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.
6 comments:
The pure comedy of your post is that I think every sample gathering room has black leather furniture! I have been in THOSE rooms. I have sat in THAT waiting room. You know the one--with the other couples nervously looking around to see if you are also holding a discreet brown paper bag or if you will do the collecting "on-site". I have felt embarrassed for the poor naive soul who has no clue what they are doing and actually attempts to hand their sample directly to the receptionist at the window, instead of putting in the attractive wicker basket, clearly labeled "SAMPLES", provided for the sole purpose of her not having to handle strange men's bodily fluids. Ahhh...Good times.
No Court, the pure comedy is that I was the naive girl who didn't even see the universal SAMPLE basket! Yes, Good times.
Manboy has a 'harvesting' appointment Monday, I'm going to be at my painting class, which I COULD HAVE cancelled. Last year when we went thorough this I was there each and every time, of course, because I idn't want him to 'make a baby' by himself. One failed attempt and a thousand speculums later, I guess I just reached my breaking pooi nt as well.
I'd rather milk a cow.
Even the old-fashioned way of concieving children ain't always about love--ya know what I'm sayin'?
You are very clever. My favorite line is "hardened fertility crack whores". I can really visualize it. Awesome.
N, we can relate. We were also hardened fertility crack whores by year 4. Well, I should clarify--I was the crack whore, and then after having a few highly invasive, horrific procedures of his own, my man became the assistant crack whore. Heady days...heady days indeed.
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