Today we said a sad farewell to J’s sperm. We knew that was how today would go. We woke up at 6 this morning to a truly epic thunderstorm, the kind of storm where, after your house stops shaking, you ask, “is that the loudest thunder you’ve ever heard?” The kind of storm that leads you to reminisce about a night more than 10 years ago—when the big fear was not finding a job and infertility was something that happened to other people—where we sat under the large awning of a deserted dorm in Fredricksburg, watching lightning dance across the sky so often we couldn’t tell one thunderclap from another. The kind of thunderstorm that reminds you that you used to cuddle in bed and talk for hours. So we cuddled, and talked a little, and listened to the thunder roll around our little house. And we didn’t talk about the appointment we were about to go to. No need. We’re all talked out.
J’s sperm count is still below 1 mil. Almost uncountable. His hormone levels are fine now, but the sperm just aren’t developing. Dr. World-Renowned can’t explain it, but he’s done all he can.
So on we go to donor sperm. I slipped out of the doc’s office a few minutes before J was done to get things lined up with my nurses. When I told them what the plan was, she asked how I felt about it.
“I’m really sad,” I told her, feeling the tears well up behind my eyes. “But it’s going to feel so good to do something different this time. Maybe now, if I get a positive beta, I won’t find myself just counting days until the inevitable loss.”
She nodded. “You’ve been carrying this burden for a long time,” she said.
And that’s how I feel. Today I’m sad. And I’m sure I’ll be sad again. But goddammit, I’m ready to MOVE ON.
Last Saturday we babysat our best friends’ 16-month-old boy. And guess what? I still want one. (It didn’t hurt that he was an angel for us the entire evening; he fell asleep in my arms while we watched John Lester take a no-hitter into the 7th—what could be better?)
But the most wonderful thing was watching J with that little boy. Playing with him in the park; feeding him his yogurt that night; holding him on his lap while we watched the game. So yeah, I’m giving up J’s genes. But I’m not giving up watching him be a daddy. And it’s about fucking time that we made that happen.