Then our contact at the fertility center called with the results of Michael's semen analysis. I was lying in bed with our three cats at the time, babbling at them, pretty certain by that point that they would be the only babies I'd ever have. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Michael pacing with the cordless phone, something he does when he's anxious. His brow was furrowed. His voice was low. Finally, he joined me in the bedroom. He opened his mouth. He sighed. Eventually:
"They said my sperm count's low. Really low," he said. He was staring down at his hands, which were folded neatly in his lap. He seemed somewhat bewildered. "They want me to see a urologist."
"I knew it!" my mother said when I told her. "It's because he's too skinny!"
"Mom!" I said, inappropriately amused.
Michael wasn't taking it so lightly, understandably. He was nervous. He wondered what he had done wrong, whether he was completely infertile, whether or not he could fix this. He worried that he wouldn't be able to have kids. My Wife Was Fertile—I Wasn't
I, meanwhile, was thrilled because—in the grand scheme of things, my mother told me—a low sperm count was an easy fix. Take sperm-boosting hormones and vitamins. Have sex. Have a baby.
Since then, we've had several appointments with the urologist (Name: Dr. Seaman. No joke.), and both of us are feeling more optimistic. While the initial results of Michael's semen analysis proved to be a fluke (hooray!), another test showed that he had an abnormally large amount of white blood cells mixed in with his little swimmers (boo!). He's since been on a three-month regimen of three different medications, and is slated to get re-tested next week.
I'm not sure what will happen after that.