As I’ve mentioned, my fiancée and I have been consulting a fertility clinic and a GYN whose practice is more oriented to lesbians. (New York is a strange and wonderful town.)
However, I have convinced her of the wisdom of planning. And, of course, she has to do it better than anyone. She is planning meticulously and to a fare-thee-well.
To the extent possible, given her age, we’re going to try to have everything ready for our first attempt when we get back from honeymooning.
We are trying to decide on a donor. Given the advance notice, we have a lot of options, including quarantine.
Although it would be wonderful for the child to have some of my genetic material, I can’t ask my brother. We want the child to be hers, so using my eggs isn’t an option, either, at least for now.
We have a friend, brilliant, kind, thoughtful. He’s been my fiancée’s confidante and adviser since he helped her start her business. He’s become my most prized friend, too. I can tell him about anything. He always has a considered, affectionate answer. I know that he would put my fiancée ahead of me, but that’s fine: I put her ahead of me, too. No one has been happier that my Love has found love.
Before my fiancée’s penny dropped, she often said that if his wife died, she would marry him at the drop of a hat. His wife – at least laughingly – told my fiancée that was her fondest wish.
It took us a couple of weeks (and a couple of dinners) to work up the courage to ask him and his wife.
We weren’t ready for the answer: raucous laughter from both.
My dears, he’s infertile.
Oh well. Back to the drawing board.