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Influencing a man's perspective for centuries
In the beginning God created The Boozer and The Boobs. And they formed well together. Well enough that after about six years of dating they married, and two became one.
But the one had issues in the creation department. After a couple of years of marriage and living life without a care in the world, Boozer and Boobs decided to attempt conception. And failed miserably.
The Boobs’ obgyn directed her to a fertility doctor for testing, first. Everything came back normal, which meant it was time for me to be tested. I was referred to a urologist for an interview and exam. To be clear, I don’t recall if I jizzed in a cup before or after this visit to test the boys. Regardless, I was there.
That’s when I was ambushed. We moved from the doctor’s large, comfortable office in to the cold, cramped exam room. He checked my junk, then directed me to remove my bend over the exam table.
“Smile,” the doctor directed.
My first prostate exam. I’m 28-fucking-years-old and I’m already having a lubed-up index finger patrol my rectum for…God knows what.
Turns out I was generally healthy. My testosterone, however, tested severely low and my sperm liked to swim about in circles or something. So we began fertility treatments. After several months of me supplying goo – as one of the nurses called it – and The Boobs taking Clomid for the right reason, unlike Manny Ramirez, the goodoo magic worked.
Sixteen weeks of joy, bliss and walking on cotton candy clouds crashed to a screeching halt. The Boobs called me at work after a check up with the obgyn. He couldn’t find a heart beat. He sent her to the hospital for an ultrasound which confirmed there wasn’t a heart beat. Our baby died. A couple of days later The Boobs underwent a D&C at a Los Angeles clinic. We elected for the sex to be determined and tests run to determine cause of death. It was a girl, but no dice on the cause of death. The clinic was kind enough to send us home with footprints of the fetus the doctor extracted while performing the procedure.
We cried a lot over the next few weeks. I mean, a whole lot. It was the summer, and I eventually ramped up by social calendar to get my mind off of things. The Boobs, however, dealt differently. There were nights where I’d find her crying on the floor of the bathroom. Our souls ached.
Eventually the fertility doc allowed us to start trying again. This process was like ripping open a healing wound, peeing inside of it and then punching it for good measure. Month after month our hopes of another pregnancy were dashed by an early period, too many produced eggs at once or cysts cock-blocking our chance for conception.
On my birthday, over one year from the time that our lost baby girl was conceived and one final attempt before in vitro would be thrust upon us, the goodoo magic worked again.Throughout the pregnancy our joy, bliss and sugar-plum thoughts were tempered by fear of losing another child. If it happened again, could we ever recover?
Nine months later, after 26 hours of labor, The Boobs popped out a healthy, beautiful…
“Holy crap it’s a boy,” I exclaimed a mere 1.2 seconds after the doctor tugged the little sucker out of my wife. We decided to be surprised on the sex of the baby. The Boobs, a nurse, said that for some reason, infertility leads to a girl more often than a boy. Being an odds guy, I was fully expecting a little chica. But it was a boy. There’s something hypermasculine about having your first-born be a boy. Maybe I’ve watched too many mafia movies.
And God saw everything he had made, and low and behold, it was very good. And there was The Boozer, The Boobs and The Boy. And on the seventh day, God rested – for 2 1/2 years.