embarrassing

Awkward Infertile Moment

So I’m that guy, standing at the front desk of a women’s clinic with his sperm sample in outstretched hand trying to explain why he really is in the right place.

specimen cup

 

I believe that people struggling with infertility are some of the most mistreated people in our society. When stricken with the ailment, through no fault of their own, they somehow lose all rights to privacy and dignity. We have what is called secondary infertility. We were able to have a biological daughter, but following a miscarriage we were unable to get pregnant again

When my wife and I were first diagnosed as “possibly infertile,” she was put through a battery of invasive, painful procedures that according to the doctors had very little chance of having any positive result. To add insult to injury, the cost of the procedures was very high as our insurance would not cover any of these procedures.

This is what I like to call “The Infertility Rollercoaster.” We would save our money for a few months for new treatments. We would go to the new doctor that we were referred to after the last one concluded that we needed a more specialized physician. We would be given hope in the procedure and the steps they told us they were going through in order for this to be a successful attempt. My wife would get the shots and pills for the preparation for ovulation. Then we would go in for an IUI (Intrauterine Insemination), and the waiting game began. Two weeks later, we could not stand the suspense anymore so we would purchase a pregnancy test. Every test was a crushing reminder of our powerlessness in the situation, but we gathered ourselves back up and rode that rollercoaster several times.

So on one such occasion, we were finally at the day to perform an IUI. We had to go to a clinic in a town about 30 minutes from our home, so time was of the essence. We collected my “sample” at home and hit the road. We were told that it would be best to hold the sample under my armpit until we reached the clinic in order to keep it warm and alive until they were able to process it and to get it to them as soon as possible, so when we arrived at the clinic we knew time was running out.

I got out of the car, with the sample under my arm and walked into the lobby of the Women’s clinic. For some reason, I had been nervously anticipating this exact moment for weeks now. At the front desk there were three receptionists watching me as I entered the front door. I went to the desk and reached out my hand with the cup that contained my still warm sample. The looks on their faces were not encouraging. One woman said to me,” You must me in the wrong place.”

Those were not the words I had hoped to hear at that moment. I asked if this was the clinic we were scheduled to have our procedure in. The ah-ha moment came as one of the receptionists explained that their company actually had two clinics, and that the one we were looking for was on the other side of town, about 15 minutes away.

I got back in the car with my wife and as we drove to the other clinic we could not help but laugh the whole way there as we thought about the ridiculousness of the whole situation we were experiencing. Sometimes, the only way to make these things bearable is to laugh.

Long story short, that IUI, with the shots and visits leading up to it, cost us about $800 plus the negative pregnancy test that we had a few weeks later. That was a dark period in our lives. Thankfully, we had a beautiful 4 year old daughter to soften the blows that came with each failed attempt at growing our family.

Looking back and knowing that the difficult, humiliating, invasive, painful experiences we had with infertility, pushed us towards adopting 3 more amazing children, I would do it all over again. It helped us open our hearts to adoption and prepared us for the challenges we would face throughout the adoption process.

So I’m That Guy

So I’m that guy, standing in an icy ski resort parking lot wondering how his truck is now 70’ from where he parked it and now attached to a school bus.

 

Ski, winter season , mountains and ski equipments

So the day started out pretty okay. I was taking my daughter to her ski lessons at the local ski resort and I was going to get to ski in my brand new boots I bought myself for my birthday a few days earlier. It was a warm day and was raining a little.

We got to the hill, and I began my job as the designated pack mule hauling all my daughter’s gear and accessories up a slick parking lot to the lodge. After I got her all situated with her class, I was able to get myself ready.

I buckled into my new boots, amazed at how perfect they felt. At the lift line I went to click into my ski bindings, but no click. The boots were smaller than my previous pair so the bindings were not adjusted correctly.

To make a long story short, 30 minutes later I exited the ski rental shop with a pair of boots from the previous century that were 2 sizes too big. I was devastated, but determined to make the most of the ticket I had bought to ski that day.

I clicked into my bindings and scooted my way to the lift to head up the mountain. As it came my turn, I glanced at the lift operator’s station and there was a small dry erase board that read, “If you are the owner of a blue GMC Sierra, with the license plate number ****** please come to the office.” I looked at it once and turned away, then it started registering that I did drive a blue Sierra. Of course I don’t know my own license plate number, but it looked likely to be mine. So rather than starting my way up the hill, I pulled out of the line at the last minute to check things out.

I released my bindings and started walking toward the parking lot. With the old, ill-fitting boots, the walk was very difficult. I arrived a large metal stairway over the parking lot and just as I grabbed the hand rail on top, both boots slipped out from under me and I went down hard. From here it was all slow motion. There was a small family starting up the stairway, I felt the need to reduce their alarm at my fall and mid way through I yelled, “I’m okay!” I wasn’t, it hurt bad. I landed on the metal grate of the first step.

Immediately I had to prove my previous statement by bouncing right back up with the assistance of the handrail. With my tail bone bruised, and my pride shaken as well, I stood over the parking lot and immediately recognized that it was my truck and that it had collided with a school bus in the parking lot.

Not knowing how to process what I was seeing, I hurried down the stairs and walked across the ice sheet of a parking lot to see the damage. My pickup had slid about 70’ on the slightly inclined parking area and hit the rear wheel and fender of the school bus. There were no witnesses other than the school bus driver who stated, “It slid out of its parking spot and slammed into the bus. I jumped out and couldn’t believe there was no one inside.”

Luckily, the bus had no damage but a small scratch on the rear panel. My truck on the other hand had quite a bit of damage to the bed and rear bumper. This should have been a Kodak moment but I only wanted the situation over, so I moved my truck to another part of the parking lot and went back up the mountain to ski.

After my first mediocre run, I rode the lift up with two other men. By then I had calmed down somewhat and decided to try laughing at the situation. The ride started with me saying, “ So you guys want to hear about the worst morning ever?” I started my story and as soon as I got to the part about my truck hitting the bus, the guy next to me says, “So you’re that guy?” I replied, “Yes, I’m that guy.”

It was all downhill from there. The ski day was horrible because of conditions and weather, so I convinced my daughter to head home early. My tailgate fell of when I tried to put our gear in the back and I had to kick it to jam it back into place for the trip home. When I turned it into insurance I had the distinct impression that they did not believe my story but after 4 weeks and $6,000 worth of body work, my truck was as good as new.

It was a small price to pay for the story of a lifetime, and the new identity of “that guy.” Growing up most kids want to be Superman, Spiderman, or Batman. But I like to say to myself, “So, I’m that guy.”