The good news

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

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

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

"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

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

"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

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.