It must have been my pride; without it, this would have all been easier. Learning of a possible fertility issue was neither threatening to me or my wife's health, so it wasn't scary. At least, it shouldn't have been scary like cancer, car accidents or standardized tests.
My wife went for some routine blood tests. On a routine check-up. The results were suspicious so we looked into it. (By the way, I'm going to be saying "we" a lot. Even when I'm referring to something that only one person did. I hope to explore this need I have to say "We." My Dad uses the we to imply that it's a collective effort, a group concern and no one is alone in the endeavor. It rubbed off on me). The first thing the OBGYN suggested was Clomid. It's hard to write the word at this moment in time without chuckling, and chuckling always carries a stench of condescension. What a joke.
Apparently it works for some people. I think those people are the ones who didn't happen to get pregnant naturally for no reason other than the inevitable inefficient probability of nature. It just didn't happen that time. They took Clomid. It happened. God bless America.
We took it. Well, my wife took Clomid. Made her feel like a sweaty ass. At the better times, a pre-pubescent hairless sweaty ass. At the worse times, a 1976 PE coach's crotch-high nylon shorts sweaty ass. Despite the hormonal rollercoaster, we continued on Clomid's rocky path lead by the glitching glimmer of hope. That hope was extinguished in a bloody onslaught each month.
Clomid reminds me of the early rain before a storm. It's enough to get you wet, muddy your shoes and damp your sweatshirt. It can even ruin your day. But how ridiculous do you feel remembering how much the drizzle upset you when standing in your flooded basement?
My wife went for some routine blood tests. On a routine check-up. The results were suspicious so we looked into it. (By the way, I'm going to be saying "we" a lot. Even when I'm referring to something that only one person did. I hope to explore this need I have to say "We." My Dad uses the we to imply that it's a collective effort, a group concern and no one is alone in the endeavor. It rubbed off on me). The first thing the OBGYN suggested was Clomid. It's hard to write the word at this moment in time without chuckling, and chuckling always carries a stench of condescension. What a joke.
Apparently it works for some people. I think those people are the ones who didn't happen to get pregnant naturally for no reason other than the inevitable inefficient probability of nature. It just didn't happen that time. They took Clomid. It happened. God bless America.
We took it. Well, my wife took Clomid. Made her feel like a sweaty ass. At the better times, a pre-pubescent hairless sweaty ass. At the worse times, a 1976 PE coach's crotch-high nylon shorts sweaty ass. Despite the hormonal rollercoaster, we continued on Clomid's rocky path lead by the glitching glimmer of hope. That hope was extinguished in a bloody onslaught each month.
Clomid reminds me of the early rain before a storm. It's enough to get you wet, muddy your shoes and damp your sweatshirt. It can even ruin your day. But how ridiculous do you feel remembering how much the drizzle upset you when standing in your flooded basement?