Back To the Doctor's Office:
The Worst Sex I Ever Had 12/6/05
Some people I know claim to be able to pinpoint the exact moment of conception of their children. Actually, it's only women; the men I know either can't do the math or don't want to talk about it. Sometimes it's exotic, like a vacation to Italy or honeymoon in the islands, sometimes it's just a rainy afternoon in September, and sometimes it's a round of Jack and Cokes too far.
I may be the only man I know who can do it. It wasn't supposed to be like this. We weren't in Italy, we were in a hospital. I can tell you the day, but not the time, because I wasn't actually there. The union of sperm and egg — the miracle itself — took place in a lab down the hall.
I should slow down, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't have any children, and there is a very good chance that, despite all of today's efforts and scientific triumphs, I still won't. But if it works, my wife and I will have conceived a child without either of us being present, and I'm not just talking about emotionally. Like I said, it wasn't supposed to be like this.
Last year we went to Argentina on vacation. That would have been perfect. If we'd had a girl we could have called her Eva and tell her that she was conceived in Buenos Aires, full of tango, and tapas, and fantastic red wine; if a boy, we could've called him Juan, or maybe even Che.
But it didn't work; we didn't create anything more than hangovers in Argentina. A lot of things haven't worked. We tried thermometers, and charts, and timing, fertility drugs, and even acupuncture. Well, saying "we" tried acupuncture is a bit of a stretch — I didn't get anywhere near a needle. We did everything we could to nearly taking the fun out of sex, and now we have even taken the sex out of it.
Two miscarriages nearly broke my wife's heart, and left me wishing to God I knew what to say. A better man would know what to say. There is absolutely nothing to say. It's a grief that you don't see coming, and don't think you've fully earned the right to feel, but there it is. Now we are trying this.
We check into the clinic at 7:30 in the morning. I don't know why everything to do with creating a baby the new-fangled way has to be done so early — it's unnatural. I couldn't sleep most of the night. I knew I wouldn't, but I didn't know that what fits of sleep I had would be troubled with nightmares of a plague infecting the world and my only means of escape jumping off a cliff. I never actually jumped — just knew I had to. I am disappointed not just at my subconscious cowardice, but also my inability to generate less transparent symbols.
Everyone is peppy and friendly at the clinic. I feel the urge to remind them that it is 7:30 in the morning and that we are here to extract eggs from my wife and fertilize them with my sperm. There is nothing to be peppy about. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The nurse comes in and explains the procedure to us. My wife will be knocked out for the extraction. I am told that I should stay with her until she goes to sleep, then go back out to the reception area and tell them I am ready for my "collection." She looks at me and arches an eyebrow when she says "collection." We both know what she means: I need to collect my sperm.
The anesthetist comes in and begins pushing drugs into my wife's bloodstream. She looks happy as the chemicals make their way to her brain. She smiles at me, and tells the nurse that the drugs are making her be nicer to me than usual. The anesthetist tells her she won't remember a thing. I wish I had drugs. The doctor arrives and puts a kind hand on my shoulder.
"Are you ready for this?"
I nod, not entirely sure what he is referring to, but determined to let him know that, whatever it is, I am ready.
The operating room is filled with lights and equipment. Everyone is wearing blue surgical gowns and smocks. I am wearing an orange shirt and jeans. Never before have I felt foolish for not wearing a smock. My wife is fading — still smiling. It is time for me to leave and do my part. She is lying on a gurney under bright operating room lights, her head in what looks like a blue shower cap and legs in stirrups. I'm sure there is an entire subculture of people who are turned on by such scenes — I am not. Still, I have a job to do, and even if it is at 7:30 in the morning, it should be much easier than what she is going through.
I head out to reception, but I cannot for the life of me remember the word the nurse used for what I have to do. It wasn't, "donation," — I'm not giving the stuff away, and I don't want them sending it to the wrong place. She didn't say "sample," or "specimen," either, nor did she say "masturbate into a plastic cup," which is actually what I have to do. The problem is that I don't know how to tell the receptionist.
The room is already crowded. I stand at the desk and say nothing, hoping the receptionist will intuit what I'm there for. She looks at me expectantly, but I hold fast.
Finally she asks, "are you Patrick?"
"Yes."
"Do you need to collect?"
"Yes." I say this with perhaps an inappropriate level of enthusiasm. That's it, "collect!" I remember it now.
She hands me a brown paper bag with a cup and some instructions in it and leads me to "collection room 1."
The room is small, but pleasant. A cherry cabinet and built in bench/bed extends the length of one wall. A giant plasma screen T.V. is mounted on the other. She explains to me that the DVDs are controlled by a pad of buttons on the wall, and that when I am finished to open the metal door built into the far wall, place the cup inside and press the lighted button. Then she leaves me alone.
During my sleepless night, I put a good deal of neurotic thought into this step of the process. The fact that this act may be as close as I physically get to the actual conception of my unborn child weighs heavy on me. This is a moment I will likely remember the rest of my life, and possibly tell my offspring about. This is my trip to Italy. Do I really want to spend it watching pornography?
The truth is I don't, but it's seven o'clock in the morning and we're all in a bit of a rush, so I'm probably going to need any help I can get. I tell myself that my wife probably didn't want to be sedated for her trip to Italy. I hit the play button on the wall and the plasma screen bursts to life. I am watching "Extreme Measures 4," and the preview clip makes me wonder who in the office is in charge of making the video selections. According to the instructions on the wall, I should be able to change DVDs by pushing a button. Of course it doesn't work. The first scene involves a woman and a room full of stuffed animals. I'm not even kidding. I've heard of this fetish — I swear to God it's not that I've done a lot of porn watching or research, I saw it on an MTV documentary — it's called "plushy" or "furry." I can't remember which. One involves stuffed animals, and the other people who dress up in cartoon-like animal costumes like sports mascots. The woman is nude and writhing on the bed with the animals. Whatever this fetish is called, I can now say for sure that I do not have it.
I can't get the DVD to change or even stop, and I can't believe that this is what I will remember for the rest of my life. Through the metal door I can hear people talking in the lab. It's normal workplace chatter — talk about the Seahawks' domination over the Eagles last night on Monday Night Football. This is not enhancing my experience. I look back at the screen, she is in "plushy/furry" ecstasy, and I am officially on my own. Despite these less than optimal conditions, I manage to assemble my "collection" and pass it through the metal door in the wall. Rather than lie back in a king-sized bed, my wife dozing beside me, and a warm Italian wind blowing through the window, I am left sitting on a bench, my pants around my ankles watching "Extreme Measures 4." It wasn't supposed to be like this.
She is already in the recovery room when I arrive. She looks serene and high. The doctor comes in and tells us everything went very well. They were able to get seventeen eggs, which is good. My wife murmurs that she feels like a salmon. He laughs, I laugh. God bless her.
I start to worry — did I put the lid on tight? Did I make sure the cup had my name on it? With luck this will be the beginning of a lifetime of worries. It wasn't supposed to be like this, but it will do.
