One year ago today, my wife and I were finishing up grades. We submitted them online, and we were free of the semester, free of any further duties related to the students we had over the fall. We were ready for our winter holiday. In our dining room, a tank from the sperm bank had been sitting for a few days, but I couldn’t think about it. The last month’s failed cycle had devastated me in a new way. I had turned off all hope and completely disconnected from the process. I kind of dreaded starting another cycle because I felt like we were flushing our money down the toilet. On the other hand, the semester was over, and I didn’t have to teach, and it was time to relax. At least there was that.
I don’t remember much of the day. We may have done some shopping; we might have simply lounged around the house. I do know that we had a little wine in the evening, and that my wife was eager to inseminate, and I was fairly ambivalent about it. I remember telling her that I didn’t want to yet because I didn’t feel like lying around in bed. And then, around nine, my wife said, “I think we need to do this, and I think we need to do it now.” So I polished off my wine, and she left hers on the table, and off we went. We used a speculum for the first time, and it was uncomfortable and pinchy. My wife saw my cervix immediately, placed the catheter right on the cervix, depressed the plunger on the syringe, and sent the genetic material on its way. This was the most no-nonsense, least intimate of our eleven attempts, but it was the one that worked.
I never imagined that evening that a year later, I would be typing a post one-handed while feeding my baby boy. It never occurred to me that this might just be the one, but here we are. I am so unbelievably grateful.
What a difference a year makes.