the one thing he has to do...

Twice a day, every day, I have to prepare four vials of Menopur and inject them into my stomach, along with 20 IUs of microdose Lupron. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I bleed. Sometimes the needles leave nasty purple bruises that haven't even begun to fade.

Twice a day I do this. Every day for 10 days (so far).

And what does Mr. Hope have to do?

Per Posh Clinic's orders, he has to ejaculate every other day. 

That's it.

I'm shooting up all kinds of crazy hormones, avoiding sugar and flour and other insulin-spiking foods and beverages, driving an hour up to Posh Clinic and back for monitoring and blood work, finding new and creative ways to explain my repeated absences from work -

Meanwhile, my husband's current role in all of this is to make himself come on a semi-regular basis. And he almost always forgets to do it.

That's right. One job. ONE. It's not even an unpleasant one. Yet, every other day, I find myself asking, "Did you jerk it yet?" And every other day, like clockwork, he says, "Didn't I just do that yesterday?"

Oh, Mr. Hope. Dear, sweet, Mr. Hope.

Couldn't you, like, create an Outlook reminder or something? Because, honey, every time I have to remind you to pleasure yourself - literally minutes before I need to stick needles in me - 

Let's just say I silently weep for the injustice of it all.