the world since Henry VIII paid his last executioner's fee.

So we had an issue. We had the 'will', but no 'way'.

Then I had me a wee idea. Angie of A whole lot of nothing fame, is of course the owner of the Good For The Kids online store. I contacted her, and sounded out the possibility of choosing some of their toy selection that we could have delivered to the hospital.

The uber goodness didn't stop there though, no sir-ee. Angie, probably due to the various medications she was on, decided she would offer a 20% discount on what we ordered for the hospital.

This meant we could order more toys for the amount of the donation.

So thanks to the unsolicited generosity of Lyssa & Angie , the babies at Wolfson's Children's Hospital have already received a really sweet set of 5 WubbNub Soothie pacifiers, ( in Blue & pink ponies, a dog, a penguin & of course, a frog) and ALSO 3 Ty beenie babies (in cat, hamster, and of course, frog!) as seen here on Angie's dirty carpet.

So I can honestly say that these two ladies are very much deserving of a visit and a 'Hello'.
Lyssa writes wonderfully well over at Fusemoms, thoughtful and funny, a delight to read. Angie makes no sense over at A whole lot of nothing (one of the few blogs listed under 'funny' in my blogroll), and flogs her goodies on her recently relaunched online store Good For The Kids.

Lyssa, we both thank you very much for your kind act and generosity, it's worth so much more than dollars. Thank you for choosing the cause you did.

Angie, thank you for adding to Lyssa's generosity and making her donation go further.

Now folks, for the moment you've all been waiting for. I present to you our new Ashanti fertility doll, hand carved in Ghana. Said to induce pregnancy and safe delivery.

Spencer had his chance to shine, but now it's the turn of Ms Ashanti. (Stop sniggering you down the back or you'll get a clip round the ear)

Work your magic, mama, work it. It's threesomes from here on out.

Available for trade

2008-05-28T14:03:00.002+01:00

Offered:

One used soul.

Battered from 29 years of incidental probing followed by 14 months of intensive use.

Open to offers from all faiths, denominations, belief groups, social movements, non-profit organisations, Tom Cruise, satan worshipers, trade unions, or Bono.

Wanted:

Just one successful cycle.

Benefits of trade:

You will find yourself in posesion of a relatively young and vibrant soul.

Sense of humour included, well worn, but functioning.

More than adequate intelligence and a significantly open mind, the soul is willing to devote itself to any cause in complete and unquestioning fashion.

In return, with granting of a successful cycle, you will make yourself feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

You will be be eliminating the need for difficult choices that should not have to be made.

You will be putting an end to frustration and sadness for two people.

You will be replacing tears of sadness, a level of which I never knew could exist, with those of boundless happiness.

You will be softening past disappointment, removing it from the future.

You will be guaranteeing a match up between a child and two parents that could be so bloody sickeningly perfect, human evolution may slow down to watch, causing tailbacks in the process.

You will be stopping my fucking whinging.

For further information please feel free to contact me at the above e-mail address or by phone between 6-7:30pm on weekday evenings.

The good news

2008-05-26T15:40:00.004+01:00

The good news is that my semen is 'perfect'.

The good news is that I don't have HIV.

The good news is that I don't have hepatitis.

The good news is that ET doesn't have HIV.

The good news is she doesn't have hepatitis.

The good news is that she doesn't have, nor has ever had, Chlamydia.

The good news is her hormone levels seem acceptable.

The good news is that they can't see anything wrong with us.

Great news isn't it?

Then why won't anyone help us for 11 more months?
Or why won't they investigate further for a cause?
Or why won't they offer any help at all now, in our 14th cycle.

I've always hated that fucking painting, I 'get' it a bit more now though.

Patience Patients

2008-05-23T16:30:00.000+01:00

So here we are, another work week behind us.

I use that term lightly, ('work' that is, not 'week') as I haven't actually done a tap of any.

These have been an odd old few days, we've been playing with the new bulk shipment of OPK's and they've been giving some funny results.

When I say 'playing' I mean pissing on them, not engaging them in monopoly or chess or anything like that. Also, when I say 'we' I mean ET of course, there wouldn't be a whole lot of point in me wazzing on one, as tempting as that actually is.

The funny results from them are not so much belly wobbler funny, as they are head scratcher funny. CD11 gave an almost full blown positive LH surge, with nothing since. Day 11 is WAY earlier a positive than the old sarcastic brand of OPKs.

So as with everything else, we have't got any shagging clue. Literally.

So we hump n'hope.

Monday brings us back to the specialist, where we'll finally have all the relevant test results and hopefully get some plan of action from her.

We fantasise about us being shown a dessert trolley full of options and choices, while the chances are the only decision we will have to make is what our escape route from the building should be when I'm forced to murder the overeducated procastinating hag.

Nevertheless, with my dusty cobweb covered optimistic head on, should we be given choices, what should we do?
Do we start popping ovulation stimulation drugs (again, ET, not me) in the hope that Spencer the dozy bastard will hit SOME target?, or do we shoot straight for an IUI, medicated or otherwise?, or do we just take a detour by the maternity ward and pick up something off the rail?

Personally I like the idea of putting Spencer in a rocket to the planet uterus, but what do I know, I'm just a frustrated, sub-fertile, patience deficient, obsession fuelled turkey baster with legs & braces.

While I'm sucking lemons, I've decided to be proactive and combat the 'just relax' brigade, I'm going to force feed a bucket of laxatives to the next 'just relax-er' that comes my way, and then we'll see how easy it is...

Now, where's that bottle opener.

A warning to the txt generation

2008-05-21T15:07:00.004+01:00

Due to the wonder that is a rural Irish Catholic background, I come from a somewhat unusual family, demographically speaking.

In an era and area of Ireland where the only contraception was pregnancy, potato harvesting, or death, never ending families were the norm.

The 2nd or 3rd 'accident', I'm the youngest of eight children, by quite a margin.

Take into account the fact that the rest of them are much older, are poster children for fertility, and that they got jiggy with it at relatively young ages, and the result is a flummix of nieces and nephews.

18 of them I believe.

This in itself is a bit of an issue. The very genes I share with my siblings are waving fertile chromosomes in my face and taunting me in unison.

Screams of 'jaffa' ring in my ears from the souls of long spent semen.

For Christ's sake, there was period in the 90's where you couldn't walk into any one of our family homes without slipping on a freshly expulsed placenta.
ALL up the duff, ALL the time.

Thankfully, I am zen personified, and for the most part I let this genetic mockery wash right over my lower than average head.

Having quoted Bonnie and Bono last time around, I'll now quote Bob - " The times they are a changin' "

These kids that resembled safari park monkeys as you approached their homes in the past, are growing up.

They have been going to college, working, living abroad, and I presume (while using all my strength to avoid mental images), fornicating.

In fact, six of them are in their early or mid twenties. You see where I'm going with this?

Sooner rather than later, one of them is going to report back that they have gotten themselves, or some other poor misfortune, knocked up.

No doubt the moment of impact will occur with a post cider party knee trembler up some side alley, or some other gesture of mockery at my own redundant efforts.

This simply can not be allowed to happen.

These people say things along the lines of "Yeah like, I was totally like shocked like n'stuff", they drink alcopops and other blue shit, they have rap songs for ring tones, they haven't got a clue how to spell words using vowels, and they've never even once seen an episode of Dallas, Dynasty or Falcon Crest.

Mother of mercy they have 'Bebo' pages for f&$% sake.

I will go ballistic if I receive one of these: "HI XBX JST A QCK MSG 2 LT U KNW I R PRGNNT. L8R UR FAV NECE"

If one of them informs me that I'm going to become a granduncle before I get ET knocked up I'm going to take a bath with a toaster, but not before I get into the ford focus and mow down all of humanity, showing no mercy to man nor beast.

A granduncle.
A grandparent's brother.

I'm just warning you, that's all.

A Bonnie Tyler & Bono toasted infertility sandwich

2008-05-19T19:30:00.000+01:00

"Where have all the good men gone?" sang Bonnie.

I dunno love, but I strolled into the Hague yesterday to try and find out. Well, I didn't stroll, I took the train, strolling to the Hague would have had me found dead from exhaustion about half way, but that's not important. Well, my death would be important of course, to some at least, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I headed for the English bookshop. Ironically this is actually an American bookshop, but once again, that's also not important. Stop interrupting.

I wanted to pick up some books, obviously enough. I wanted to find something, anything, on 'trying to conceive', or infertility, or just starting a family, from a male point of view.

What a waste of oxygen and sitting on my arse time that adventure turned out to be.

It's a relatively small shop, with a limited selection of books in relation to conception, pregnancy, childbirth and childcare, but I imagine it is quite representative of what's available in the market.

Of all the books on show, there were TWO specifically aimed at men, BOTH were related to childcare and rearing, and BOTH were big, bold hardbacks with titles like 'Child Operation Manual' or some such other utter pigshit, with pictures of a frazzled daddy on the front, with a toddler under his arm and a beer bottle up his arse.

'Okay' I say, and onward I search. Into the deceptively named realm of the conception and infertility section. I say deceptively named, as there was sweet fanny adams on infertility.

So I dive deeper into the conception books which consisted of two groups.
One, understandably enough, was full of big pink and other pastel coloured books with fat bellies and smiley faces on the cover, full with references to mother earth, and egg white whatsits, and 7am thermometers up the bum.

The second type were manuals that were just as thick, twice as tall, and less comprehensible than myself. If Freud himself had problems getting his mother up the duff, he would struggle to understand these medical journals.

My conclusion is that us fellas either have to put up with these 'changing nappies for dummies' novelty type books, or bloody biological ledgers that you need 17 years training to be able to follow.

NEWSFLASH, we are not all either complete muppets, or experts.
Some of us, me at least, fall somewhere in between.

So why isn't there anything written for, or by normal men on the subjects of conception, trying to conceive, or infertility?

Does conception not affect us? The last time I checked, fellas made up roughly half of every heterosexual couple trying to conceive, and have a 'hand' in one or two homosexual couples trying to conceive.

Does trying to conceive not affect us? Fellas want children, they want families. They might not always say it, and they prefer to be seen to be dragged kicking and screaming into the abyss that is responsibility, but under that facade, they love the idea of being dads, the head of a household. We just know it.

Does infertility not affect us? Exclusively male factor infertility accounts for 30% of infertility cases in couples failing to conceive. With 30% attributed exclusively to the women, 30% to a combination of both, and with 10% unexplained, even someone who needs one of those 'dummy' books can figure out that men bear half the responsibility in cases of infertile couples.

Why in name of all that is holy does the increasingly popular male tendency to be 'idiot or expert' have to spill into this area? Infertility is often not easily overcome, but often, very often, there are simple steps that can be taken to reverse it, or avoid it in the first place, from the male point of view.

I'm all for playing stupid to ET when I don't want to have to make myself a toasted sandwich, but this is slightly more pressing than an afternoon snack.

Why isn't there something for, or someone supporting the normal fella, the one who struggles with medical journals but is rightly ashamed to have to resort to a 'fatherhood by numbers' novelty book?

As I stood in that shop yesterday, the CD playing was Ray Lamontagne, 'until the sky turns black'. Ironically, that is just one example of a guy tackling uncomfortable subjects (depression in this case) but using his skills to work it out, and there are literally thousands of songwriters doing the same.

If so many musicians can do it, why can't writers?

Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think I'm all that weird, not to the point where I'm completely off the mark with this. Fellas DO want to know about these subjects, how they affect them, what they can do about it and what to expect, but there's nothing out there for them. Even in the wild expanses of the internet, where lack of anonymity is no longer an excuse to shy away from these topics, resources for men on this are few and far between.

I should know, I've been searching long and hard enough.

Even though the runt gets on my nerves, there's something about short arsed Irishmen that don't know when to shut up, that just appeals to me and makes me want to quote Bono.

'I still haven't found what I'm looking for'

A fornication fifty-fifty

2008-05-15T18:56:00.000+01:00

As the saying goes, time flies when you're having a mental battle with utter misery. Or something vaguely similar at least.

Time does fly, it seems like just yesterday I was crawling backwards out of a champagne bottle in a feeble attempt at sorrow drowning.

Today is day 7 of a new month, 'CD07' for those into the lingo.

This means that it's almost ugly bumping time, time for the mattress mambo, time for a frank exchange of bodily fluids, time for a squelchy session.

Which brings us to a dilemma, of sorts. You see, for 13 months, we have copulated ourselves senseless with no notable results.
That is of course unless you count aching wobbly bits, an increasingly disgusting rancid under-the-arse cushion at the foot of the bed, and a realisation that the bedroom ceiling is badly in need of a new coat of paint.

None of these were the actual desired result, of course.

Basically, shagging doesn't bloody work. We have taken every approach known to man, even some only known to woodland creatures, and nothing works.

Not to worry, we have a follow up appointment with our reproductive specialist in a little over a week, and by hook or by crook we are going to get somewhere with her, even if it means I have to tie her up, and raid her cabinet for drugs and needles and stuff.

Where does this leave the humping? It is, for all intents and purposes, useless in this case.

So, the question is do we stop and take a break and have a 'copulation kit-kat' so to speak, or do we carry on 'carrying on'?

Stopping, would mean that this cycle is screwed, blued, and tattooed before it's even gotten started, leaving us bouncing off the walls for a month.

Continuing, means that we are signing up for the stick pissing Olympics again before the month is out, reading too much into every single gurgle, belch and yawn that emits itself from ET's fornication riddled body, all the while knowing that it's 99% certain to be futile.

In the midst of a rant I was having the other day, I blurted out something along the lines of the following. When I removed the expletives and spittle from the sentence, it rings genuinely true to me, and probably answers the very question I've just asked.

When you first realise you want to have a child, you unwittingly pawn your free will in return for a dream, but no one tells you that you can't ever have it back until the dream is realised.

Well fuck it anyway, pants off Spencer my lad, I've got a little job for you.

I said 'Nappy', dammit

2008-05-13T18:25:00.002+01:00

"Nobody ever told me that."

I've said those words to myself countless times over the last year.

'Trying to conceive', or more accurately 'trying and failing miserably to conceive' not only brings about the standard old side effects you read in the books or on websites, but there are hidden and unexpected side effects too, particularly for us gentlemen.

I've found, not all of them to be quite what I had imagined

It makes you a randy badger....

I haven't used that word since I was about eleven, but it does. Trying to conceive basically gives you the horn and reveals to you the real reason behind sofa cushions.

Unless your pre-TTC rate was at porn star frequency, you are probably at it more than ever, and despite the often dreaded 'timed' occasions, you soon realise that you actually can't get enough.

The primative urge to spread your seed, even though it's as useless as tits on a bull, is all powerful.

If the regular thirst isn't quenched, you are frequently in danger of poking your own eye out.

You lose all sense of shame....

Quite self explanatory if you read through previous entries.

Even outside the topic of trying to conceve, you find yourself diving into conversations where no sane and/or hetrosexual man belongs, and being totally unphased by situations that would previously have resulted in you soiling yourself.

Imagine leaving your sister so horrified that you can sense a 'gasp' via MSN when you tell her about her baby brother producing semen samples, or visiting your GP to discuss providing said samples whilst wearing two odd shoes, or actually using the words 'tilted cervix' to your office manager.

These are just a couple of things an idiot would do. Yes me. Sod off.

Prolonged trying to conceive desensitises you, and reduces any sense of acceptability, respectability and sensibility in relation to biological matters, to shreds.

Basically, the downside about becoming practically qualified to perform reproductive surgery in 14 Eastern European states, is that you become the person people really don't want to tell a knob joke to, for fear of the repercussions.

You hear the words 'too much information' 8 times a day

You become over-sensitive and soft....

I have already rambled on about this in some detail, but indeed, with the exception of genitalia, trying to conceive turns a man to mush.

You blub watching the neighbours out and about with their kids, you blub on a sunny day, you blub when somone takes your parking spot. (You know who you are you bitch.)

You become uber sensitive to the point of paranoia about people who don't have snot bags hanging off them, "maybe they have, you know, 'issues' too", when in fact they very possibly just can't be arsed.

I've used the word 'cute' so much in the last year I should be carrying around a feckin chihuahua in a dolce & gabbana purse, and I've uttered the word 'sweet' so often I am writing this from the midst of a diabetic coma.

It's probably all the testosterone focussing on your jolly rodger that leads to a deficiency in your brain and turns you into a 12 year old girl.
That's my quasi-qualified medical opinion anyway.

You'll try absolutely anything....

Logic flies out the window. Actually no, correction. Logic pulls down your pants, kicks you up the arse, blows a raspberry in your face and then flies out the window.

This goes far beyond having Ms. shagee remain horizontal for about 4 days after bumping uglies, with her backside hoisted aloft seven cushions.

This goes into the realm of counting and waving at magpies.

This goes into the mad realm of ordering fertility dolls off the internet.

This goes into the realm of two grown, educated and semi-intelligent people in their thirties, sleeping on yellow knitted booties, incredibly generously hand made and sent to us from the other side of the planet.

One under each bloody pillow.

I know it's utterly illogical, but God help you if you try to remove them, I'll bite your non-believing fingers off and feed them to the frogs.

You get what you wish for...sort of....

The observant among you will have put two and two together and come up with the logic behind the name, Xbox4NappyRash.

For those who haven't, bless your cotton socks, I'll explain. The idea was to sacrifice using my xbox in return for nappy rash(preferably on the arse of a kid).

Well, maybe the Gods of fate have a cruel sense of humour, or perhaps they are hard of hearing, or most likely they just can't understand my funny accent, but they have given me what I asked for, almost.

Instead of nappy rash, they have provided me with a nasty rash. On my bloody fingers.

Yes indeed, it's a joy to share the news that I have developed a charming wee reaction on my right hand. Excema-esque in appearance, some bright sparks attribute it to stress and frustration.

I've no doubt in my underdeveloped mind that it is due to the lack of penile contact (with not one, but two, notable exceptions) This naturally arises from the absence of acts of self love, which are rightly forbidden during these trying times.

Incidentally it's also frowned upon by my buddy, the pope, but frankly, I fear the wrath of ET a million times more.

Are these male side effects of trying and hopelessly failing to conceive common, or am I just odd? Scratch that, the oddness is a given, some things I don't need to be told.

For those who feel the urge, "judge not lest ye be bitten on the calves by a chubby Irishman, for skin is a real bitch to remove from my braces".

And yes, I said 'for skin'. Smart arses.

EDIT: It appears that the deceptively named Newbie nominated this for post of the week and it's been shortlisted along with 5 very different other posts on other interesting blogs. Go check them out.

Champagne & pizza

2008-05-12T13:00:00.001+01:00

Friday was a beauty of a blow, and I wasn't quite sure how to handle it when I got home from work.

I must be living away from home for too long because it took me at least 5 minutes to come up with the good old Irish solution. Drink. Stereotypes don't come out of nowhere.

When ET arrived home we popped open a bottle of champagne and called for pizza. Then we popped open another.

You may think it a spooky coincidence that we chose to eat pizza on the evening of the biggest disappointment so far and it also was what we ate on the evening we decided to start a family, but no, there's no coincidence, we are just greedy, lazy pigs.

The days that followed have been a bit weird, not really sad, but a bit indifferent. Energy is at a premium, and laughs are few and far between.

I do wonder when will the energy return, or even if it will return.

Yet another irony of trying to conceive is, even when there seems to be no point anymore, you can't stop yourself thinking in cycle days, ovulations, luteal phases and all the rest.

ET claims she is now having trouble taking a piss without a stick in her hand.

I've read a statistic which puts the percentage of couples still trying to conceive by the time cycle 12 comes around at 1.7%.

We are into number 14. Two weeks from today we return to the reproductive specialist.

Which brings me to infertility.
I've joked a lot about it affecting us, and I even hinted at it way back in the 'early days'.
As much fun as it was to poke fun at myself about it, I don't want to anymore, I want this to be a story of snotty noses and shitty arses, or even back to the days when it was just about constant humping and jokes about wobbly bits and ice packs. I don't want this to be the story it's become, the one we just have to admit to, a story of infertility.

I wonder would the dudes at Alltop or Cre8Buzz create a section for malfunctioning man-bits or wonky woman thingys.

"My name is Xbox4NappyRash and I am an infertility blog."

To those of you who have commented on the last entry, or mailed, or made outrageously generous offers, all we can say is thank you. We are both overwhelmed and grateful. Thanks.

Better than Christmas

2008-05-09T17:45:00.000+01:00

We have had some wonderfully gonad squeezing moments over the last year when we've found out we are not pregnant.

We've had this particular joy around my birthday, ET's birthday, before going on holiday, and the humdinger of course, back on Christmas day.

Christmas day was a particularly spectacular kick in the guts.

After that point I stopped believing the significance of dates in this great plan of ours.

There would be no breaking the news while visiting family, or at Christmas, or on Paddy's day, or on someone's birthday.

After Christmas I lost all inclination to be genuinely hopeful, and resigned myself to the idea that we would be relying on experts to do the job for us.

Cold and calculating perhaps, but easier to handle at a time when energy was getting low.

So I thought.

This month, cycle 13, saw optimisim sneak back in for the first time in months.

We had the turnaround in semen analysis results which told us we could do it naturally, we had our first session with the specialist which took the pressure off our shoulders slightly, and we got our ugly bumping timing and quality absolutely spot on.

It was game on.

Cycle day 27, 28, and 29 came and went, when 26 or 27 is the norm.

Long time unspoken excitement began to bubble to the surface.

Names were written on scraps of paper to visualise them alongside my surname before being hastily torn up and binned.

Minds allowed themselves to wander to the other side of 'trying to conceive', the side where people are visiting you and shaking your hand and slapping you on the back. The side where the almost overwhelming bubbling excitement I feel from time to time really belongs.

This was it. Finally. Surely.

Cycle day 30 came and went. Still no positive test result. Doubts creep in.

As if on queue, on a sunny Friday of a long weekend, it comes to a dead end.

One spot. Followed by the inevitable.

Christmas had left us staggering dazed around the ring, but cycle 13 has callously kicked our buckling legs from under us.

If my brief teenage phase of reading the classics serves me well, I believe there is a reference in Dante's 'Divine Comedy' to a sign over the gates of hell reading 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'.

I want that sign painted over the gates of 'trying to conceive' world, as it's the only advice that I can see really helping anyone get through it.

The house is emptier than it was twenty four hours ago, who knew such little hope took up so much space.