David and Lauri on what I believe was the happiest day of his not always happy life.
a period piece
By David Lee Rickman (posthumously)
This was written by my brother, David. We lost him this summer and miss him terribly. I honor him by sharing this intimate little piece of his genuinely witty and tortured soul. This goes out to any who have suffered through the indignities of in-fertilization.
My wife started her period today.
Okay, SO many ways a guy can go with an opening like that! But, I have to tell you the story of this particular "monthly monstrosity." I gotta take you down that same spiraling vortex I was unwillingly sucked into. First, though, let me give you a little bit of background information. After all, it's significant.
I got this red-headed wife named, "Satan." Perhaps you've heard of her? No shit! Horns and everything! Okay, so maybe not quite that bad. But, she is part Irish/part Scottish. That means she's got a temper more explosive than Mt. St. Helen and hotter than the glowing tip of a branding iron, but she's also smart enough to know how to take out her frustrations on you without leaving proof of the abuse. Beautiful woman. We met five year ago.Went out with her one time and never got to go back home again. Actually sat me down on what was supposed to have been our first date and made me watch Fatal Attraction with her. Told me, "This is what will happen if you ever leave me!" Been with her ever since.
A few years ago, she decides that for some God forsaken reason, she wanted to start populatin' this world with our little offspring. Now, I'm basically an asshole. Not the bad kind that gets under your skin and makes you ant to climb the stairs of some obscure clock tower for a kind of venting relief that would only result in many deaths and bad PR for the NRA. Nothing like that! No, I'm the kind of ass that comes up with wisecracks and ad-lib-ed jokes, sometimes so inappropriate that they even take me by surprise! Anyhow, so she wants to release into Earth's population what I lovingly tell her would be nothing more than, "little red-headed assholes!" Still, she's got this biological clock that's telling her she's thirty-one years old and it's time to start throwin' out youngins! And, I'm telling you, so you'll understand, this girl's clock is ticking so loud and strong, they're picking it up on seismographs in China!
So, we start off normally, doing the kind of things that ordinary people trying to have a baby do. You know, 'doing it' like rabbits. Well, after a year or so of getting rug burns and blisters, there's still no positive sign on the urine test-stick. So, we start a more serious and methodical regimen. Things like tracking temperatures, putting a pillow underneath her butt, and holding her legs up in the air for a half an hour after we're done. Still, nothing happens. So then she starts making me take lots of dietary supplements. Specific dietary supplements. Now, I can't speak for my body (it was always pretty wore out from all the rabbit-type stuff), but I bet my sperm could've beat up anybody else's on the block!
Well, months pass with still nothing and she starts getting all concerned. So me, being the good husband that I am, I gotta go and see this fertility doctor and all. I actually have to go, by appointment, into this tiny room loaded with all kinds of erotic films and books and make a little deposit in a cup, all the while trying to ignore the fact that there are these two nurses right outside my door talking about somebody or another's hysterectomy and that there's some kind of doctor of "Spermology" watching his clock and waiting on me. Talk about performance anxiety! After a few hours, I 'get it done' and the doc checks it out. Nothing wrong with me. A few sperm chasing their tails in circles. But, hey! That's a characteristic indigenous to my side of the family in general and nothing to be concerned about. Nothing. Yea, right! Now I've got this red-headed wife who knows that the problem isn't with me. She does the math and gets all depressed.
One of the things that depresses my wife most is that she really wants her father to be a granddad. He's not in the best of health. He had to have the pallet of his mouth removed a couple of years ago because of some kind of cancer and lately he hasn't been eating very well. He's lost about sixty pounds in the last year and it's getting worse each month. She's got one brother, younger than her, but we figure the closest thing to an offspring he'll ever produce will get stuck between the pages of some girly magazine. Total loser! So, my wife feels like the responsibility of carrying on the family line is up to her. Lot's of pressure! And, now, here's the 'Catch 22.' Stress makes it harder for a woman to get pregnant. Hormonal imbalance, and all. So now there's lots of meditation music, deep-breathing exercises, and sitting like she's an Indian or something. She also start seeing a therapist and her own fertility specialist.
Now, my wife's got herself a great doctor. She's about as short as my wife and that makes her trust this doctor more. Short women have a sort of pact. They really look out for each other. Her doc does some serious testing, including ultrasounds, and determines that my wife has a couple of fibroids. They don't look too serious, so she starts her on this fertility drug, Clomid. That's the one you read about in the paper where some lady in Nantucket takes it and has a whole litter of children. My wife's not concerned about that particular side effect. She says if that ever happens, she'll only have to go through labor one time and then be done with it. Of course, she'd be more than happy to have just one child.
A couple of these Clomid cycles and there's still nothing happening. So her doc decides that she'll remove my wife's fibroids n a short little outpatient surgical procedure. Short, my ass! Six and a half hours of surgery! Turns out my wife had fourth-stage endometriosis. Her doc had to burn so much of this stuff off with a laser that my wife's ovaries looked like they'd been pulled out and roasted over a grill! Yea, while waiting for my wife to recover, the doc comes out and shows me photos she took during the procedure. Then she gives me a set of nice glossy copies (something for the family album, I guess). When my wife is finally lucid enough to count fingers, the doc tells her that after she recovers we an try that Clomid thing again. She also tells my wife that the next six to twelve months will be the best time to get pregnant but not to get her hopes up. How could the doc expect her to not get her hopes up? Hell, hope is all she has right now.
My wife's on her second post-surgical drug-induced fertility cycle a few months after her operation when we get the news. My father-in-law's doctor never got all his cancer removed. Some of it has metastasized and has now spread to his hips, thighs, ribs, and spine. In short, my wife's father is going to die soon. A matter of weeks. We don't say it to each other, but we both think the same thing—if there was ever a best time for her to get pregnant, now would be it. We're towards the end of this last cycle. Her temperature is high, but we're trying not to get our hopes up. The drug itself can raise her temp. It's one of the side effects. She's also two days late, but still, no fingers crossed.
When you live with somebody as long as we've been together, you get to know what the other one is thinking just by the look in their eyes. So when my wife walked into the room this evening and I saw this look on her face, I didn't even have to ask her what was wrong. The hurt, the anguish, the sorrow, the forlorn look of disappointment, they were all there. All I could do was hold her while we wept. You see, we know now that my father-in-law, her father, will leave this world never experiencing the feeling of pride that comes from knowing that you're going to be a grandfather. He'll never have the feeling of joy associated with the security of realizing that through his daughter, his family lineage will be carried on. It's not gonna happen.
My wife started her period today.
Okay, SO many ways a guy can go with an opening like that! But, I have to tell you the story of this particular "monthly monstrosity." I gotta take you down that same spiraling vortex I was unwillingly sucked into. First, though, let me give you a little bit of background information. After all, it's significant.
I got this red-headed wife named, "Satan." Perhaps you've heard of her? No shit! Horns and everything! Okay, so maybe not quite that bad. But, she is part Irish/part Scottish. That means she's got a temper more explosive than Mt. St. Helen and hotter than the glowing tip of a branding iron, but she's also smart enough to know how to take out her frustrations on you without leaving proof of the abuse. Beautiful woman. We met five year ago.Went out with her one time and never got to go back home again. Actually sat me down on what was supposed to have been our first date and made me watch Fatal Attraction with her. Told me, "This is what will happen if you ever leave me!" Been with her ever since.
A few years ago, she decides that for some God forsaken reason, she wanted to start populatin' this world with our little offspring. Now, I'm basically an asshole. Not the bad kind that gets under your skin and makes you ant to climb the stairs of some obscure clock tower for a kind of venting relief that would only result in many deaths and bad PR for the NRA. Nothing like that! No, I'm the kind of ass that comes up with wisecracks and ad-lib-ed jokes, sometimes so inappropriate that they even take me by surprise! Anyhow, so she wants to release into Earth's population what I lovingly tell her would be nothing more than, "little red-headed assholes!" Still, she's got this biological clock that's telling her she's thirty-one years old and it's time to start throwin' out youngins! And, I'm telling you, so you'll understand, this girl's clock is ticking so loud and strong, they're picking it up on seismographs in China!
So, we start off normally, doing the kind of things that ordinary people trying to have a baby do. You know, 'doing it' like rabbits. Well, after a year or so of getting rug burns and blisters, there's still no positive sign on the urine test-stick. So, we start a more serious and methodical regimen. Things like tracking temperatures, putting a pillow underneath her butt, and holding her legs up in the air for a half an hour after we're done. Still, nothing happens. So then she starts making me take lots of dietary supplements. Specific dietary supplements. Now, I can't speak for my body (it was always pretty wore out from all the rabbit-type stuff), but I bet my sperm could've beat up anybody else's on the block!
Well, months pass with still nothing and she starts getting all concerned. So me, being the good husband that I am, I gotta go and see this fertility doctor and all. I actually have to go, by appointment, into this tiny room loaded with all kinds of erotic films and books and make a little deposit in a cup, all the while trying to ignore the fact that there are these two nurses right outside my door talking about somebody or another's hysterectomy and that there's some kind of doctor of "Spermology" watching his clock and waiting on me. Talk about performance anxiety! After a few hours, I 'get it done' and the doc checks it out. Nothing wrong with me. A few sperm chasing their tails in circles. But, hey! That's a characteristic indigenous to my side of the family in general and nothing to be concerned about. Nothing. Yea, right! Now I've got this red-headed wife who knows that the problem isn't with me. She does the math and gets all depressed.
One of the things that depresses my wife most is that she really wants her father to be a granddad. He's not in the best of health. He had to have the pallet of his mouth removed a couple of years ago because of some kind of cancer and lately he hasn't been eating very well. He's lost about sixty pounds in the last year and it's getting worse each month. She's got one brother, younger than her, but we figure the closest thing to an offspring he'll ever produce will get stuck between the pages of some girly magazine. Total loser! So, my wife feels like the responsibility of carrying on the family line is up to her. Lot's of pressure! And, now, here's the 'Catch 22.' Stress makes it harder for a woman to get pregnant. Hormonal imbalance, and all. So now there's lots of meditation music, deep-breathing exercises, and sitting like she's an Indian or something. She also start seeing a therapist and her own fertility specialist.
Now, my wife's got herself a great doctor. She's about as short as my wife and that makes her trust this doctor more. Short women have a sort of pact. They really look out for each other. Her doc does some serious testing, including ultrasounds, and determines that my wife has a couple of fibroids. They don't look too serious, so she starts her on this fertility drug, Clomid. That's the one you read about in the paper where some lady in Nantucket takes it and has a whole litter of children. My wife's not concerned about that particular side effect. She says if that ever happens, she'll only have to go through labor one time and then be done with it. Of course, she'd be more than happy to have just one child.
A couple of these Clomid cycles and there's still nothing happening. So her doc decides that she'll remove my wife's fibroids n a short little outpatient surgical procedure. Short, my ass! Six and a half hours of surgery! Turns out my wife had fourth-stage endometriosis. Her doc had to burn so much of this stuff off with a laser that my wife's ovaries looked like they'd been pulled out and roasted over a grill! Yea, while waiting for my wife to recover, the doc comes out and shows me photos she took during the procedure. Then she gives me a set of nice glossy copies (something for the family album, I guess). When my wife is finally lucid enough to count fingers, the doc tells her that after she recovers we an try that Clomid thing again. She also tells my wife that the next six to twelve months will be the best time to get pregnant but not to get her hopes up. How could the doc expect her to not get her hopes up? Hell, hope is all she has right now.
My wife's on her second post-surgical drug-induced fertility cycle a few months after her operation when we get the news. My father-in-law's doctor never got all his cancer removed. Some of it has metastasized and has now spread to his hips, thighs, ribs, and spine. In short, my wife's father is going to die soon. A matter of weeks. We don't say it to each other, but we both think the same thing—if there was ever a best time for her to get pregnant, now would be it. We're towards the end of this last cycle. Her temperature is high, but we're trying not to get our hopes up. The drug itself can raise her temp. It's one of the side effects. She's also two days late, but still, no fingers crossed.
When you live with somebody as long as we've been together, you get to know what the other one is thinking just by the look in their eyes. So when my wife walked into the room this evening and I saw this look on her face, I didn't even have to ask her what was wrong. The hurt, the anguish, the sorrow, the forlorn look of disappointment, they were all there. All I could do was hold her while we wept. You see, we know now that my father-in-law, her father, will leave this world never experiencing the feeling of pride that comes from knowing that you're going to be a grandfather. He'll never have the feeling of joy associated with the security of realizing that through his daughter, his family lineage will be carried on. It's not gonna happen.
My wife started her period today.
|
|
|
Copyright © 2015 by Rent's Due Publications
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.