I must confess that there was a part of me – a growing part – that thought this would never happen for us. Four years of trying, a varicocelectomy for me, a battery of tests and exams for her and ultimately, IUI for us. After our fifth round of IUI, we were just about at the end of our rope. That round involved an unsuccessful shot of Clomid, clumsily delivered by yours truly, who had to perforate his wife three times before screwing his courage to the sticking point.

Shortly thereafter, my wife developed an enormous cyst on one of her ovaries. It could have sprung up out of nowhere, but that seemed unlikely to everyone involved. Future use of injectables would have to be undertaken with the utmost care. At that point, we had begun to face the facts. Underneath all of the struggle and frustration, there was always hope underlying our efforts. "It's gotta work," we kept telling each other because the alternative was something that we were not ready to face.

The doctors had told us that they usually do five rounds of IUI before they recommend a more involved course of action. Well, we had done five, and not only had we struck out again, but there were starting to be health concerns for my wife as a result of our efforts. We still had options, but it was getting harder and harder to be hopeful about our chances.

"Do you want to take a break?" Charlotte asked me.

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