Disclaimer:
While the following story does not actually include any graphic imagery — sexual or otherwise — its content may cause some readers (those who's minds are in the gutter) to conjure up graphic imagery of their own. This may be disturbing to some readers, not to mention the author. There is a sex scene in the story though it involves only the author, and I assure you it is not explicit, but is handled tenderly and with class. Nevertheless, it might be objectionable to you. Reader discretion is advised.
A Note on the Type:
This actually has nothing to do with the type, I just thought it was silly to have two separate disclaimers and I have always found "note[s] on the type" amusing.
It has come to my attention that the "my wife" character in some of my stories may reflect poorly on my actual wife in my actual life. That is certainly not my intention. This brings up issues of the division between my narrator and my self that would undoubtedly make for a fascinating seminar (or perhaps a CSI episode), but which I will try not to get too far into here. The narrator in the stories here is me, at least to a point, but he is not entirely me. He is rather a characterization of me and my life. In reality I hope I am not quite as transparent, neurotic or pathetic as my character, but I am not at all sure. While the events depicted here have all happened to me, sometimes timing is changed and or dialogue is condensed or even slightly changed in order to convey a message, which may or may not actually be conveyed, or produce an impact, which may or may not actually be produced.
This brings me to the "my wife" character or characterization in the stories. While I may actually be as pathetic as my character appears here, my actual wife certainly is not as one-dimensional as the character in these stories. In fact the character of "my wife" in these stories, unlike my actual wife, is not much of a character at all. She is rather a prop for the continuation of my mostly self-obsessed inner monologues. She is not, nor is she meant to be, fully-developed, or accurately or fairly portrayed; instead she is sort of like the off-screen unintelligible voice of Charlie Brown's teacher. Her character is short hand for, or a way to introduce a reality — i.e. actual reality — that the narrator seems unable somehow to adequately deal with.
This is in sharp contrast to my actual wife, who most of you actually know. Unlike the character in the stories, my actual wife is not mean, aloof, condescending, distant or even impatient (she actually is fairly impatient when driving, and I know you can back me up on that). For starters, she is married to and lives with me, which should probably be a part of the definition of the word patience. My actual wife - I'm purposely not naming her here, as I don't wish to drag her any further into my weird little world - is charming and thoughtful. She is not at all the cut-out that I have portrayed here. She is industrious and intelligent and works very hard, and I admire her very much, and her voice is entirely intelligible.
I don't like to talk about myself much in positive terms — never really have. It is perhaps because I consider her a part of me (one of the better parts) that I seem to not speak overly positively — i.e. brag — of her publicly either. It could be that, or it could be that I am thoughtless and insensitive. Whatever the cause, I apologize, and I apologize to my readers (all five of you) for any confusion between "my wife" and my actual wife I may have caused here.
I don't write love stories. Just thinking about writing one has made me laugh out loud just now. Yes, I guess I am that callous. So I'll probably never get a chance to portray the "my wife" character in a story in a way that accurately reflects how I feel about my actual wife. Instead I'll have to take here what will probably be my only shot in a semi-public forum to say what I think is obvious but probably too often goes unspoken or inadequately expressed: how much I respect and love my actual wife.
I apologize for the length of this and thank you for bearing with me. I felt it needed to be cleared up, and I feel better that I've said it. I must stop now, as all this writing about feelings has caused me to start perspiring.
Finally, the story:
Sperm Count: Above Average
I want to avoid personal details here — a strange goal, I admit, given my subject. Let's just say that my wife and I have been trying to do something for about a year and a half, but have been unable. Well, "do" is not the right word; we have been able to "do it," we just have not been able bring about the result that is supposed to naturally follow, a result that 16 year olds seem able to achieve without any effort, forethought or planning on prom nights across the country. I'll make it plain: we've been trying to have a baby, and it's not working.
I'm not bragging, but I am more patient than my wife. I was willing to just try harder. Though, to be fair to her, "patient" may not be the right word for me — "paralysis" may be more appropriate. My wife has a more realistic sense of time than I do. She is habitually punctual and recognizes that time passes at a steady, unrelenting pace. Unlike me, she does not harbor the unconscious belief that if you simply fail to pass life's mileposts, life may not actually be passing. In her view, it was time to apply some gentle pressure to the gas pedal and speed this trip toward parenthood along. As you might imagine, we have different driving styles too.
This is how we ended up visiting a fertility specialist. Hospitals put me in a mild panic at any time, but the thought of going to a fertility clinic had me reeling. I thought I might be let off the hook and not have to go at all, but then it was suggested that maybe I should be there. After all, I am theoretically and molecularly half of the equation. There was no arguing with this logic, and I didn't attempt, or really want to. I had simply desperately hoped to somehow be excused from what was my clear and obvious duty as a man and husband. I told her I would, of course, be there, but if she had to put her feet in stirrups, I was gone. She agreed.
The morning of the appointment, I left the house and my vigorous schedule of doing pretty much nothing in plenty of time to make the appointment. After finding curbside parking that was so good, I was sorry I didn't bring a friend to brag to, I walked into the shiny, creepy hospital tower and spent a few moments in front of the elevator directory figuring out I was in the wrong place. By my reckoning I was only six or seven blocks off, and let's face it, I'm in pretty good shape. I could run and be less than five minutes late, and less than five minutes late isn't even late — it's early.
There is something about running in street clothes on the sidewalk that makes your legs ache and your lungs burn. It turns out I'm not in good shape at all. I thought about being a robber or a cop. Man, it must hurt to run like that from or after people; no wonder they shoot each other. Eight blocks later, I reached the correct shiny, creepy hospital tower and ran through the automatic doors wheezing, dripping sweat and trying to tamp my hair back down onto my skull. I had eleven floors in the elevator to recover. This turned out to be a considerable amount of time, as the elevator filled with very slow, undoubtedly ill people who managed to stop it at every floor along the way, shuffling in and out, and sometimes in and out on the same floor. I felt pangs of guilt as I hated them.
I burst through the door of the very calm fertility clinic waiting room and frantically scanned the seats for my wife. Instead of sitting there, wrist cocked, eyeing her watch, as I'd envisioned, she wasn't there at all. Jesus, I couldn't believe it — she was already in with the doctor! This was worse than being late for our wedding rehearsal.
The large, horseshoe-shaped reception counter was the center of activity for a staff that was entirely young, female and, I felt, disproportionately blond. Unlike pretty much every other doctor's office I had ever been in, these women were uniformly attractive, perky, and of a somewhat similar body type. None of them were fat, nor were they rail thin. Rather, they were pleasantly fleshy in a way that stretched, but did not strain, their stylish, yet casual clothing, creating a look that I would not necessarily describe as sexy, but which was, nonetheless, undeniably appealing. They seemed very, well, . . . fertile.
In front of me, a couple beamed as they showed an ultrasound picture to the receptionist who dutifully and perhaps even sincerely told them that the fuzzy, black and grey image that reminded me of my TV reception when they shut my cable off was "beautiful." It sort of made me want to check it out for myself, but I had no time. When they were finished, I blurted out, "I'm supposed to meet my wife here, but I'm a little late." The receptionist smiled warmly and asked me my wife's name.
"Nope, she's not here yet." She looked up from her check-in list.
"Really?" I asked. She nodded. Instantly my mind flashed with all the possibilities: wrong day, wrong fertility clinic. "Am I in the right place? I mean, do I — does she have an appointment here today?"
"Yes, one o'clock." We both looked at the clock above the door, its second hand sweeping around the off-white face with what seemed an unreliable electric steadiness. It was 1:10 and this had never ever happened before in my entire life.
"Wow, I'm first, maybe we could make a notation in the file or something." The receptionist laughed politely at my joke.
"I'm sure she'll be here soon. Feel free to have a seat." She motioned to the armchairs and small couches nicely upholstered in blue and purple. I took a seat and grabbed a magazine. There was no way I could read. I was going to have to talk with a doctor about sex and babies, and my wife was going to be there! I hoped they wouldn't take my blood pressure. Instead of reading, I gazed around the room at the other patients and family members. It was mostly couples — men looking concerned and supportive of their partners who for the most part looked fairly relaxed. There were a few men sitting alone which briefly kindled in me hope that I might be relegated to the reception area during the appointment. The thought sparked nostalgic visions of 1950s fathers sitting chummily in hospital waiting rooms smoking while their wives gave birth somewhere out of sight and earshot.
I'd managed a detailed visual survey of the room and was beginning to construct scandalous life stories when my wife opened the door. She looked more relaxed than I expected, given that a bridge must have collapsed to make her late for the appointment. She smiled at me and commented that my arrival before her might be a first. "How are you?"
"Fine," I lied — I was nervous as hell.
"You don't look fine."
"Really? That's weird, because I feel fine."
A nurse emerged from behind one of the blond wood-paneled doors and called her name. "Is it OK if my husband comes?" Of course it was, and I put down my magazine, following her down the hallway and into a small patient room. My relief at the fact that there was no exam table and no stirrups was tempered by the fact that there was a small table with one chair behind it and two in front — we were going to be doing some talking. The nurse disappeared, telling us that the doctor would be in to see us soon.
Waiting again, I rocked in my chair and commented to my wife that it was about to give way at the joints. She told me to stop rocking it. The doctor, an amiable looking man in his fifties with straight, sandy hair combed to one side in a way that suggested a high school math teacher, a matching moustache, and glasses that were just a little bigger than current style dictated, opened the door and introduced himself. Behind him was a young, slightly plump Asian woman with long, dark hair who had not yet entirely won the long battle with acne, who he introduced as a resident. They both wore white coats stained with small, blue ink marks above the chest pockets where they kept their pens. Maybe it was the look of the doctor, or the apparent youth of the resident, but the white coats did not, I felt, add the intended aura of professionalism. They looked like they were about to demonstrate at a science fair.
Mutual pleasantries were exchanged and we got down to business. In the twenty minutes that followed, I learned more about my wife than I had in the previous seven years, at least about "cycles" and regularity, the varying degrees of difficulty in conception experienced by her grandmothers, mother, sister and even a great aunt, along with other family medical conditions and history. A close monitoring of the reactions of the doctor and the resident revealed no surprise or concern that I could read.
Far too soon it was my turn. Had I ever caused a pregnancy? "No," I answered without hesitation. Something in me was tempted to add a chuckling, winking, "at least not that I know about," but I resisted — I immediately knew it was the right decision. Did I have any "problems"? I had absolutely no idea what he meant, but I answered, "no." I mean, sure I had problems — who doesn't have problems? — but I didn't think I had any of those kinds of problems, depending on exactly what kinds of problems those were.
OK, everything sounded good, the doctor told us. He was going to schedule an examination to make sure, and then, looking at me, he said, "and while we're at it we might as well do a semen analysis on you, just to rule out any problems there." Sure, might as well. I nodded in what I hoped looked like wholehearted agreement.
There was some talk of possible courses of action including a drug that would stimulate ovulation. Everyone agreed that this was the way to go, and I tried to silence the alarm bells clanging in my mind. Finally I couldn't take it anymore and interrupted the doctor. "Does this drug increase the likelihood of, you know, more than one baby at a time?" I asked awkwardly. I mean sure I wanted a baby as bad as the next guy, and I was willing to take steps, but I didn't want to end up on Oprah looking positively miserable trying to keep one of my seven kids from rolling off the couch. The doctor assured me that, while it did slightly increase the likelihood of twins, the chance was still very, very low, and that beyond twins the chances were extremely low. I liked the use of the word "extremely." The doctor then mentioned that some of the common side effects of the drug were hot flashes, crankiness and irritation. He continued to look at me as he told us this.
It was then that my wife brought up the issue of a medication she takes for an unrelated stomach condition. She told the doctor that she had heard it was unsafe to take during pregnancy, but that her internist had recently told her new studies showed that it was OK, and she wondered what he thought. According to the doctor, she should take the advice of her internist, as he would be more familiar with the drug. He mentioned that he believed it was a "schedule C" drug, whatever the hell that means. At this point that the young resident pulled a folded, dog-eared pamphlet out of her ink-stained pocket, consulted it and announced that, actually the drug in question was a "schedule B" drug. The doctor smiled widely threw up his hands and said, "well there you go — I guess it's safe." My wife smiled along with the resident, and I smiled too. Everyone was happy and satisfied.
I hated to be the buzz-kill again, but I couldn't help it. I was not at all comfortable with the level of diligence applied to this question. I mean for Christ-sakes, Doogie Howser's little sister consulted what appeared to be a fucking bus schedule and decided that it was OK to subject my unborn offspring to a potentially fatal drug! I would not be satisfied until, at the very least, they looked in a bigger book. "Maybe we better consult with our internist about that," I said with as much authority as I could muster. Suddenly a person I had never met and whose name I didn't know had become "our" internist.
The doctor looked at me and nodded, "Sure, that sounds like a good idea." My wife looked at me like I'd lost my mind. All this was combined with a truly impressive display of the doctor's ability to write upside down, after which, we were finally on our way.
My wife was visibly pleased; we were moving forward, and that's what she likes. It doesn't seem to matter what you are moving toward, as long as there is forward progress. My enthusiasm was more guarded. Somehow I had never considered that I might have a "problem". The fact that my boys could swim was something I had simply always taken for granted. Actually, it was a little more than that. From the time I had begun cavalierly, if not actually sinfully — we were not a religious household — wasting sperm behind the locked bathroom door of my typically confused adolescence, the notion that my sailors were fit for duty was part of the bedrock upon which the rickety structure of my emerging manhood had been constructed.
My mind flashed back to more carefree times. In college, two friends, who I will not name, volunteered as sperm donors in order to make money for beer. That's it really — they were willing to issue unknown numbers of offspring into the world in order to buy cases of Schmidt every week. I recalled the heartless jokes swirling around the common room of our dorm when one of them returned from the clinic looking a bit defeated. Apparently he'd been disqualified as a donor because his sperm had "low motility" or something. As nineteen year old males, any eventual desire for procreation was the last thing on our minds, and we found it absolutely hilarious. Besides, we simply chalked it up to the truly impressive amount of pot he smoked each and every day. Surely his sperm, like himself, would be more motivated once they were no longer baked. It never occurred to me then that he might have a "problem," and it certainly never occurred to me that I might have one. After all, I hardly ever even smoked pot, even back then, and didn't at all now.
Testing seemed like a good thing to put off for a while. What is the rush to find out you are not only not a "stud" in the figurative sense, but not even capable of being one in the biological or veterinary sense? Of course such procrastination was anathema to our goal, so I promised I would go in to give my sample first thing, "tomorrow". Tomorrow rolled around, as it always does, and I woke up dreading what I knew I had to do. It wasn't the activity itself that I was not looking forward to — I mean how often do you wake up armed with a medical directive to toss off? — it was rather the circumstances surrounding the activity.
After a hearty lunch I figured it was as good a time as any to get it done. I called the number for the sample collection site. While the phone rang, I glanced down at the slip of paper and read some of the particulars to do with providing a specimen. Apparently I needed to have refrained from ejaculation for at least 48 hours prior. Check. I was not to come directly from a hot tub or a sauna. Check. And, while I was not allowed to have anyone accompany me for assistance, the literature assured that the collection site was private, clean and "pleasant." It was the last word that made me wonder. What exactly did they mean by "pleasant"? How pleasant was it? Is my idea of pleasant the same as the next guy's?
My ruminations were interrupted by an answer at the other end of the line. It was a woman with a pleasant voice, and I suddenly forgot how to speak. "Hello?" she said for the second time.
"Uh, yes hello, I need to come in to . . ., for a, to leave . . . to give a," — I had apparently recovered the ability to speak, but not to think — " to give a sample." Honestly, I think that's all they did at this place and she could have helped me out — she just liked to listen to people struggle.
"OK, when would you like to come in?"
"Uh, now."
"Oh, I'm sorry we don't have any openings today. You usually have to book a week or two out."
"Oh, I see." I had been under the illusion that you simply walked in, took care of business and left. A week or two — how long did they expect this to take?
"How about next Wednesday?"
"Yeah sure, next Wednesday will be fine."
"OK, we'll see you then." I felt she sounded inappropriately chipper about the whole thing.
"OK, bye." I had a week to worry about things, and avoid hot tubs and saunas. This was good.
The following Wednesday, I woke up a little earlier than normal, and busied myself about my usual tasks, only this time I made a list for the day. I don't usually make lists — though I think I probably should — but this was irresistible. Number three, behind, "clean up the kitchen", and "go running", but before "draft cover letter", was "go to hospital and masturbate." My appointment wasn't until one o'clock so I had plenty of time to take care of the first two items. I had also chosen the afternoon because, to be honest I don't feel like doing much in the morning — especially not that. Sitting on the couch watching MTV and eating a havarti sandwich (I hadn't made it to the store yet this week), I began to worry.
Worry for me is typically a multi-layered experience, and this was no exception. Certainly I was worried about my seed being somehow defective, and I had no idea what that would mean in the big picture; possibly the only thing that scared me more than having kids was the thought of being unable to. Were there things you could do, pills you could take? I didn't allow myself to think of possible surgeries. Suddenly, however, I was also worried about my performance. I don't mean in general; I had never had a problem with that in the past. Rather, what I was worried about was specific performance: this specific performance. What if I wasn't able to do it? Like I said, I had never had any trouble before — either on my own or with someone else — but I was finding the gravity and context of the situation to be not really very arousing. I simply had to show up and do my best. What more could you ask for?
I arrived at the same creepy, gleaming hospital tower on time and ready, though not exactly, shall we say, "excited", for duty. The "collection site" was on the seventh floor and was not the clinical, office-drab suite I had expected. The reception area was small and covered with black and white marble that extended up the walls. There wasn't really much of a waiting area, since I guess there wasn't much waiting around, but there were two leather chairs along the wall, and at the end of the foyer a desk of dark mahogany. The place had a slick, corporate, rather masculine vibe — not at all like your typical doctor's office. There were no magazines laying around, but if there had been they would be "Loaded" or "Maxim" not "Family Circle."
A middle aged woman greeted me from behind the reception desk. She was friendly, had dark, shoulder length hair and was not at all unattractive, but somehow she wasn't quite what I had imagined when I'd conjured up the "pleasant" environment in my mind. For starters she wasn't wearing a "naughty nurse" uniform with a short skirt and long neckline. I guess I didn't really expect it, just hoped. Thankfully, there was very little explaining to do. I simply told her that I had an appointment at one o'clock — we both knew why I was there. She asked if I would be billing my insurance. It was the first time I'd thought about it, but paying eighty bucks out of my own pocket to masturbate in their office, felt seedy, almost like prostitution, not to mention it was eighty bucks. I opted to have my insurance company pick up the tab, wondering if this was something they actually picked up the tab for, and handed over my card. She handed me a plastic cup and a sheet of instructions for collecting the specimen and then pointed down the hall to "room 1". When I was finished I was to take the cup somewhere, but to be honest I could no longer understand English; something about taking the cup from her caused my brain to stop functioning.
I headed down the hall toward my assigned room unable to stop thinking that she knew what I was about to do — we both knew what I was about to do. We knew there was no way to do it without my being, well . . . aroused, and for some reason that bothered me. I had heard of men involuntarily ejaculating during prostate exams, but frankly that didn't really sound like a better option.
Room number one was clean and nicely appointed. About the size of a large walk-in closet, it had a padded bench about six feet long built into one wall. There was a crisp white sheet sitting folded on the far end and two pillows. The rest of the wall was taken up by a counter holding a small sink and beside it a stack of about six "Penthouse" magazines. Honestly, I was expecting videos. Sure, I imagined strippers — just like I imagined a "naughty nurse" uniform on the receptionist — by I expected videos. I wasn't entirely disappointed though, as I hadn't checked out a Penthouse since my friend Jeff Ackerly and I discovered his father's stack discarded in the trash one afternoon in the sixth grade. Don't ask me why we were looking through the trash, I truly don't remember. We knew his dad had them somewhere, and even managed to sneak a look in his sock drawer once when he was out of the house, but now they were ours!
I had to momentarily put aside my purely nostalgic interest in the pornography to carefully review the instructions. For what I assumed were reasons of purity, they stated that the sample must be produced without the aid of lubricant of any kind — "KY Jelly," "lotions," or even "saliva" were forbidden. OK, I could handle that. It was also important that "all" of the sample be collected in the cup. If for some reason I was unable to collect all of it, I was to indicate this when I submitted the sample. There was also a kindly and reassuring disclaimer: "the actual amount of the sample is not important. It is not expected that the collection container will be filled. In fact, it is a large container for what will likely amount to a few drops of sample. This is entirely normal and adequate for purposes of analysis." I felt better looking at the cup. And finally, it advised that, "if you are unable to produce a sample, please inform the staff in order to make other arrangements." I had no idea what the other arrangements would be, and I had no intention of finding out.
I unscrewed the lid from the cup and prepared to get on with it. Selecting a Penthouse from the stack, I opened to an interesting "article" about the porn star Jenna Jameson. Fascinating. Finishing with Jenna, I flipped randomly through a few of the other "features". I have to say, this was not Jeff Ackerly's father's Penthouse magazine. There was considerably more going on in the current issue than back in the sixth grade. Like most things, Penthouse has come a long way.
I'll spare you the details, but you should know that I was able to perform my assigned task without difficulty. Well, that's not entirely true. I had never really aimed for anything before and, despite its size, he cup was a little harder than you might imagine to hit. For an instant, I thought I might have missed some, though a quick search turned up no stranded sailors on the tile floor. Looking at the contents of the cup, I was a little disappointed; frankly, I didn't feel it was my best work. I was tempted to check the box beside "I was unable to collect all of the specimen," but being unable to locate any strays, I wasn't sure that was true. Instead I checked, "All of the specimen was successfully collected," and screwed on the lid.
Out in the hall again, I had no idea what to do with the cup except that I was supposed to take it somewhere in the opposite direction of the reception desk. I walked until I got to one of those split doors, the top of which was open revealing small shelf built into the bottom half which separated me from a work area. Beside the door was a tastefully engraved wooden sign that read, "please leave samples here." I put the cup down on the shelf and turned to flee back down the hall toward the exit. A few steps on I heard a young woman's voice call from behind me, "thank you." Turning around, I saw her pick the cup off the shelf and replied awkwardly, my voice cracking like a junior high school kid, "you're welcome."
Back at the desk, I asked whether I needed to sign out or supply any additional information. I felt sheepish talking to her — I mean she knew I'd just looked at porn and whacked off for Christ-sakes. "No, you're all done," the receptionist assured me, "you're doctor should call you with the results in a bout a week." I left, avoiding eye contact with another guy coming in for an appointment.
Forty-five minutes later, standing in line at the bank, I got a call from the collection site. It was the receptionist. "Hello, Mr. Okell? This is the reproductive services specimen collection site." I had no idea what I had done wrong, but my mind was quickly compiling bizarre possibilities. Were my sperm that bad? It turned out I had mistakenly given her my dental insurance card instead of my medical. The dental insurance people, quite understandably, had some questions about the procedure. Apologetically, I went back to the hospital and handed over the correct card. And no, it isn't covered.
The next call I got was from my mother. "Have you gone to the doctor yet?" How the hell did she know when my appointment was? It turned out she didn't, she was simply once again making an uncannily good guess.
"Yes," I said flatly, trying to convey as little unspoken information as I possibly could.
"How did that go?"
"Fine."
"You don't want to talk about this with me, do you?"
"No, not really." Actually, I couldn't think of anything I would like to talk with my mother about less.
A week quickly came and went, and I still had not heard anything. It's probably not a surprise that this didn't particularly bother me, as I figured no news was good news and wanted to give them ample time to perform their battery of analyses on my fellows. It is probably equally unsurprising that my wife was a little more proactive than I was.
The next day, after promising her the night before that I would call the doctor to get the results, the phone rang around noon. It wasn't my doctor, it was my wife. She had called the doctor to get the results. I was a little surprised and disturbed that she could do that, but I decided not to mention it. There was no reason souring her mood. According to my wife, the woman at the doctor's office told her that all the test results were "normal." But, apparently she had added, "actually they were better than normal — they were all above average." My wife said the woman sounded sort of impressed when she told her. I had to express my disbelief at that — after all this woman was a professional — all the while my chest beginning to swell and my posture straightening. "That's good news," my wife said. She sounded happy. God, it felt good to make her happy.
I had to agree, as I hung up the phone, it was good news. We still didn't have a baby, but we would keep trying, perhaps more hopefully than before. We were taking steps — moving forward — and that felt good. And in the mean time, I was walking a little taller knowing that, in at least that regard, I was, well, above average.
