A UV light at the end of the tunnel

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?

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.

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.

Better than Christmas

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.

A watched pot

It never rings apparently.

Or a watched telephone never boils, or something.

Still, nothing.

No period.
No positive.
No nothing.

We sit, and we wait.
We sit, and wait, and scratch, and itch, and sit, and look, and wait, and fiddle, and sit, and surf, and read, and look, and sit.

We wait.

If a kid does end up having been conceived this month, I'm going to kick it's arse next January.

If it doesn't, we'll sit, and wait, and scratch, and itch, and sit, and look, and wait, and fiddle, and sit, and surf, and read, and look, and sit.

Missing

We would like you to be on the look out for a missing period.

Answers to the names "Aunt Flo", "Red", and "Yokes".

The missing period was expected back home sometime early this week, but as of yet has not turned up.

The last reported sighting was early April 2008.

The uncertainty as to the whereabouts of the missing period is causing great distress to it's owner.

Described as moody and bitchy, with an affinity for chocolate and doritos, the period is similar in appearance to a gaping head wound.

Should you encounter this missing period, do not approach it. It is considered highly dangerous and volatile.
Do not attempt to converse with it, do not attempt to apprehend it, and most certainly do not attempt to send it home, or you'll have me to deal with.

Should you see this missing period please go directly to the appropriate authorities, even though my mind hasn't quite worked out who they should be in this little verbalised meltdown.

As a result, feel free to use your own imagination, as mine, it appears, has broken it's leash.

A positive negative

If there is such a thing, that's what we got this morning.

A negative, but the cycle is still going.

Into injury time if you like. The more added on time we get, the better.

It may very well have been to early to detect a rise in hCG, 9 days, so the longer the cycle runs the more of an outside chance there is that we will get one.

Or not. Who knows?
Not me.

So I have the tweed jacket on layaway, not canceled just yet.

Also, what is it about trying to get someone up the duff that can render you both incapable of counting to 26, 27 or 28 correctly?

I've taken to using an excel sheet now.

So, on we go, if there is a tomorrow in this cycle, we'll once again be pissing.

Just hopefully not against the wind.

Unlucky for some

We are now very, very close to the end of this cycle.

So close I can smell the blood.

Number 13.

This is the last 'end of cycle' before we go back to the specialist in three weeks.

We have really done everything right this time, angles, gravity, trajectory, all faultless, and with Spencer back in the game we were very, very hopeful.

One thing came to our attention though, Ellie makes quite a relatively late appearance.

Her tardiness means that there seems to be around 9-11 days before the start of the next cycle as opposed to the ideal 12-16.

This (luteal phase) is considered, like myself, to be too bloody short.

If this is the case, we are not too worried, it's identifying another issue which can be solved with supplements and/or hormones to boost the levels of progesterone, vital to make the product of any conception 'stick'.

Dr Xbox4NappyRash has put ET on Vitamin B6 supplements until we can get the proper advice.

ET has had tests for progesterone performed and the results we'll discuss with the RS.

This brings up an eerie thought though.
If Spencer has at least some of the time been performing, but the luteal phase has been too short, it's possible that we may, at some stage, have conceived but it failed to stick.

There goes my fucking lunch.

While I'm desperately trying to think of this purely in terms of hormone levels, we can't help but think of the 'what ifs'.

Regardless, because it's the last chance before going back to the specialist, tomorrow morning we will take a pregnancy test. (When I say we, I mean ET obviously, it's not like I'm going to wazz on the feckin thing.)

This is probably the latest we can hold out before the start of the next cycle.
We haven't taken a pregnancy test since our first two naive months of trying, and don't plan to again, but it could be a vital piece of the jigsaw for the specialist.

The insane thing is that, given all the variables, the result, whatever it is, could mean many things:
Negative, could be too early to detect a high level of hCG due to the short post ovulation phase.
Negative, could be simply negative, denting my latest theory.
Positive, could be a conception doomed not to last due to the short luteal phase.
Positive, could be positive, and stick, and I could buy a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

Do we really even want to know tomorrow?
No, but it's for the best.

If I keep saying that to myself, I may even eventually believe it, but probably not.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in the fetal position.

Allez Les Bleus!

Tomorrow we set sail. OK, not quite, but we do drive a ford focus.

Actually, I drive a ford focus.

All the way to France.

Yes, situated in the beautiful rolling landscape of the Ardennes, in the Champagne region, is a secluded farm house that will be our serene home for the next 3 days, unfortunately in the company of 6 other infirm buggers.

As if Sunday's revelation that we may be headed straight for the great tandoori oven in the cellar wasn't bloody bad enough.

You win some, you lose some.

Yes, brain, you are off limits for the next few days thanks to the wonderful invention that goes by the name of 'a national holiday'.

Queen's day, or 'Koninginnedag' to give it it's correct asphyxiating title.

ET had her blood tests today for various hormone levels and the usual prerequisite stuff so all that will be ready for the RS in a few weeks.

The few days away will break up the 2WW, the two week wait, as I've recently come to discover it called.

Ironically, and somewhat disturbingly though, we have deduced that our 2WW is very possibly not two weeks at all.

Fucking typical.

This is not a good thing. Nevertheless, there's no point harping on about it now, until we know more, which we will next week.

I think Ellie was just jealous of all the attention Spencer was getting and she may just have decided to go on a 'go-slow', just to even up the score.

Bloody women always have to go one better....

An immaculate conception?

It's Sunday and I feel like having a moan simply because we have now entered the luteal phase, more commonly referred to as the 'there is sod all you can do now, so sit quiet and squirm rat boy' phase.

This is cycle 13, making us 'officially' infertile, as opposed to the 'don't be such a drama queen with a willy' type infertility I've been rattling on about for the past year.

I am confident that things will work, but the prospect is ever larger that we need assistance.

On selfish reflection this is a slightly saddening thought, but honestly I don't have any huge issues with this. On the other hand, my 'spiritual leader' does.

In early March the Vatican listed a new and improved, better than your current leading brand, set of seven deadly sins by adding seven modern mortal sins.

This list includes 'Genetic Manipulation'. I had to do some checking to be sure, but this encompasses procedures such as IVF.

A few searches confirmed my thoughts that the Vatican would consider IVF a mortal sin, but to be certain I went to the Vatican's own website, to get it from the donkey's mouth, and found the following:

'The desire for a child - or at the very least an openness to the transmission of life - is a necessary prerequisite from the moral point of view for responsible human procreation. But this good intention is not sufficient for making a positive moral evaluation of in vitro fertilization between spouses. The process of IVF and ET must be judged in itself and cannot borrow its definitive moral quality from the totality of conjugal life of which it becomes part nor from the conjugal acts which may precede or follow it.(48)"

Basically, it's NOT the good thought that counts.

This saddens me in one way and aggravates me in another.

I'm sad because the faith I was brought up in, and which has to this day unseen influences on my life, is so far out of touch with real life it becomes almost impossible to defend it.

I'm aggravated and angry because this 'ruling' puts ET and myself on the cusp of a descent into eternal damnation according to Pope Benedict XVI.

Does the fact we have made the decision to try and have a family from a totally (probably for the first time ever) unselfish viewpoint not weigh in on this 'hell bound sentencing'?

We have invested, blood, sweat, and tears into this, all three quite literally, not to mention a few other bodily fluids, and we have as of yet, nothing to show for it only the prospect that any further action will see us keeping eternal company with murderers, paedophiles and rapists.

If I had any real faith left I'd be losing it right now.

If I wanted to get silly about it, and let's face it, that's what I do best, I'd start making claims that Jesus himself could have been the product of an assisted conception. Maybe Joseph had a touch of Spencer syndrome and had a few questionable wrigglers, maybe Mary was low on the old vitamin B6, we don't know, but we do know we are told that no uglies got bumped and yet voila! the son of God is delivered into the arms of his loving and soon to be sleep deprived parents.

Maybe.

I wonder did my main man Benedict even raise an eyebrow to the irony as he grasped his ruby studded gold pen from it's 14th century antique holder given as a gift from the court of some French or Spanish royal family, peering over his silver spectacle rims before penning the next mortal sin on his new list:

'Accumulating excessive wealth'

The Vatican website is located here, with the quoted passage located in their documentation, here.

Ellie

Hello there,

You don't really know me Ellie but I know quite a bit about you. I've known your 'mother' ET for quite a long time, and we even had you and your sisters pointed out to us by a specialist last week.

I hope you don't mind me saying, but you really are a pretty egg.

I know this is a really old fashioned way of doing things, but sometimes the old traditions are best, you know?

I'm aware that you have lots of guys hanging around, bugging you and trying to get into your good books, and I know that up until now, you've resisted their advances.

You're an egg with high standards in morality and taste, always something to be admired.

You see Ellie, I have a buddy, and he's taken quite a shine to you. He really is different to all those that you've met before for many reasons.

He's been admiring your for a long time, over a year in fact. You don't know this, but every month when you take your trip down south to the beach house in the 'tubes, he travels from a place that is beyond even the realms of your imagination just to try and meet you there. He truly goes to tremendous effort.

He's made twelve attempts now to rendezvous with you, but each time he just misses out. I don't intentionally want to make you feel bad, but this is getting him down just a little bit.

Not that he's given up, absolutely not, quite the opposite in fact Ellie.

When he started making his trips to meet you, he wasn't the best swimmer in the world. Frankly, he sucked. The measure of his character is that he just didn't give up, he got to work, he trained and conditioned himself, and now he's one the best swimmers you could ever hope to meet (and not too shabby in a pair of speedos, not that that should influence you in any way, of course).

Basically Ellie, this wee guy may not be the most handsome nor the brightest you'll ever meet, but he's hardworking and is busting his milky backside to get a chance to meet you.

I guess what I'm saying is we know you are taking another trip south in a couple of days, and he has really given his all to be ready to get there to meet you in time. Not only does he want to meet you, but he'd like the chance maybe to take you for a bite to eat, or for a drink of something, non-alcoholic naturally.
He really wants to impress you, between you and me Ellie, I think he believes you are the one for him. He's quite the romantic that way, he is convinced it's fate that you both should meet and settle down somewhere nice, just the two of you.

I know you enjoy your lifestyle at the moment, the freedom to come and go, hanging out with your sisters up north, and heading down south to party every month or so, but doesn't even the smallest part of you wish for someone special to keep you company?

So, my dear girl, when you reach the 'tubes, keep an eye out for him, he won't be the one shouting the loudest or getting drunk or making rude jokes, but he'll be the one that's worked the hardest to get there.

You could do a lot worse. Just give it some thought, eh?

Kind regards,
Me.

P.S. How could I forget? His name, is Spencer.
You should be able to recognise him because he's the one with the wallpaper paste complexion, the glint in his eye, and the big heart.

...oh yes, and braces.

Zinc or Swim?

Maybe it was ET's imposing 5 foot nothing frame giving them grief at 8am, or my booming prepubescent voice at lunchtime that filled them with fear and sparked the frenzy of action, but something finally went our way today.

At 5:20pm this afternoon, outside office hours, Ms trainee doctor rang to inform me that the missing semen analysis results had been magically located. I didn't ask where, when, how, or who, I just shrieked at her to give up some figures.

Sperm count, volume, and morphology were all slightly down on the last time, but no great concern.

The first time around the issue was motility, and it royally sucked. 22% in group A & 10% in group B was gonna be the cause of significant problems.
It is also widely accepted that if your boys don't swim today, you can't make them swim tomorrow.

So what did I do?

I fed Spencer, I fed him daily, until his wee gills were full of vitamins C and E, beta carotene and my secret ingredient to tackle his lethargy, zinc.

I took him aside and had a man to man talk. I revved the little bugger up, got inside his head, started his wee milky heart pumping and told the fucker to swim like his legendary grandaddy sperm had done before him.

And that, my good folk, is what the little maggot went and did.

He swam like a Chineese olympian after gobbling up one of his coach's special milkshakes.
He swam so hard and fast that I reckon that's why the results were delayed, he had them chasing that wee container around the laboratory fridge.
He swam with such gusto there were petri dish tsunami warnings issued.

The little legend swam his way to 39% in group A and 30% in group B, a total of 69% motility, more than 100% improvement, and almost 40% above the norm.
Spencer is one magnificent mass of man milk.

Monday I will see the results in detail, and get a chance to do some real comparisons, but the bottom line on this fine Friday evening is, thanks to the most heroic semen sample outside of a panda enclosure, there is no reason why we can't do this naturally.

Spencer my man, hang up your swim cap and rest well tonight, for tomorrow, together, we ride.

So, God IS a woman...

...and she's had me tied to the bed, wrists and ankles bound. She doesn't even crack a smile as she tosses aside the unopened tube of lubricant, and tightens the belt on her over sized strap-on. She steps closer...

I woke up today a bigger idiot than normal. Why so? because I believed today was the day I would get the results from my second semen analysis.

I was mistaken.

Here in the world's best kept communist secret that is Holland, you must follow appointments, no wavering, no flexibility. I guess in a country the size of a Texan bathtub with a bigger population than Australia, you need some kind of order to avoid outright chaos. So I go along with it.

At exactly 1pm, I called for my results. I dialed the GP's office number. 17 times.

At 1:40 the phone is answered.

After the customary berating from the receptionist that I wasn't ringing between 1 & 1:30, I get put through to the doctor.
Scratch that, I get put through to a trainee something or other.

I again explain the reason behind my call, repeat my details, and wait silently, with the sound of single finger keystrokes on an iMac the only sign of life on the other end of the line.

'Uuum, I can't seem to find them right now, can I call you back this afternoon?'
Sighing 'OK'.

An hour later she calls me back with the news that I instinctively knew was coming.

They'd lost the results.

The GP doesn't have them, the lab doesn't have them.
They are going to check up with the lab again and ring me today or tomorrow.

I'm not even gong to entertain the possibility they may find them, unless Shergar trots into their office with them sellotaped to his arse.

So, what now?

It takes around 4 weeks to get an appointment to give the sample, and 2 weeks to get results back. For the slower among you, thats 6 weeks, add in 3 Dutch national holidays in the coming weeks and you can safely say 7 weeks before I can get another set of results.

We return to our reproductive specialist, who is expecting a full set of results, in just over 5 weeks.

If we don't have a full set of results for that appointment we can forget any progress then, and can face another 6 week wait for a follow up, if we get lucky.

This particular 'whoopsie' may well cost us a set back of a couple of months.

If I were a cynical person, I would allow my mind to wonder had they in fact misplaced the original sample? What a lovely thought, here I am, unable to impregnate my wife, and there's Spencer just lying around unlabeled in a laboratory where they wash sperm for IUI and IVF treatments. Some poor skinny, blond, 9 foot tall, straight toothed Dutch couple could be in for one hell of a shock in 9 months or so.

If you hadn't already guessed from the tones of bubbling frustration, you can take the dream sequence of being anally raped by female deity as a sure sign that a total meltdown is just around the corner.

...jerking me by the legs closer to the edge of the bed, I clench, bite down on my pillow, and mutter "OK God, get it over with, just no kissing on the mouth"...

24,000,000,000 to 1

24,000,000,000

300,000,000
350,455
310
26
25
12
5
2
1

24,000,000,000
This is the number of Spencer's buddies I calculate have been dispatched into active duty in the name of trying to conceive. That's twenty-four billion.

300,000,000
That is further number that have been sent out on research duty.

350,455
This is the number of milligrams of vitamin supplements I would have taken in order to help the cause, had I been taking all of them from day 1.

310
This is the number of days we have been actively trying, and failing, to conceive.

26
This is the length in days of cycles it now seems. 28 don't live here no more.

25
This is the number of siblings (& their children) I have. A fertile bunch eh? Another cup of irony soup anyone?

12
This is, as of today, the number of failed cycles. A bloody year.

5
The percentage of couples our age who don't manage to conceive in 12 cycles.

2
The number of times I've had to 'milk' myself in the name of science, Not once, but twice.

1
This is the number of very pissed off Irish brace-mouthed, sub-fertile bloggers who is wearing correctly matched shoes for once.
It's the total number of sperm actually needed out of that twenty four feckin' billion to be any bloody good.
It's the number of wives that I have, and have disappointed time and again over the last 310 days.
It's the number of chances I want, just the f#*$ing one.

Ignorance & Bliss

With all that has lead up to this, the 11 failed cycles of trying to get knocked up and the utterly marvelous revelations that my sperm are couch potatoes, I've started to wonder about what results I really want to see from this semen analysis.

Do I want another set of poor results?
Will this really prompt the Dutch medical world into springing into action and working their magic and bringing an end to the great baby drought of 2007-08?
This would obviously mean more tests, more procedures, and infinitely more waiting.

Do I want great results?

Do I want to see wonderful figures that would send women scurrying for safety with crossed legs for fear of falling pregnant by just being in the presence of such potency?
This will obviously mean that there are other gremlins in our machinery, and therefore, more tests, more procedures, and infinitely more waiting?

It would be like earning a Phd and not being able to get a job.

Do I want to know at all?
What is ACTUALLY the point of knowing the results now?
Whether I like it or not, it doesn't matter if the test shows I've got a lower motile sperm count than Heather Mills has toes, or a greater motile sperm count than she has gold dug dollars in the bank, there still will be no child.

In the end, isn't the only real positive outcome of any fertility test, the family that results?

So, come on Spencer, do your bloody job this time around and make the results irrelevant, for me eh?