t.m.i. (as they say)

There are to be no gleeful awakenings from this terrible dream.

Yep. It’s for certain.

Less than 100,000 lonely spermy-boys left.

So, we’ve still a testicular ultrasound to do as a final check that it’s not that worst case scenario – there’s no lumps where there shouldn’t be though; obviously that’s a good sign - but elevated FSH in T’s bloodwork is pointing to testicular failure, just as Google University had led me to suspect.

In other words, it’s only gonna get worse.

I blame my mother-in-law for this.

Really. I do.

In fact, I think we have grounds to make her pay for the treatments.

Look. Perhaps I'm being harsh. Please tell me if I am.

But really...

Picture this. You are changing your new son’s nappy. You unbutton his little lemon towelling jumpsuit, wipe his little poo-ey bum, throw the stinky little nappy in the bleach bucket.

Hmm… you think. Isn’t it strange? My son appears to have only one testicle...

You would think that any normal person would say to themselves: I think we better go and get that checked out.

Well. She didn’t.

Unfortunately for us.

How To Avoid Testicular Failure 101: Correct undescended testicles immediately.

(And she better not try telling us she didn’t notice. I don’t believe that for one second.)

Anyway. Long story short:

Apparently it was not picked up and corrected until he was twelve, when his father - randomly walking in while T. was in the shower - just happened to notice that things just didn’t look quite right.

Now that must have been traumatic.

So much so that it took my poor husband five full years of marriage and one semen analysis to get around to telling me. And what’s more - to be fair - is that I am now further traumatising him by announcing it to the world.

(Um, hi baby. Love ya.)

Well. He'd have to have known the story would come up eventually.

This blog is about his sperm, after all. At least partially.