You can get here from there, after all

Until my wife, let's call her Marci, became pregnant, I never thought much about the process. In fact, I never thought about pregnancy as a "process" at all. I assumed one simply gets pregnant, waits nine months, and then a new kid emerges amid tears of joy and all of that.

I hate to use the tired analogy of the "roller coaster," particularly because roller coasters are pretty much entertaining from beginning to end. I've never seen someone at an amusement park gleeful as they ascend a hill, and depressed as they rapidly descend. If anything, it's the opposite. Anyway, you get the idea.

Marci and I have had some really exciting moments so far: ultrasounds that reveal The Peanut's arms flailing around, the Doppler gizmo that broadcast Peanut's heartbeat, and the initial $8.99 Walgreen's home test that signaled the beginning of this whole thing. However, sticking with my honesty policy, I have to admit that we approached these moments more with an attitude of "cautious optimism" than with "unbridled joy."

Among the pregnant, I've noticed, there is certainly an "unbridled joy" faction. These folks seem a bit naive, or somehow in denial about the gravity of the whole undertaking. Perhaps I'm just misreading "pregnancy banter" codes and all of these people are totally aware of the multiple risks to mother and baby out there, but banter policy forbids their mention.

I guess I should back up. Five months ago, Marci and I wouldn't have thought we could even get pregnant. We had tried for about 15 months and had just reached the point of discussing options with a fertility specialist.

I was encouraged and amazed by all the 21st century options out there for couples trying to conceive (our doctor had even pioneered one of these cutting-edge procedures himself). Our doctor's office was 5 minutes from home, and was a satellite to his main office in a Major Urban Center. Shortly after contacting this group, a FedEx package appeared at our door containing glossy fertility education material. All of the photos displayed black and white photos of couples. The couples were each late 30s or early 40s, dignified, slightly academic-looking (maybe that's a projection), and were each holding (or otherwise regarding) a new infant with an aire of easy self-confidence and relaxed but obvious satisfaction.

I began to think this was the perfect solution. Ovarian stimulation, artificial insemination, IVF, testicular sperm extraction, ovulation induction, egg harvesting, intracytoplasmic sperm injection, laparoscopy, endometriosis treatment, and embryo cryopreservation--let's go! I started to pity people who got pregnant the old-fashioned way, like animals, really. The superior option was to have a big team of well-paid specialists take care of the whole thing for us. Yes, this would be much more civilized, and much more like living in the future, which is automatically cool.

Dr. B. discussed all the options with us, gave us a great gift bag that included my now-favorite purple coffee mug with an IVF logo emblazoned on the side. "Just come back when your next cycle starts, Marci, and we'll run some tests, " said Dr. B. with a firm handshake, "I think we can get you guys pregnant."

As it turned out, he was right, and all we had to do, apparently, was walk into his office. Marci's next cycle never came.