When we first started infertility treatments our morale was good and our standards were high. We were naive and hopeful and actually spent time thinking through the ethical ramifications of things. Four years later we are pretty much hardened fertility crack whores.
When H had to collect his first semen sample we earnestly thought over how we could collect the swimmers as naturally as possible. I wanted the fruits of our labors to yield a child conceived through love, in a manner as close to the real deal as possible.
What actually went down was what H has said "was the worst experience of my life." He claims he "felt like a Heffer being milked by a man with chappy hands" and I may as well have been wearing farmer overalls for how little I cared about making this a natural sexy/loving event. Um, I don't really deny these charges. I admit that I was even a tiny bit happy he had finally experienced the poopshute that is fertility sex. Welcome to the dark side baby.
Fast forward to the latest semen sample. I didn't even go to the appointment. I slapped H on the butt, and said good luck. Then about five minutes later I called to say that I would appreciate him taking a picture of the collection room. I wanted to know if it was a cold sterile medical-ish place (hoping) or a burlesque style whore room (fearing). Then two minutes later I called to tell him that if things really weren't working out, I would be OK with him checking out the "reading" material. ("What have I come to?" I pondered and dismissed within nanosecond. I don't have time for conscience right now.)
Turns out it was a medical-ish room, but not sterile. There was a leather couch that H stayed away from and there was a very innocent looking cupboard with some well-used porn inside that he also stayed away from. A sample was retrieved and H exited the room as quickly as possible. Gotta love a germaphobe.
And as for the whole conceive a baby through our love hoopla: I don't think a baby conceived even during a moment of seething hatred (and I have many) would be a bad thing. At worst, my baby may be spunky. And spunk is good.