Logically, Wouldn’t Infertility Cause Some Degree Of “Resentment?”
I can tell you exactly where I was when I realized, or I guess “officially learned,” that I was not as fertile as I could be. It was a Wednesday about 15 or 16 months ago, and I had gone out drinking with a friend after finishing my work that day. For more on all that noise, read this:
I came home and I was doing laundry. I didn’t really need to be doing laundry, but I had this weird thing when I’d be drunk where I wanted to do something vaguely helpful or proactive in order to combat being drunk. One time I tried to make scallops — in the oven. It was nasty. I also ran the dishwasher a good deal.
Anyway, my wife and I had gotten tested about a week before, and she called me with the results, which were good on her side, bad on mine. Honestly in many ways since that phone call as I was dropping a faded Chicago Blackhawks t-shirt into the washer, my life hasn’t really been the same.
