Emotionally Destitute

This is by far the hardest post I’ve had to write yet. No, I don’t mean to say this in the sense that I’m going to a deep dark place or sharing something heavy or powerful. It is hard because every time I’ve tried to write, or even think, of a new blog post, I stare off into white space.

I was certainly gung-ho about the idea of a blog at first.

“We need to do this right.”

“We should post multiple times a week.”

“Don’t get lazy.”

As I’ve said previously, I make an effort to keep creativity and writing in my life every day, but my creativity and writing had dried up in the all-consuming infertility battle. If infertility was robbing me of my ability to stay creative, why not embrace it by simply writing about it? And once I started writing about our struggles to have a kid, the thoughts poured out of me. For a few months, I had a hard time fitting my multitude of thoughts into each post. Then we started going to the fertility clinic, we met some amazing doctors, and I quickly felt like we were no longer lost in a wilderness of our own struggles. We didn’t just have a guide through the process - it was like a train appeared in the woods. This train was populated by doctors who could answer any question we had, nurses who shepherded us each step of the way, and even finance people who told us where to send the checks. It felt like we were finally on the path to baby-land. The folks at fertility clinics are so confident that they make you feel like it’s a foregone conclusion that you will end up with a baby.

All of a sudden, as far as the blog was concerned, I had nothing left to say. I wondered if I had simply vomited out all the thoughts and anxieties that were within me and I didn’t need this outlet anymore. What else is there to write? I didn’t want to neglect the blog. We started this thing, Melissa came up with, I must say, a brilliant title in “Then Comes Maybe,” and dammit, we need to stick with it! But it wasn’t just that I didn’t have anything to write. Even worse, I wasn’t feeling anything. The more I thought about it, the more this bothered me. How can something so emotional leave me so emotionless? Shouldn’t I have more to write? Shouldn’t I be feeling something?

The fact was, we had spent months of this journey strategizing, worrying, and being so incredibly stressed out, and for once, we were able to hand the task of making a baby over to someone else. That sounds insanely strange to say, but what the hell? Modern science. When I allowed myself to take comfort in the fact that these fertility doctors were now in charge, my consciousness was able to take stock of how exhausted it was and it said, “You will get no more from me.” My mind was done. My body was spent. It wasn’t about not caring, it was about caring so much for so long that the relief of having someone else in control of our fate gave me the chance to take my emotions out of the equation. What was left to worry about? If these scientific geniuses can’t fix this, no one can. Even waiting for word about egg retrieval and fertilization, I had entered a world where I was hurtling in a direction, but I had no control over where I would land - and for once, that loss of control actually felt good

The feeling of mental and physical exhaustion has been one of the most frustrating ancillary parts of this entire process. It’s hard enough struggling to have a kid, but the all-consuming nature is more than anything I’ve ever experienced. I don’t like being lazy. Melissa will readily tell anyone that I’m a person that finds it impossible to spend a day just hanging out. “Netflix binge” is not in my vocabulary. One episode a day for me, thank you. Lately, I’ve been getting really pissed at myself for being lazy. Even now that we’re on this hopeful baby path, I haven’t been able to get back into a groove. I’ve neglected more work than I’d like, procrastination has taken up far too much of my time, and I haven’t even been able to finish a book in months. Each time I pick up a book, I start reading and realize, five pages later, that I have no idea what I’ve just read. Admittedly, maybe now was not the ideal time to commit myself to finishing Infinite Jest and Finnegans Wake, but no matter what I try to do, my mind wanders. I’m motivated, but lack motivation. I care so much, but can’t focus. It really hit me when I shit the bed in a lecture for one of the film classes I teach. Maybe all of my students just hated Breathless, but a few minutes into my explanation of jump-cuts, as I looked out at a room of glazed over expressions, I realized that my teaching just wasn’t where it should be. After months of focusing so intently on one thing - more intently than perhaps I’ve ever focused on anything - my brain suddenly needs to be re-trained on how to concentrate.

So as we move forward, that’s what I’m working on. Baby steps (no pun intended). Five minutes of productivity, getting through some short stories (thank you Ted Chiang), and finally reentering the world of my own consciousness. I forgot what it was like to be here, but it’s nice to get back.

Thank You Leslie Nielsen

Dealing with infertility is filled with so much mind-crushing doubt and anxiety that it will be nice, for this post, to think back to the start of this process, before all of the stress crept in.

Eight months after we started trying to have kids, I went to see a urologist. My GP told me to try for six months, then make an appointment, but I spent two months in denial: “Let’s see what happens this month… I’m fine… it will happen this time.”

So there I was, with my pants around my knees, as Dr. Seaman checked out my junk.

“Does anyone ever point out to you how funny it is that you’re a urologist named Dr. Seaman?” I asked.

“Only about once or twice a day.”

“Well, glad I could help you reach your quota.”

“Yup. Things look good. The next step is to provide a sample. Now, you can do it here, right now, and we can discuss it in twenty minutes, or you can provide one at home and bring it in.”

Provide a sample. What a lovely euphemism.

“Let’s do it now, I want to know what’s going on.”

“Ok. A nurse will come in to explain everything and I’ll see you shortly.”

The nurse entered the exam room, and there I was with a giant smile on my face. She looked at me like I was a creep, when, in reality, I just couldn’t stop thinking about Leslie Nielsen in Naked Gun 33 ⅓.

I have a habit of laughing at the most inopportune times. It can be both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes my laughter helps: friends are in an argument, I start laughing, and it breaks the tension. Sometimes it’s wildly inappropriate: a buddy of mine rear-ended another car on one of New Jersey’s infamous traffic circles and all I could do was laugh hysterically. I don’t think he appreciated it.

And so, with scenes from Naked Gun running through my head, I looked like either a complete pervert or a thirtysomething with the maturity of a ten-year-old. Neither option is good.

The nurse handed me a plastic collection cup, pointed to a portable DVD player in the corner of the room, and said, “Have fun.” Yes, she really told me to have fun, but all I wanted to ask as I tried to control my laughter was, Do you have Spartacus?

For the sake of propriety and my dignity, I will limit further details about what happened in the sample room, but I will say that, after you provide a sample there is a special couch, just for guys who have provided a sample to sit and wait for their results. One couch, just for us sample providers. That couch is a tome of awkward male silence, where I sat with my eyes fixed on my phone until my name was called.

Finally a nurse came to get me. “Want to see your sperm?” he asked.

See my sperm? This is a thing? He wouldn’t invite me to look at the sperm if there was something wrong with them. This is a good thing.

“Sure, why not.”

The nurse led me into a small room with a microscope. I peaked in and there they were: SPERM. Just swimming around with nowhere to go. It was interesting, yes, but there was no possible information I could gather from looking at them.

“How do they look?”

“Good for the most part. Doc will talk to you.”

Good for the most part? What the hell does that mean? He probably says that to everyone.

I took a seat in the doctor’s office and waited. I was surrounded by pictures of the doc and his wife. Doc and his kids. Doc and his glamorous doctor-y vacations…

“Miiiister Andersen,” he said, like Agent Smith from The Matrix. “Do you get that a lot?”

“Only about once a day,” I replied.

The question remained, would my sperm make me THE ONE or not?

The doc handed me my semen analysis results. My eyes immediately scanned the top of the page: “Sperm Count: > Normal.” Above normal. Above normal! That’s it. Victory! Fuck Keanu Reeves, I am THE ONE!

“Sperm count is above normal, that’s great. Motility, above normal, also great.”

I was riding high.

“But your morphology is zero.”

“Zero? Like zero percent?”

“Yes.”

“What’s morphology?”

“Morphology refers to the shape of your sperm.”

“So my sperm is deformed.”

“Don’t say that. There is something about the sperms’ chemical makeup and shape that is keeping it from binding with the egg.”

“So, my sperm is deformed.”

“The good thing is, just because there’s an issue with the chemical makeup and shape, doesn’t mean they create a baby with a problem. The DNA information inside the sperm is just fine.”

“But my sperm is deformed.”

“You’ll also notice here on the sheet that you have excessive round cells in your sperm.”

“What are round cells?”

“White blood cells.”

“Oh, they’re good right?”

“They are good in that they fight infections and kill bad cells in the body, but because there are excessive amounts in your semen, they’re also attacking your sperm. The good thing is, this could be causing your zero percent morphology.”

I left the doctor’s office with a prescription, a piece of paper explaining what pyospermia was (turns out there’s a name for having white blood cells in your semen), and an appointment to retest my semen six weeks later. I had a plan of action but, for the moment, all I could think about was Leslie Nielsen.