The father of infertility

When I was going through the grueling process of trying to have a baby, I longed for the comfort of empathetic women. I found it where I least expected it: From my blunt-spoken dad.

By Sabrina Paradis

Jan 21, 2005 | Staring at a wall plastered with the faces of smiling babies, the doctor provided me with my options for infertility treatment. Oral hormones, oral hormones with sperm insemination, injectable hormones with sperm insemination, in vitro fertilization. He ticked them off like they were items on a menu. My husband sat beside me with his eyes closed, lost in his own grief, looking like he wished he could recede into the taupe walls.

I felt utterly alone. I was surrounded by men -- one clinically detached, the other, overly and understandably emotional -- when all I wanted was to talk to a woman. But I didn't know anyone who had been through this grueling process (all of my friends were remarkably fertile), I didn't have a sister and my mother was gone. She died when I was 15, long before she could impart knowledge much deeper than "Get your hair out of your eyes" or "That outfit is inappropriate for school." And so I turned, in desperation, to my dad.

Historically, when I have discussed major life issues -- marriage, career -- with my father, he has answered with his favorite response: "I'm not an expert on these matters." Instead he considers himself an expert on topics such as tennis championships, linen handkerchiefs, acceptable spellings on Italian menus and Oscar-winning movies of the 1950s. He stopped remembering my friends' names in grade school and still thinks a nice pair of shoes cost $40. He was not the best candidate for an infertility confidant, but he was all I had.

Things started off badly. My father didn't seem to understand the premise.

"What is the problem?"

"They don't know."

"Don't you people have sex?"

Maybe 10 percent of American women talk about sex with their father. I used to be in the other 90 percent.

"Yes, Daddy. We have sex."

"So, there's no problem. Have it again."

Finally, after some preliminary tests, I was actually eager to call and tell him the specialists had discovered tiny cysts that "might be problematic" hanging on crucial reproductive areas. My doctor had suggested elective surgery.

"Great! I'll be there," he said, as if I'd invited him to a ballgame. I'd expected this. My father is a retired doctor and my mother was a hospital administrator. Minor medical procedures in our house were practically cause for celebration. But I'd forgotten how nonchalant Dad was with all things medical. The day before the surgery, my father and I were having lunch at my local deli.

"How could removing a teeny little cyst really make a difference?" I whispered.

"Sabrina, your fallopian tube is the size of a pencil," he bellowed. "You can't just have something the size of a lentil hanging around on it!"

And thus the deli guy and I got a lesson in female anatomy together. I was mortified enough to start getting my coffee somewhere else, but I knew I shouldn't have been. Dad didn't see any problem with announcing the size of my fallopian tube; it was just a medical truth.

The deli debacle taught me that when discussing infertility with my father, I should forget the emotion and stick to the facts. Soon I was inundating him with medical details about my husband's sperm count, my hormone levels and our lab results.

Next Page: I told my father about my failed treatments. He told me about his constipation

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