Diary of a Sadman Installment 7: The Worst Sex I Ever Had

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.

Diary of a Sadman Installment 6: More True Construction Site Story

Perhaps not all that interesting, but if you like tales from the Foss Construction job site, you might enjoy it. Like the job itself, I think it needs a little work, but let me know if you like it.

Day Laborer

"Patrick!" I can hear Foss yelling to me from down below. Jesus Christ, what does he want now? I'm already so stacked with tasks I had to write them on a piece of two-by-six. The clouds that were gray a few hours ago have darkened, and this job is spinning into chaos. Everyone needs some small thing done before they can get their big thing done, and before we can get the trusses up and sheeting on before the rain hits. I don't want to wrestle with the goddamned tarp again.

"What?"

"I need your help."

"I'm doing the last eight things you told me to do!"

"I know, but I need your help now." His voice doesn't sound frantic like it did a few minutes ago. It sounds calm but serious; this is something different. Curious, I swing myself onto the long extension ladder and descend into the yard that we've now covered with scraps of wood, paper coffee cups, sandwich wrappers and beer cans. Foss is standing in the middle of it all next to Chris, our day laborer.

"I need you to take Chris to the hospital." Foss says this evenly without any discernable urgency. You can tell he's trying to stay cool, and he's succeeding.

"Why?" I look at Chris, who has the same peaceful, goofy smile — like he's about to laugh at something — he always does.

"He cut his leg." I look at him again and he keeps smiling back, then I look at his leg and realize that what looks like a coffee stain on his jeans, outlining the tear that runs from the top of his thigh down to about three inches above his knee, is blood.

"Oh," I say, instantly becoming very cool myself. It's unclear why, but it seems that whatever we do now, it is most important that we not panic. "Are you alright, Chris?" This question is exactly as dumb as it sounds, given that he has just run a circular saw down his leg, but it seems appropriate for someone who is not panicking.

"Yeah, I'm O.K., I put some tape on it." It's then that I notice the white plastic Tyvek tape visible beneath the tear in his jeans. I'm glad it's not bone. He says it like he's turned his ankle in a lunchtime basketball game.

"We have a first aid kit," I offer lamely.

"No, it's O.K., this is better. I used to be an army medic and we used tape all the time until we could get the guy to the docs. It's gonna take some stitches." This is new, this army medic stuff. I didn't know he was a medic or in the army. He's full of this kind of thing.

Still keeping my cool, I begin the frantic search for my keys and discuss with Foss which hospital I should take him to. I'm not really clear on where most of the hospitals nearby are, and we decide on Harborview because of traffic issues and the fact that they take all the uninsured patients in the city. I decide I better take my cell phone as well. I don't want to get stuck on the freeway and have Chris bleed to death in my car.

By now the rest of the guys have heard what's going on. Mike comments from the roof, that Tyvek tape is expensive. I laugh, then feel bad about it.

I help Chris get into the front seat and he thanks me for driving him. He was going to take the bus before we insisted that someone would give him a ride. He said it really wasn't necessary, but since none of us could tell him which bus to take, he appreciated the ride.

As I feared, the freeway is solid southbound. Both the drawbridges are up all day to let boats pass back and forth for the opening day of yachting season parade, which leaves only the freeway to get over the ship canal. "Thanks for giving me a ride," he says again, "it would have sucked to be stuck in this traffic on the bus."

"Don't' worry about it, man, it's no problem."

"Are you from Seattle, Chris?" I realize how little I know about the man bleeding in my passenger seat.

What I do know is that he sleeps under the Ballard Bridge. He says it's not bad, he hasn't been hassled and he hasn't been bitten. I'm not exactly sure what might bite him and I don't ask. This week has been especially good since the other guy who sleeps there is on vacation and let Chris use his mattress and easy chair while he's away. I guess I never really thought that guys who live under bridges took vacations. The guy works at Todd shipyard just down the road, and moved out of his apartment and under the bridge to get away from his girlfriend who he said was driving him crazy. I don't know where he went on vacation — I wish I'd asked, but it seems inappropriate now.

Last week Chris stayed in some seedy hotel on Aurora. With the money coming in from working with us, he decided to treat himself to a bed and sheets. He asked Foss if he could get an advance on his pay in order to get the weekly rate. Foss, being basically a kind soul, considered it, but since we'd only picked Chris up the day before and didn't know if we'd ever see him again, he told him he couldn't do it. Instead, he spent a couple of hours driving him up and down Aurora trying to help him find the best deal. He told Chris that if things worked out this week, he'd give him the advance for the next one. They found him a room at the place that used to be called the Geisha Inn. I can't remember what it's called now.

The morning of what was supposed to be his third day on the job Chris didn't show. Foss called the old Geisha Inn and asked for room 119. A woman answered and told him he had the wrong room, that this was room 117. The front desk assured him that he'd been connected to room 119 and put him through again. The same woman answered. Foss asked for Chris. She told him he wasn't there, that he was at work. Foss hung up shaking his head. Forty-five minutes later, around eleven o'clock, Chris walked on to the job site. "What's the deal, you were supposed to be here over two hours ago?" Foss asked.

Chris smiled, his good-natured, goofy smile and shook his head. "I know, I know, you see that's my problem — I'm unreliable. If I wasn't, I'd still have a regular job." It's good to know your limitations. Foss asked him about the woman who answered the phone in his room. "Oh Jesus, those goddamned hookers are taking over the place," Chris smiled continuing to shake his head. Apparently he'd had one stay and she'd called a friend, now he was thinking about going back under the bridge just to be rid of them. He asked Foss to only pay him $40.00 that day and to keep the rest for him until the end of the week. He was worried the hookers would steal it.

Chris tells me he's lived a lot of places, doesn't really feel he's from anywhere anymore. It's hard to tell how old he is, but I doubt he's much older than me. He's small — from a distance looks like he could be a junior high school kid.

"I used to have a houseboat on the slough up in La Connor." I nod like I know what he's talking about. "You know the Union Slough up there?"

"Yeah, I think I've seen it."

"Well, I had a houseboat up there. I had three classic cars too." Chris gives a detailed description of his cars. One was a Ford "stepside" truck, another was a Volvo and the third was another truck who's make I can't remember but which was apparently completely "hot-rodded out". He talks about these cars like someone who might have actually owned three classic cars — a level of detail that I can't understand or remember. The truck was from the '30s or '40's and the fact that it was a "stepside" seems important. The hot rod had a split windshield, headers, and "Edelbrock" something or other. There's something special about the Volvo too, but all I can think about is how weird it is that Chris had a classic Volvo. For maybe the first time in my life — not including breakdowns by the side of the road or in parking lots — I wish I knew more about cars.

"Yeah, I was installing traffic lights for the City of Everett. You know I'm an electrician by trade?"

"Yeah, Foss mentioned it."

"That was a pretty good life. That hot-rod, man it looked sweet going down the road."

"What happened to it?" I tell myself that it's good to keep him talking so he doesn't go into shock or something, but really I'm just curious about what had happened — how he ended up under the bridge.

"Oh, I sold it. I sold all of them." He stops talking and it seems like maybe that's it — sold his houseboat and his sweet cars and decided to become a day laborer out of Casa Latina and move under the bridge. After a minute or so he continues, "One day I got a call from my dad. My dad was a businessman, a very successful businessman. Anyway, he calls me up one day and says he's got a business venture and that he wants to make me vice president and cut me in on a percentage of the profits." We're at a dead stop on the freeway, and I wonder how long it takes for a guy to bleed to death — maybe we should have called an ambulance. "I said O.K., I mean what else am I going to say?"

I shrug.

"So, I sold my cars and my houseboat and took the money and went to Mexico and met him."

"Where?" I'm not sure why it matters, but I want to know.

"Acapulco. Yeah, we had a shark cartilage business down there. You know it's good for arthritis and all sorts of things?" I didn't know, but I nod, I seem to have heard that somewhere. "We put it into capsules and sold them in bottles — we had our own Mexican labels and everything." He explains how he stayed on the beach in a campground near a military base just outside of Acapulco. He says it was beautiful, and I imagine him in a hammock eating mangos and drinking margaritas. He says it like he misses it.

So they did that for a while. Chris is never really clear on dates or exact lengths of time; they don't seem to matter to him. I want to know, but I don't push him — it's not a deposition. He says they made some money, but he doesn't say how much. Things were going well. He liked living on the beach. Finally, he says, they smuggled the money back into the states. I ask him how, but he doesn't really want to talk about it. It's not interesting to him. They just carried it, he tells me. I wonder about suitcases or boxes and just how much cash we are talking about.

They went to Florida, which seems totally natural to me. Florida is so goddamned weird I don't even get it. He tells me they had a big house there, but he doesn't say where. I ask, but "South Florida" is all he gives up. These details are unimportant — not like the carburetors on the classic cars. They lived there, in Florida, in the big house, for a while until his dad left and moved to Arizona. "It was Phoenix," he says, "or was it Tuscon?" He says it like he truly doesn't quite remember. "I'm pretty sure it was Phoenix." It's not the first time that it crosses my mind that Chris is very possibly full of shit. It seems strange that he would struggle to remember the facts if he were lying though. "Yeah, it was Phoenix, because it was 'Phoenix Taxi'. My dad, he started a taxi company down there, 'Phoenix Taxi,' had a bunch of cabs." Chris smiles as he tells me about it.

"He would lease the cars from like Hertz and Avis, the big rental companies. But he didn't tell them he was using them as taxis." This apparently was the genius stroke. "So, he'd turn these cars back in and they would be ruined, because they had been driven to death as taxis. He burned through all of the rental companies in town — it worked real well for him." I don't really understand how this worked well, but before I can ask he continues, "then one day I got another call from him, in Florida. His health wasn't good anymore and he needed my help. I sold the house and broke up with my fiancé." This is the first I've heard of a fiance. "Then I went out to Phoenix. He was having problems by then." This is something that seems to run through Chris' story: dropping everything and moving.

"Did you help run the taxi company?"

"No there wasn't much of a taxi company by then, because there was nowhere to get new cars from. He died pretty soon after that, and I left Phoenix."

I nod. "Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah."

"Did you go back to Florida?"

"No, I went to California. That's where I'm from, that's where I was born — Southern California. So Cal." He looks at me like it's my turn to speak, and I feel somehow compelled.

"Ah, gotcha."

"But I didn't go back there, I went to Northern California. To the woods. I'd been living there off and on for much of my life." It seems to be my turn and again, and I nod to keep him going. "So I stayed there for a while, then I left there too."

"Where'd you go?"

"I hitched a ride in a truck with the clothes on my back and came up here. That was two weeks ago."

We weren't quite over the Ship Canal Bridge, but it seemed we had completed the circle of Chris's life. It struck me that he never mentioned how things fell apart; there was nothing about losing all the money, coke habits or drinking problems or of hitting rock bottom. Chris talked about moving from a big house in South Florida to underneath the Ballard Bridge as if they were simply representations of the peaks and valleys of the natural business cycle. As an individual, he was somehow macroeconomic.

"So why did you come back up here — are you going to try to get back on with the City of Everett?"

"No, I don't think that's going to happen. I want to get on a boat?"

"A boat?"

"Yeah, I want to get on a crab boat in Alaska."

"That's tough work — dangerous work."

"Yeah, I know, but I don't mind."

"I think it's the most dangerous job in the world." Actually, maybe it's just the most dangerous job in the U.S. — jobs for which OSHA keeps tabs — surely those guys who break up tankers on the beach in India have it worse, or land mine removers. I guess it's an important distinction, but not one I feel I need to point out to a guy who has just come close to sawing his own leg off.

It may not matter. He needs to pass a drug test before being hired for the Alaskan crab fleet. This surprises me. I thought all those guys were on speed, meth or something; you'd have to be to do that work. He tells me the problem is that he smoked pot on Sunday. I don't know if he knew about the drug test requirement before he smoked pot, but it seems entirely possible. Making good choices doesn't seem to be a pattern in Chris's life. Apparently there's a product you can buy that removes evidence of drug use from your urine. He's got it all figured out. He asks if I know of any supplement stores — that's where they sell it — in town. I can't say that I do.

The traffic is starting to break. We can see beautiful, white yachts below us entering Lake Union. The wash from their propellers spreads out behind them like plumes. From this distance I can't make out anyone on board, can't hear the slow, steady churn of their engines. They look perfect — perfect , white islands of happiness below us.

"That's what my dad wanted." Chris continues to gaze over the rail and down onto the lake. "He always wanted a boat. Said once he had enough money he was going to buy a boat and leave, and no one would be able to bother him."
"Sounds O.K.."

"Yeah, sounds good. He never managed to get one, though."

"What did he do — I mean before the shark cartilage pills and the taxi company?"

"He was a pilot." Apparently Chris's dad flew drugs and money across the Mexican border in small planes for many years.

"He got to where they trusted him. He'd go to their houses — big ranches and haciendas and shit."

"Wow." I'm trying to sound impressed, but the truth is I am. "So what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"How'd he end up selling shark cartilage and running a taxi company?"

"Oh, he quit, got out. Said it was too risky and didn't want to do it anymore."

"Can you do that — can you walk away from that kind of job?"

"He thought you could." Chris pauses, but I can tell more is on its way — it's not my turn yet. "But all my brothers and sisters and my stepmother got killed in car crash."

"In a car crash?"

Chris nods, his eyes still following the wake of the yacht. It looks like a contrail from a jet.

"This was after he got out of the drug smuggling business?"

"Yeah."

"Was it — you think it had something to do with them, with his business?"

"I do, yeah." He looks up and at me pulling his lips back in a tight smile and arching his eyebrows like a shrug.

"Jesus, where did it happen?"

"Near Redding."

Traffic is stopped again. I don't know what the hell it is this time. I hope it's not an accident. "How's your leg?"

"It's OK, I'm trying not to think about it."

"OK, good. Let me know if you need me to stop." I don't know what he'd need me to stop for, especially since we're stopped now and that's the problem, but it seemed like I should offer.

"OK."

Traffic is still crawling so I bail off the freeway at Stewart Street and double back across on Denny. "The way this day is going, I think I better put my seat belt on." Chris smiles as he reaches for the latch.

"Probably not a bad idea," I agree. "Well, at least you don't have to dig anymore trenches today."

"No, no more work today. Today's a good day to go to the bar."

I pick my way up the hill on side streets getting steadily closer to where I think the hospital is. "You know where you're going?"

I nod as convincingly as I can. and keep my relief to myself when I finally spot the hospital sign. The entrance is a bit confusing but I follow the arrows pointing to "Emergency." We pass an ambulance bay that is empty except for a cop car. That's good I think, maybe he won't have to wait long. I pull into a load unload spot surprisingly close to the front door. Chris is out and hobbling on the pavement before I have chance get around the car to help him.

The whoosh of the automatic sliding doors instills confidence — bleeding will be stemmed, wounds will be healed within these halls. We seem to be nowhere near the emergency room. The map attached to the directory shows the hospital's various wings and pavilions splayed out like some southern congressional district. We walk down the wrong hall for a while before I figure out that we need to be one floor up in order to get into the correct wing. The place is deserted and I wonder to myself why hospitals are so goddamned confusing — it's bad enough to be in one, but why do they design them so you always feel lost? It takes a ridiculously long time to find an elevator, and then we walk what seems like a quarter mile before finally finding the emergency room. I worry Chris is going to die before we get there. Who do you call in an emergency if you're already in the hospital?

Our lap of iron finally complete, we emerge into the open space of the emergency room. It isn't at all like on "ER" — there is no central desk bustling with young, great looking doctors and amiably crazy patients. The place looks more like an abandoned airport gate. A small waiting area is appointed with uncomfortable looking chairs and a large fish tank thats importance as an agent of calm and distraction has been largely supplanted by the two television sets mounted on steel brackets hanging down from the ceiling. Across from the waiting area is an un-staffed desk. A yellow line cuts across the linoleum about fifteen feet in front of the desk just beyond a patch of scuffed yellow lettering that reads, "Please wait behind this line for the nurse." Beside the desk is a set of two large metal doors, which, if they weren't locked, look like they could swing open to expel a gurney at any moment.

I can tell they are locked by the woman, far beyond the yellow line, pounding on them. She appears to be in her early twenties, dressed in jeans and a brown v-neck shirt. She isn't wearing any shoes and looks like she rolled down a long grassy hill to get here — tufts of dead grass cling to her shirt and hair. On her left wrist, where a watch might be, is a yellow hospital identification bracelet. I wonder if it is from this or an unrelated visit and whether she is on the right side of the metal doors. Wherever she is supposed to be, she looks pissed. Alternating between pounding on the metal doors with her open palms and the electric switch that assumedly is meant to open them, she runs her fingers through her brown hair in a way that conveys that she simply does not have time for this bullshit. "Jesus Christ, I just need my goddamned purse!" she yells at no one and everyone. "I cannot believe this fucking place!" I watch her trying to avoid eye contact.

Eventually her entreaties are answered and the metal doors swing outward nearly hitting her. "About fucking time, goddamnit!" A police officer steps through doors.

"M'am, is there something we can help you with?"

"Look, I just need my goddamned purse." She runs her fingers through her hair again unable to believe that she has to explain this yet again.


The officer turns the volume down on his radio. "OK, I don't know anything about your purse."

My attention to how this is going to turn out is distracted by Chris who has also crossed the yellow line and deposited himself in the chair in front of the triage nurse's desk. A nurse emerges from somewhere and asks if she can help him. I move over to the desk feeling somehow responsible for making sure Chris is taken care of. "Can I help you?" she asks him.

"Uh, yeah I need my elbow x-rayed."

I nearly interrupt him to ask him what the hell he needs his elbow x-rayed for. I remember he'd complained about it being knocked earlier in the day by a piece of facia board, but I didn't think it was too serious.

"What's wrong with your elbow?"

"I hurt it and it's got a bump on it."

There does appear to be a small bump on the side of Chris's elbow, but I think it a little bizarre that he's chosen to focus on this instead of the bleeding gash in his leg. I am about to jump in when the nurse asks, "how did you hurt it?"

"Well, I hurt my leg too."

"What's wrong with your leg?"

"I cut it." Chris thrusts his thigh up above the edge of the desk so she can see his torn, blood stained jeans.

The nurse seems unimpressed by this injury; she has, no doubt, seen much worse. "How did you do that?"

"I fell off my bike." Suddenly, I no longer want to be involved.

"You fell off your bike?"

"Yeah." Somehow Chris expects the nurse to believe that he fell off his bike causing the flaying of his leg and a bump on his elbow without any other scratches or lacerations.

"Anything else?"

"Nope."

It makes a certain amount of sense — not the falling off his bike part — but the cover story. It is an unspoken rule on jobs like this that trips to the emergency room are not caused by work. If work were involved there would be questions, and L&I and OSHA and God knew what else. But this is the worst story I've ever heard.

"How did you get here today — did you drive, get a ride, walk . . .?" I instinctively move back behind the yellow line and become interested in the CNN story coming out of the TV.

"I took the bus."

"You took the bus after crashing your bike?"

"Yup."

"Were you going fast?"

"On my bike?"

"Yes."

"Pretty fast."

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"No."

"Are you allergic to any medications?"

"Sulfa drugs."

The nurse is momentarily called away and I flash Chris a thumbs up. He smiles at me and says, "it's gonna take forever to get x-rayed, you might as well just take off."

"You sure? Are you going to be OK?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine."

It occurs to me that Chris probably requested the x-ray because he knew it would guarantee him a significant amount of time lying in a clean, comfortable hospital bed, maybe even within sight of a TV. I wave goodbye and tell him I'll see him later. He thanks me again for the ride.

Traffic is still tied up northbound and I roll slowly back over the ship canal bridge. My phone rings, it's Foss. "So, what's the story, where are you?"

"He fell off his bike."

"He fell off his bike?"

"That's what he told them." I can hear them in the background setting trusses and generally doing their best to kill each other from the sound of it.

"Onto a circular saw?" I hear Mike shout in the background.

"Jesus, that is pathetic. Is he going to be O.K.?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"O.K., well get back here as soon as you can, we have to get these things up. And thanks for taking him."

"Yeah, sure, it's no problem. Traffic's bad still, I'll be there soon."

"O.K., later."

I look down over the rail of the bridge. Far below me the yachts have now all made their way from Lake Washington into Lake Union where they wait drifting, strung out like some distant, unchartable archipelago. Something in me wants to cry.

Diary of a Sadman Installment 5: Sex, Drugs and the Doctor's Office

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.