The Sperm Sample

by John Dover

I was raised a Roman Catholic, but have since drifted towards a kind of transcendental-pseudo-modern-humanistic-yin/yang-karma-gnosticism. In other words, I believe that you should try and be a good person.

There is a story from the Bible which says something like, "God takes care of even the birds in the trees. Don't worry. Be happy." Life is a path, and you're always having to decide which way to go (of course, it helps if you read the signposts). So, I'd been saying to myself a lot lately, "You know right from wrong. Wait, and see. If the opportunity presents itself, it's the right thing to do."

This type of philosophical musing becomes particularly important when trying to make babies. You try to let things happen as they will, and not get too anxious.

My wife and I had been trying for children for over a year, when suddenly every front page story of every Sunday newspaper magazine, and every Tom, Dick & Oprah chat show, ran stories about infertility and the problems of couples who couldn't have kids when they wanted to. Eventually, we decided that maybe we should talk to our doctor to see if there was anything that we should check out from a medical standpoint.

The doctor advised us that the first thing to do was for me to have a sperm sample taken. Considering myself to be an open-minded, modern kind of guy, I said, "I can handle this." So I set up a time to take in the sample, and made arrangements to leave work early that day. No problem.

At the time, I was teaching at a school in England. I nervously said goodbye to my class during the middle of a lesson, as a colleague came in to cover for me.

"Where're ya goin', Sir?", they asked.

"Oh, uh, I've got an appointment.", I replied. I thought of the empty plastic vial in my suitcoat pocket, and chuckled at the prospect of answering this innocent question truthfully.

Now, the lab where I was to deposit this sample was several miles away in the next village over. While driving through the countryside, I had time to wonder about the mechanics of this process. Would there be a special sperm collection room, complete with XXX wallpaper? Maybe there would be a buxom Swedish nurse's assistant to aid in the act? Probably not.

So, maybe I should stop along the way and pick up a Playboy, or something? But, hey, "If the opportunity presents itself...". I'll just wait and see what happens. I mean, it's not like I was treading into totally unknown territory, or anything.

About a mile before I reached the lab, I espied a newsagent's shop. I parked, went in, and surveyed the girlie mags.

"Can I help you, sonny?". The kindly, old lady behind the counter shook as she spoke, and she smiled as she shook. It was like a scene from a Woody Allen movie, and I was the bumbling, self-conscious boob.

"Do you carry the Wall Street Journal?", I asked.

The opportunity had obviously not presented itself. Here I was, an exchange teacher representing his country, in the middle of the afternoon on a school day, trying to score on some pornographic reading material.

I wasn't really being overly paranoid, either. Since this part of the country didn't see a lot of tourists, my American accent often drew the attention of locals, and many times when I was out in public I heard kids whom I did not recognize whisper to their parents, "That's that American teacher from our school."

Anyway, I drove on to the town center where I passed another newsagent. This one was a much bigger, more impersonal kind of place. It seemed like a good bet.

However, there was no place to park. I tried to get turned around and get close to the back of the shop; but before I knew it, the unfamiliar winding streets had taken their toll and I was 10-15 blocks away. I gave up. It was just not meant to be.

I pulled into a parking lot to turn around, put the car in reverse, and turned my head to back up. When, lo and behold, directly outside of my car door, not 10 feet from my face, was a stack of dirty magazines that had fallen to the ground before they had reached the nearby dumpster!

I had heard that God worked in mysterious ways-- but zapping me down a pile of porn was more than I could have ever imagined.

I gathered up the magazines, and drove on to the hospital where I was to deliver my sample. With the knowledge that this most certainly was meant to be, I confidently strode into the hospital, went to the bathroom, locked the door, and did my part for the cause.

Fresh sample in hand, I calmly delivered the vial to the technician behind the counter, asked her if there was anything else she needed from me, and left.

I then began to wonder exactly how the results of this test would be reported? I supposed that they had some kind of sperm-o-meter (made by the same company that also supplied carnivals with strength measurers) with a big hand on it that glided to your sperm count level ranging from "Whimpy" to "Herculean".

A few days later, my wife tried calling our doctor for the results of the test. She tried, and tried, but could get no answer. Finally, later in the day, she got through and someone answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello. I'm calling about the results of my husband John Dover's sperm count."

A long silence on the other end. Then, an elderly, female voice: "I'm sorry, honey, but I believe you have the wrong number." (The "7" button on our phone didn't always work properly.)

GREAT!!! I could only hope that the old lady didn't have a grandson that went to my school... "Say, Colin, don't you 'ave a "yank" 'at teaches at your school?"

As if this wasn't enough, when my wife did finally get through to the doctor's office, they informed her that I had failed to write my name on the vial, that they were unable to process the sample, and that I would have to do it all again!!!!

I did reschedule; but this time, I was to take the sample into a big hospital in London that specialized in family planning matters. When I went there, they actually had a room set up for guys like me-- complete with girlie mags which were attached to the coffee table with chains! It was comforting to see that I was now in the hands of true professionals.

Fortunately, my wife became pregnant a few weeks later, and we didn't require any more of this medical "help".

I never received the exact report on the sperm sample, other than that they told me it was alright-- which in my book means somewhere between "Herculean" and "Titanic".

(© 1991)

(Word Count: 1183)