This post is a sample chapter of a book I’m writing (current working title: Swimming in Circles: A Sperm Story). As you have probably already figured out, its a look into the lives of Heidi and me as we continue our long-running battle with infertility. I hope one day that it will be published. I thought I would post it here for your reading enjoyment:
Baby-Making 101
Throughout our first year of trying to conceive, we were willing to try just about any “secrets of the trade” in the hopes that it would improve our chances of getting pregnant. If you know of a manufactured or homemade method that worked for you or someone you know, I can guarantee that we tried it. Anyone who came to us with advice impacted our sex life in one way or another.
Some methods were scientific:
Heidi would wake up each morning and, even before turning the alarm off, she would put a thermometer in her mouth and take her temperature. She even had a nice bedside calendar where she kept record of her early morning temperature-taking. Once she reached the appointed temperature, we would commence with the baby-making. It’s not as sexy to hear your wife say she’s hot for you when she means it literally.
We tried a device which the writers of the book The Conception Chronicles affectionately dubbed “Spitnik”. Basically, each morning Heidi rubbed a small amount of her saliva on the glass lens of a compact personal fertility microscope and set it aside for a few minutes to dry. If she saw what looks like a fern pattern through the eyepiece, it meant that we got to hop back into bed and get busy. If she saw what looks like a close-up of dried saliva, it meant that I needed to take a cold shower and get ready for work.
Other methods were word-of-mouth cures:
Heidi was told that she needed to elevate her legs over her head after sex. The naked headstands didn’t work for us.
Someone else swore by the “Be Sure and Pee Immediately After Sex” method. I personally recommend the “Take a Ten Minute Nap After Sex” method instead.
A friend of mine came up to me one day and loaned me what he said was a sure-fire cure: his old workout socks. He handed me a pair of bright blue, breathable cotton/poly blends with pictures of cartoon sperm on them. The socks had the caption, “Survival of the Fittest” sewn into them. Those beauties were what he wore while training for a marathon during the same time of year that he and his wife were trying for kids. So far, the sperm socks have done nothing but give me athlete’s foot.
My favorite approach was one I like to call the “Rock Star Sex” method, which required that we have sex every day during her ovulation period. While I knew this advice was surely the brainchild of some guy with no medical credentials whatsoever, I made sure that I supported it as a viable option each time we discussed getting pregnant. One month, my wife finally caved in. The Rock Star Sex method didn’t work one bit, but I personally found it to be the best way to fail at getting pregnant that I have ever tried.
to be continued…
Today is President’s Day and — I can’t believe I am actually admitting to this — I spent part of my day off from work watching Oprah. Before you judge me, just know that she had the voice-over cast from Horton Hears a Who (Jim Carrey, Steve Carrel, and Carol Burnett) on the show. It wasn’t an Oprah’s Book Club episode or anything.
I realized something disturbing today as I watched the show — Oprah’s fans are crazy (not fun-crazy like your best friend from college, but crazy-crazy like Robin Williams all jacked up on Ecstasy). Anyone else out there think that the people in Oprah’s audience are bizarre?
People say that religious organizations are cultish, but I have never seen anything that can compare to the following that Oprah has. These people are out of control.
What do you think?
No, this is not a photo of Kevin McCallister’s eerie, snowshovel-wielding neighbor in Home Alone.
This is my great great great grandfather, Ira S. Hatch — a man with a very interesting past.
I have known for years that Ira served his LDS (read: Mormon) mission in the Navajo/Paiute regions of Southern Utah and Northern Arizona and New Mexico. His second wife was Sarah Maraboots – daughter of a Navajo chief. By all historical accounts (read: Mormon genealogies) his work and deeds–not just as a missionary, but as a frontiersman–were legendary.
What I have learned recently is a bit more disturbing.
On September 11, 1857 about 120 men, women, and children were killed in cold blood during the Mountain Meadows Massacre. The victims were members of a westward-bound wagon train from Arkansas. The culprits were unprovoked men from a local Mormon militia in Southern Utah. My great (x4) grandfather was apparently one of the key players in what is known in history as one of the worst incidents of domestic terrorism on American soil.
Gotta love history.
For a great video detailing the Mountain Meadows Massacre, click here (12 minutes).
I have really been enjoying spending part of each day reading the Bible and praying with Heidi. We started reading through our One Year Bibles on January 1 along with many people from Palm Valley Church, where I used to work. They started 2008 with a series called Route 66, kicking off a church-wide, one-year journey through the Bible. For Christmas, all staff and staff wives recieved an engraved, leatherbound One Year Bible.
To be honest, I have never been very disciplined at reading my Bible. Ever since high school, I have struggled with disciplining myself and making time to read scripture and pray. So far this year, Heidi and I have faithfully read our Bible each day — and I’m really enjoying it.
1 month down, 11 to go. God, keep me disciplined.
I hurt my back this weekend and Heidi suggested that I visit the chiropractor and see what he can do to relieve my pain. She has always enjoyed going to get adjusted, but I have only been to a chiropractor one time before. I don’t go often because, frankly, it freaks me out a bit.
To me, hearing my skeletal system snap, crackle, and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies is disconcerting. It just seems wrong. I know that thousands of people a day go to chiropractors without incident, but I still have this feeling in the back of my head that my doctor is going to go all Bloodsport on me and accidentally end my life by snapping my neck.
The guy even cracked the cartilage in my ear — said it would clear up my sinuses.
What an odd field of medicine.
