artificial insemination kit for humans
One summer afternoon in 2019, my husband, a 50-year-old attorney who usually dons a suit and tie, found himself sprawled on the sun-heated pavement of a gas station, while I mirrored his position on the opposite side of our Honda Fit. We were trying to identify the source of an unsettling flapping noise beneath the car.
“It looks like the screws might have come loose,” he said, pointing to a large shield hanging precariously between the front tires. It was a relief to finally assess the situation, as neither of us had any mechanical knowledge. Maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t end up stranded in the remote regions of Michigan.
We were already running behind schedule as it was. My husband’s high school friend, Mike, was getting married to a woman from the Dominican Republic, where he owned a bar but primarily resided in Nashville. We hadn’t received a formal invitation; instead, Mike had called a month prior, asking us to join him at a vineyard near Traverse City, four hours away, on this June Sunday.
The timing of the ceremony was still uncertain until shortly before our departure. “It’s either four or four-thirty,” Mike told my husband. We exchanged amused and bewildered glances.
Our own wedding, nearly 16 years ago in a movie theater in Ann Arbor, followed a decade-long relationship, which included a few years apart while I pursued my graduate studies. We each evolved significantly during that time, and I often wondered if those periods of distance were key to our survival through our twenties and early thirties together.
Now, when frustrations arise, we no longer ask ourselves, “Can I endure this?” Instead, we consider, “I am living with this. How do we overcome it?”
Back on the road, our car’s undercarriage resumed its rhythmic knocking, prompting me to voice our shared concern: “You know, this trip may be cursed.”
In addition to the car troubles, my husband had lost his wallet just two days earlier, leaving him unable to drive or pay for anything. We were already late, having struggled to drop off our two daughters at their grandmother’s house, which was conveniently located half an hour in the wrong direction. Two hours into the drive, my husband suddenly exclaimed, “Oh no! I have nothing to wear to the wedding!”
He had left his pressed shirt, jacket, and tie hanging on the doorknob of our entryway closet. As he muttered a stream of curses, I spotted an outlet mall and quickly veered toward the exit.
“They have terrible shirts here,” he complained loudly as we navigated the racks at the American Eagle store. “I’ll look foolish. These aren’t even my size! We’ll end up wasting $80 on a shirt I’ll never wear again.”
Moments later, I managed to suppress a grin as I handed over my credit card for a $37 patterned blue button-down that, while snug, would work with the khakis he already had on.
“Finding this mall was actually perfect timing,” I said, feeling proud of myself for solving this problem. My husband remained in a foul mood, but I didn’t mind; it was easier for me to maintain my positive outlook since I had my wallet and clothes packed, and I was merely a “plus one” for the wedding.
Yet deep down, I was yearning for a sense of competence in our daily life. Since being abruptly laid off three years earlier from a role that had become intertwined with my identity, I had struggled to secure a new job, often feeling like a failure in a world that had moved on without me.
Although I had some freelance work providing a modest side-income, my husband’s demanding legal career was the primary source of our financial stability. I was acutely aware of this, and as a feminist with a solid education, this reality stung me daily.
However, there were moments when I was reminded of my value beyond monetary contributions. As we rushed to the wedding, we stopped at a fast-food drive-thru for lunch and picked up last-minute wedding gifts: local Michigan liquors to be handed over in a white plastic Walmart bag. “Who are we, Kid Rock?” I joked.
After arriving at our roadside motel at 3:45 p.m., we changed and drove up the hill to Mike’s wedding at — you guessed it — 3:59. It had been a challenging day, yet I couldn’t help but smile.
Why? In his book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Mark Manson writes, “Happiness comes from solving problems.” He is right. We can’t expect to live without problems; that’s an unrealistic hope. Instead, true contentment stems from feeling equipped to navigate through them.
Since my layoff, I had felt like a mere hanger-on in our marriage, a burden. But on this chaotic day in June 2019, I had faced and tackled every obstacle thrown our way. Against all odds, I had gotten us to the wedding on time.
Sometimes, enduring a tough day together can rekindle feelings of vitality, wisdom, and connection. As we caught our breath, we settled into two white folding chairs on that breezy hill, watched the bride arrive in a golf cart, and held hands while wondering what the couple’s vows, spoken entirely in Spanish, truly meant.