I like my OB. He is kind and a little doughy and he sighs a lot as we talk about my Troubles. At Monday's appointment he asked how I was doing and I told him I was still spotting, a little, but nothing alarming. He then stared at my chart until I got uncomfortable with the lengthening silence and told him I didn't want to do this anymore. Miscarry, I meant. He agreed and then fooled around with his pen. Silence apparently drives me mad, so I plunged into all of my theories: test the sperm, centrifuge the sperm, drive my eggs out by twos and threes, the works. He agreed that someone is most likely doing something somewhere that could help us, and apologized that it was not he. He said that REs are all about IVF right now and that what I needed was a university setting, someplace research focussed. Minneapolis, he confessed, was not the place to be. I told him that we have some resources at our disposal and that I have no problem going to the Seychelles Islands (actually, seriously, I would love to go to the Seychelles- their major export is cinnamon and their major import is beer) if it can preempt another miscarriage or three. We put together the following plan: he is going to call the local RE and the ditto urologist for whom he has the most respect and ask them who and what they would recommend. If he hasn't called me in a week I am supposed to call him, which will no doubt be the case.
Let's talk about what an ass Steve is being about this. On Saturday I discovered that an infertility clinic in DC is offering a Shared Risk program for IVF with PGD. For $24,000 you get four cycles and if you do not have a baby at the end of it they will return your money. I thought this sounded pretty good, so I fluttered down into the basement where Steve is putting in ductwork and asked, "Would you pay $24,000 for another baby?"
"No," Steve responded.
"No, we can have another child for free."
OK, so I didn't respond properly. Perhaps I should have said something like, "I see I have caught you off-guard, moon of my delight, why don't we discuss this further over dinner tonight? Love you, baby." What I actually said was, "How dare you, you selfish motherfucker!" I went on, over the course of many hours during which I couldn't quite decide if I wasn't speaking to him or I should continue to violently berate him and therefore did both at intervals, to point out that I wasn't entirely sure it was any of his business. I mean, I think seven tries at doing things his way with only marginal success are plenty, don't you? I don't know that I am ready to go the IVF route personally but I hardly think that he is the person to issue the veto. And it's not the fact that he carries the translocation, if that is what you are thinking. That is a non-issue and it could just as easily be me. What burns me is that he is the one insisting on his own biological child. He's adopted and I think that plays heavily into things, but Christ! Cut me some slack here. Not only does he want a child AND its genes have to be part of a matched set AND I am the one doing all the heavy work BUT he thinks in-vitro is too much effort, expense, etc? Bite me.
You'll be happy to know that we eventually made up and everything is kisses and chocolate again. We agreed that the next thing to do is to figure out just how much of his sperm is lethal and work from there. We also agreed that he behaved poorly in the first place.
Although in theory Dr. Doughboy is researching this for me, I spent Tuesday calling every place in the Twin Cities that I could think of who might do genetic analyses of sperm. Silly me, I was originally trying to find a lab that would work with our insurance. Then I was just trying to find a lab that did this at all. Struck out with all four possibilities here. Struck out at in Rochester. Struck out in Chicago. Finally swapped emails with a guy in Maryland and he cheerfully agreed to test that sample, via FedEx for $1500. At this point I had actually chewed a small hole in the corner of the phone (I think during my conversation with Minnesota in which the woman kept saying "You are talking about PGD" and I kept saying "No, I am not. I am talking about a genetic analysis to determine the proportion of abnormal gametes per ejaculate") and decided to call it a day.
Today's project is to find a primary care provider for Steve whose expression on the clinic Bio page is either so sharp or so vacuous that they will understand the need for ordering this test (thus enabling my insurance company to pick up their share) or, failing understanding, will agreeably put their 'X' or smiley face where appropriate.
And I am sorry for blowing the whole Steve Is Good myth wide-open, but the truth must out. Steve Is Annoying.