Behind every case of infertility, apparently

...is a woman, according to our insightful GP's office. I want to share this wonderful gem with you so that we can all indulge in a moment of sisterly, unpredictable-threatening-female-hormone-induced! seething rage at conventional social (medical?) attitudes.

But first - because I just know you've all been on pins and needles awaiting the update - I can confirm that the sperm have left the building and are now, as I type, nestled safely in the andrology lab awaiting results. What can I say ladies?  Thanks for all your comments, commiserations and solidarity over my husband's ability to embrace Zen and the Art of Reproductive Uncertainty. Yesterday he made good and did his small part. And I have no doubt that he would be delighted/horrified at the thought of so many strangers over the interwebs cheerleading his masturbatory efforts. I spared him that detail.

The truth is, it wasn't the first time he's had to do it and it likely won't be the last, so it's not like we didn't know the drill. We are lucky enough to be only 20 minutes from the hospital, so it's possible for him to do his thing at home, aided by me, and drop it straight at the lab, (as many of you suggested).

Oh wait, you didn't actually want to know all that? Oops. Sorry...

Anyway. So yes, that's done. Again. Not that I'm sure it really matters. Will it get us any closer to confronting the eventuality of IVF? Will it provide any answers? What are the questions again? Even I'm getting bored with this dinner table talk.

But none of that is really what I want to dwell on right now. Instead, I'd like to share with you a piece of medical wisdom which H gleaned from the doctor, perhaps entirely obliterating the necessity for his sperm sample at all. A kind of old husband's tale, if you will.

Because of a paperwork mixup, he had to first go to the GP's office to get a signature to send along to the lab. A minor inconvenience, but no big deal. Except that when he asked for the signature, the (male) doctor thought it worthwhile to cheerily provide some becalming (and unsolicited) assurance.

I wouldn't worry. Usually it's a problem with the woman anyway.

Yes, really. (Because, ya know, usually is a totally, scientifically valid, quantitative measure of data analysis.)

To which H, like the consummate feminist social scientist that he is, calmly replied that perhaps if the medical establishment weren't so patriarchal in its vision of the ideal body, it might ask a different set of questions entirely. And also pointed out that really, an approach which seeks to assign blame for the problem on the basis of a clear division of the sexes (or anything else, for that matter), might actually, possibly, just be missing the point anyway, being that this is not really the height of good practice in person-centred care.

(Not that I'm sure the doctor realized he was providing anything but wonderful, reassuring, person-centred care to one of the boys.) I only wish I could have been there.

I will say this though. H may not always get it, and he may unwittingly pose frustrating barriers to this whole process in the form of occasional foot dragging...

But.

I  am so in love with my husband at moments like these.

Swoon.

Insert appropriate comment about patriarchal medicine and the male gaze. Source.