ALL TYPES OF KITS & LIVE REALLY CLOSE
We had spent so much time and effort fighting ovarian uphill battles that I decided I too needed to make sure my reproductive health was good.
Everything always worked, you know? Never any malfunctions in general job performance and utility expectations. Yes, I'm talking about what you think I am.
However, when it comes to children, when it comes to babies and all the complicated biology of creating them, we were leaving as little to chance as we could. Yes, read about all that it takes for "impregnation" sometime, it's insane - BILLIONS of sperm, one egg, temperature, placement, it's like a movie set when you read about the perfect conditions. Or making a soufflé (never done it) in the dark with a radio blasting nearby. Everything has to be right.
And I was going to make sure Little Chad or Chad Jr. was good to go. And by Little Chad or Chad Jr. I mean my manliness, my dude-part, my “stuff.”
Off I went to the urologist.
I swore I would not make any jokes during the visit.
I broke that oath almost immediately.
After arriving and confirming my appointment, I filled out paperwork with a very kind doctor's assistant. A nice young woman with bob-cut hair and a pleasing smile, she notified that the doctor would be in the office in a few minutes. I had some unspoken apprehension, more like embarrassment, about detailed penile descriptions with a female physician. In no way was this me questioning the skill of a woman doctor, far from it.
My inner Junior-High-School Chad just thought it would be weird. A lot of giggling.
Additionally, she informed me she would be helping with the historical information. It sounded simple enough and I expected questions about health, family history, insurance and so on. Nothing to get squirmy or unconformable about.
Yes, those were the initial questions.
And then she flipped the paper and away we went. Up to this point, she was all sunshine and cookies but now, her voice lowered with each "junk heavy" query.
These questions took sweet little bob-cut assistant into dark lascivious succubus woman here to talk about my nasty man-parts.
She asked: "Do you have trouble with an erection?"
I heard: "Does it work?" "Does it work good, daddy?"
WHOA.
She asked: "Do you masturbate? If you do, do you have any problems?"
I heard: "Do you wax that dolphin, nasty boy? Do you clean the family heirloom?"
HUH? SHE DIDN'T JUST SAY THAT!
She asked: "Do you ejaculate?"
I heard: * not writing what ran through my mind *
When it was over, I was shell-shocked. Sure, she didn't say any of those things that ran through my mind but I felt a little closer to this stranger than I did about thirty minutes ago.
I waited in the examination room still unsure what would happen next. I had just got through talking dirty with the assistant so either my bill was coming or a cigarette was. And I didn't smoke.
The doctor arrived and he shook my hand. Damn, I thought, this man's hands were like sandpaper and they were the size of bear paws. Nothing about this physician said he was gentle, this man who was about to handle my valuables.
After some additional questions, nothing like Nurse Naughty-Pants, he told me to turn off the lights and to drop my pants.
I asked him if he was buying me dinner first.
He did not laugh.
I imagined he had heard them all by now. But I was nervous so I could make all the bad jokes I wanted.
I bet my sperm were laughing.
The lights clicked and out of nowhere, the doctor had a flashlight and it beamed over his face like he was telling ghost stories.
What the hell. Before I could ask what was going to happen, it happened.
Doctor Bear-Hands took my scrotum and spread it over a flashlight like it was a pair of batwings.
I made a noise that was something high-pitched and scared.
His grip was hard. His hands were rough.
The science of my testicular veins and vessels would have been fascinating had he not suddenly grabbed each ball and squeezed it.
And I mean squeezed. I was amazed at the Pressure per Square Inch a human testicle can take; it was mind-boggling.
And I really wanted him to stop boggling mine.
It was over. He nearly threw my sore, bear-handled goodies back at me.
He said everything mostly looked fine and wrote me script to have my sperm count taken and examined.
Now, I thought this would be like in the sit-coms where I would go off into some room with "reading material" and fill a cup.
I was sore but I figured I could take one for the team. I mentally prepared to fill a cup with billions of little half-Chads.
He said no. Doctor Bear-Hands was rejecting me. He instructed me that I would supply a sample at a local hospital.
###
So, no one told me about the kit used for sperm samples until my friend "Big O" educated me. He had also had his sperm tested before his wife gave birth to two daughters over the last few years (clearly, his sperm were working; he said they were superhuman, his doctor's words not his supposedly.)
Big O notified me of the kit. I loved him like a brother and this conversation about our billions of wriggling children furthered that love. Had I not spoken to him, I would have been killing myself in an exhaustive attempt to fill a thermos or something like that with my DNA.
I stopped by the hospital to retrieve my kit.
The kit lady told me all kinds of stories I never needed to hear. There were fecal kits, blood kits, urine kits, fecal kits, poo kits, dookie kits and finally kits for semen.
I would need to fill the small Tupperware container and place it under my arm while ensuring I arrived within 30 minutes. If I waited too long or let the kit's temperature drop, my boys would die with purposes unfulfilled. It was refreshing however. So much of this process, this effort to have a baby had been filled with such high emotion. Maybe because as a man being medically required to “pleasure myself” for scientific purposes carries no joy or fear. I didn’t even have to feel shame about “having some man time;”
I even had a doctor’s script requiring it! Where was this doctor’s note when I was in junior high?
A few days passed and I did the “do.” And it was embarrassing knowing that I would give this DNA to people who knew how I had to gather it. This wasn't going for an eye-test or having my teeth checked. There was one way to provide sperm for a sperm sample.
I had to pull the pork, crank one out, choke the chicken, tally whack, polish the gun, do the five-knuckle shuffle and to even flog the dolphin. And there's ton of other terms that I won't put to print but, maturely and as a grown man, I can state - I had to do that thing that you know I had to do. I had to visit the widow and her five daughters.
Time had passed.
I stared at the now filled plastic container that looked as if it would have been the perfect size for a bit of Jell-O. Quickly I composed myself and wrote the time on the kit's label and shoved my generations under my armpit.
Into the car I dove and off I drove.
I arrived at the hospital quickly. Traffic was light and I took the back-roads to arrive as fast as possible. All the while, my billions of dependents rested in my lap, I was not unlike a hen keeping warm her eggs.
I strode from the car to the elevator with my kit under my arm. I arrived at the testing office and proudly kept my appointment by handing over my half-completed children of the future.
The time on the mini-dinner bowl of semen said 8:38am.
The technician looked at the clock and it said 8:48am. She looked at me with a semi-quizzical look. The time difference could only have led her to believe that I was collecting my sample in the hospital parking lot.
I looked at her and said, "I live really close."
She nodded.
###
The results were in.
My sperm were fine.
The count was a bit low but they were extremely energetic and efficient.
I had Seal Team Six for sperm. Using billions was a waste. I just needed like six. One to breach, two to stand watch, two to monitor the other exits of the egg and one backup.
Yep, efficient.
Because eventually, Orlando was conceived.
And somewhere, billions of his brothers and sisters lived wonderful but short lives within Tupperware.