“No, I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure? I can give you a hand-jibber.”
“Yeah…just…let me do this. This is… weird.”
“Alright…I’ll be downstairs…”
Shit, do I put a seat belt around it? What if I get pulled over? How do I explain that time is of the essence? Sorry, officer – it’s a ‘MERGENCY! His jizz is about to expire.
The traffic is TERRIBLE. I get to work at 630/7am every morning. I *THOUGHT* that traffic would be gone by 900am. Seriously…isn’t that the latest people typically get to work? I’m watching the time count down and weaving through traffic like a lunatic. 8:38am is written on the sample and the clock reads 9:33am. I’m sprinting into RBA panting, “FIVE MINUTES! WE HAVE FIVE MINUTES UNTIL IT EXPIRES,” as I awkwardly try to hold my clutch, car keys, parking ticket, and brown bag of jizz.
The older receptionist looks at me and calmly says, “Ma’am, it’s okay. I take it you’re dropping off a specimen?”
I feel like all eyes are on me in the waiting room.
“Yes, but 5 minutes until an hour. The paper work says it has to be here within an hour and we’re cutting it close.” I stammer, but all I can think is, Holy shit, there are a lot of solo guys here. OMG – are they all here to jack off?
“It’s okay. I’ll let the lab tech know you’re here. Please go ahead and sign in.”
I make the awkward, I need a hand, please tell me where to put my things, face. But most importantly, WHERE DO I PUT THE BROWN BAG?
I don’t have enough hands. What’s proper etiquette? I don’t know. Is it improper to leave a brown bag holding a cup full of semen on the counter? I stand there for what feels like forever, waiting for guidance. The receptionist doesn’t even look up. She clearly gives zero fucks about my dilemma, so I give zero fucks about her counter and set it down. She looks up at me and I smile.
“The tech will be right with you, but you can go ahead and check out so you can just leave after,” she instructs.
I walk to “check out” and face the same dilemma… again, no guidance, so on her desk it goes. $175 to have someone play in my husbands jizz. I contemplate making a joke and saying, “$175? I do it for free! I gotta start charging…” but opt out. She didn’t look like a lady that would appreciate my funny.
I finish checking out and go to the waiting room. I clock watch and finally the tech comes out, “Mrs. Sanders?” I hop up with my brown bag and reiterate that we’re running out of time. She says they’ll get it into processing immediately, but needed me to come back there and answer a few questions first.
I feel like I’m being led through some scientific secret lab maze. The lights are dim. There are different waiting rooms with couples in it. Finally, we got to a door that says, “COLLECTION LAB”. There is one of those half doors directly in front of you when you enter. Like the halfsies baby gate doors with a counter and a plastic tray that you’d get at the dollar store. To each side of the half door is a closed door that says “Collection Room” – ie. the spank bank rooms. Are there people in there? I bet there are. Mood lighting, soft lighting, smut mags with god only knows what’s on them. How often are these magazines replaced? Imagine the jizz spatter on them. Are there red velvet love seats with purple velour throws on them? Is it sound proof?
“If you could just answer these couple of questions, we’re all set!”
I’m reading them and can’t help but ask, “This one says, ‘Was there any spillage?’ Like, did he miss the cup?”
She laughs and says, “Yes. Was the entire specimen collected?”
“Ahh.. Ok. Yeah, it’s all there.”
The next question is, “Were there any transport problems?” I mark NO, but transport problems? Imagine the answers that someone could give.. Just imagine.
I answer a few other questions and she says I’m set to go and my OBGYN will have the results tomorrow.
I’m on the highway driving home from work the next day. You know, my time to think about getting pregnant non stop, count where I’m at in my cycle and then scold myself for obsessing, when my OBGYN’s office calls and I’m told, “Your husband has excellent sperm! Everything looks good and all normal.” (That’s such a weird thing to hear another woman say about your husband.) Kevin is now beeping in. Undoubtedly to ask me to bring him Starbucks. I reject his call, all annoyed and say to my nurse, “Then why the hell can’t we get pregnant again?!?!”
She takes a deep breath and just says, “Sometimes it takes people longer than others. Some people try and try and try and then it finally happens.”
We chat and she offers solid bullshit: kind words and optimism. After I call Kevin and inform him that he has “excellent sperm.” To which he responds, “Yeah, I do.”
I get him Starbucks.
So, to date – all of our fertility testing has proven that we have no fertility issues. It’s “unexplained secondary infertility.” I’m taking Clomid this cycle and I’m on Day 4 of Day 5. I’ve read most women turn into horrible monsters while on it. I actually feel like a rock star. Absolutely phenomenal. Like, the best I’ve felt in a year. I’m in a fantastic mood, sleeping better, have more energy and just all around in a better place. Even if the Clomid doesn’t work, I don’t feel like my body has betrayed me as much now as it is just being difficult.