The wife and I have been seeing a specialist about the lack
of children running around our house. We’ve
been looking for a tax deduction and it hasn’t come it yet. So, we thought a specialist could help.
As expected, we were referred out of Navy Medicine to a place
friends of ours have found success with.
The first appointment went well, I thought. We were told about the basic tests that need
to be done before we could set out a plan for fertility. The wife has plenty of follow up appointments. And I will be there for as many of those as I’m
allowed. I have leave for something and
this is a good reason to use them if needed.
Naturally, for the male part of the equation, I only have
one requirement. A deposit. An appointment for a collection.
I’ve been calling it a donation. And, for some odd reason, I’ve been looking
forward to making my contribution to the fertile baseline analysis.
Well, success.
Deposit made. And I’ve been
crushed. My illusion (heavily influenced
by Jeff Foxworthy’s comedy sketch) included more than there was. I built up an image in my mind that out did
the reality.
To begin with, we—I keep saying “we” but it really should be
“I” because the wife doesn’t supply this part of the test—I was given a six
ounce sample cup in a small white bag with directions for “semen collection at
home.” Yes, at home.
My imagination went wild . . . got to rated R before this question
popped into my head, “how do we get the ‘sample’ to the urological doctor for
analysis?” The Doctor’s response was we
need to keep it at body temperature. “Keep
it in your armpit,” she said. Uh . . . I
can think of a few other places that may keep it warm too and be a little more
comfortable. I was just imagining
driving like a bat out of hell (maybe 10 miles over, almost like a Rhodes
Island native—they usually drive 20 over the speed limit) with the wife sitting
shotgun with a 6 ounce cup of little swimmers held tight between her legs. What do I tell the cop who pulls me
over? “Sorry, officer, I’ve got a time
limit before the little guys begin fading away.
This is a pre-pregnancy emergency!
My sperm is going to die if you don’t let me get them to the doctor to
be analyzed!” Not looking good for the
home collection. On the more practical
side, a 45 minute drive, not including finding the correct office, which would
put us into the Danger Zone (before the sample is no good for analysis). Home collection is out.
With the idea of home collection out, I moved onto the
second, more realistic option—collection at the urology office. I called, made an appointment, and asked the
studious question, “What is the process?”
I was trying to allude to what restrictions there were and materials available. This is probably the one part that lived up
to Jeff Foxworthy’s sketch—there would be some videos and magazines.
Finally, the day arrives.
We abstained for a few days (not an easy feat), and I arrived (only a
little late—I had a 2 hour window I could come in) ready to perform. (Is that a pun? Oops.)
The attendant, a 20-something blonde about average height, called
me back and led me to the collection room, explained the process, pointed to
the materials, and told me to mark the time the “sample” was collected, and
finally she left. First off, the “collection”
room was just like any other examination room; it was falsely sterile, totally
uncomfortable, and not conducive to . . . collection.
She was nervous and uncomfortable, and that was making me
both amused and nervous. I kept thinking
to myself: No need to be nervous, you’re not going to be tested here. You’re not going to stay and watch—why are
you so nervous? Oh, jeez, I hope you’re
not staying. Are you judging me for
coming in for a deposit? Does porn and masturbation
make you uncomfortable? Am I being a
jerk or is she? Does that make her a
medical jerk?
Finally she left. And
I immediately flipped through the magazines, which they covered with some sheet
of paper with a description of what not to do.
I never realized Hustler had actual articles and ads in them. Less visuals than I expected. There were a couple of dvds, but the thought
of popping those in just make me feel more like a pervert. In hindsight I realized I was in a rare
instance where society accepts the reality, and demands completion, of masturbation,
which is generally hidden, joked about, and ridiculed. The fact that society generally frowns upon
this kind of self-attention results in most people rushing through it and not
taking the time to actually understand their bodies.
Afterwards (you didn’t think I’d give details here) I kept
wondering to myself, did I provide enough?
Is my sample good? Was there a
minimum that they needed? Who do I tell
that I’m done? Does anyone really
provide a 6 ounce sample? Do I get a
lollipop or something for getting the job done?
I left the room.
Wondered around for a minute or two until the lady who checked me told
me to have a nice day.
That was it? Have a
nice day? No call you for a second date
or exchange of phone numbers. I felt so
. . . odd. This was kind of surreal.