Men,Men,Men,Men,Manly Men,Men,Men (Thursday)

(Start with "Monday" if you can. You've got plenty of time. Either you're off from work today because the office is closed or you just called in sick because you thought it was a gyp that the office was open.... And if you can put up with me for a few extra minutes a week, consider becoming a subscriber. It's simple and quick (and free did I mention it's free?) and you get some fascinating insider info.) 

So what were we talking about? Oh right. How our husbands, partners, boyfriends, naked acquaintances, kissing neighbors, hot papas, really are quite literally, our "right hand men" in this infertility project. Have no fear. I will stop the puns there.

There's another important role that the man plays in our infertility madness. One, which in my opinion, is a humongous scam.I'm speaking of the nightly progesterone butt cheek injection. Scam!

I'm thinking that way back,way, way, back at the beginning of IVF, like in the 1800's (I think Laura Ingalls was conceived through IVF), there was this husband. And this husband went to his friendly corner fertility clinic/candy store/barber shop and took aside his friendly, neighborhood Reproductive Endocrinologist/store clerk/barber and said:

"Look, I can't take it anymore. My wife is angry and depressed. She's irritable and has mood swings. Yesterday, to make her feel better, I offered to whittle her something and she tried to bite me. I know she's going through a lot with these treatments but sometimes I just wish I could take a sharp, pointy, 1 1/2 inch object and jab her in the ass!"

And the wise old Reproductive Endocrinologist/store clerk/barber, took off his latex gloves, covered his Raisinets, put down his razor, and summoned the young man into the back room.

"Come with me son. I think I may have just the thing."   

And the scam has been carried on between husbands and RE's ever since. The husband has that desperate, basset hound, pleading look in his eyes: "Please, please, she's becoming impossible. I can't take it anymore." And the knowing doctor winks and slips him a prescription in a reassuring handshake.

And then to sell the scam convincingly a whole production is staged in the bathroom (originally outhouse) that night.

My husband put on scrubs with face mask, a lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck. We couldn't find surgical gloves so he just put on the yellow rubber dishwashing gloves from the kitchen sink.

So there we were in our teeny bathroom, with the ten pound bag of ice he bought for our own private "tail-gate" party, needle, vial, alcohol, and Costco box of 70,000 cotton balls.

All the while, I'm picturing him taunting me in his head, like a nasty kid at the playground: "I'm going to jab you in the aaaass. I'm going to jab you in the aaaass... and you can't stop me. Na Na Na Na Na."  

I'm wearing a beautiful long-sleeve turquoise cashmere sweater with lovely detail around the neckline, diamond earrings with matching pendant, and nothing else- leaning against the sink on my elbows, butt-side facing out.

And there's my husband, 1 1/2 inch needle in one hand, instructions from the Internet in the other: "Okay, so I think the upper outer quadrant of your butt is right about... or I don't know... maybe it's more to the left... could you look for a minute and tell me which is right... I mean correct."

And I'm mumbling: "Great, the guy who gets lost with GPS is searching for my upper outer quadrant like I'm on Star Trek Deep Space...Very Deep Space OW!"    

Listen, I gotta go. I have to run outside and capture the glorious symphony of bursting fall foliage before it turns into an unsightly unraked mess.   

Check out natural fertility specialist Ian Claxton's article: "Ways to Boost Male Fertility" in Health Experts this week. You may as well. I mean, you blew off work, so it's not like you don't have the time.

I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.