It’s Alive
I confess: sometimes I judge. In most cases of course these soapbox stepping, high horse climbing, sanctimonious laden decrees take place in the privacy of my own head. And because I am a recovering Catholic, after silently criticizing some transgressing heathen or another; it takes me twice the effort – and time – to secretly scold myself for having had the sinful, self-righteous thought in the first place.
This very twisted psychological cycle of censure and self-flagellation began to occur as I sat on the waiting room couch at my follow-up visit to the reproductive fertility office of White Coat and The Dark Angel. As I was patiently waiting for my turn to ejaculate into a cup, I noticed a middle-aged man standing at the reception desk with a female that appeared to be at least half his age. You see there – already I am making judgments. Perhaps the young lady was the older gentleman’s daughter, or his niece, or his fresh-faced, innocent charge – like Jean Valjean and Cosette. Could be. I mean – really – who the gay, HIV+, forty-six-year-old hell was I? Right?
Anyway, the May-December couple’s interchange with the receptionist caught my ear when I heard Valjean ask, “How much does it cost to choose the sex?” Oy vey iz mer! I only had enough time to hear the beginning fragments of what struck me as a rather sordid haggling between Valjean and the receptionist about the fair market value of gender selection. Thankfully, just then my name was called by a short, female, lab technician who proceeded to escort me into the next room.
After she drew my blood, the petite technician handed me a Dixie-cup-size, clear plastic, specimen container and directed me to the masturbation chamber – my nomenclature, not hers. The chamber was accessible only through a doorway that was directly off of the lobby that I had just come from. I reached into the small room, and flipped on the light switch. As I stepped in and turned around to close the door behind me – I noticed a smattering of other patients lounging on the waiting room furniture. Whether our eyes actually met or not, they all knew. I was going to be just on the other side of this door – pleasuring myself. That’s right. I said it. Pleasuring myself.
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Eventually I emerged from the chamber, sought out the petite technician, and handed over my sample. She asked me to again take a seat in the waiting room. A short time later she returned to let me know that the sample I had provided looked fine, and asked if I wanted to see it. Yes, the offer to have a gander at my own sperm did strike me as a bit strange. Nevertheless – moments later – I was peering through a microscope at what my seven minutes in solo heaven had just produced.
It’s alive. Astounding. In school I had never been a big fan of science, but after observing my super-magnified semen I was sure that I had probably missed out on all kinds of cool experiments as a kid. They were amazing; enumerable, and they all seemed to be completely fired up and ready to get the job done.
I would be lying if I said that this very simple act of looking through a highly powered and sharply focused lens at those squirming seeds of life did not cause me to profoundly consider the miraculous nature of human conception. Now that I think of it, perhaps that was the petite technician’s intention all along – to inspire my profound consideration. In any case I was told that I would need to call back in a week or ten days to get the detailed results of my analysis.
This part of the process was not altogether new for me – the waiting for results. I was well acquainted with the lab-work waiting game. By this time I had lived for almost twenty-five years in three month cycles of: blood draw, wait a week, then call for a T-cell count. There was a period early on in my HIV – when things seemed to be headed decidedly south – that it was just a matter of calling my doctor at week’s end to see how many T-cells had actually been lost during the previous three month period. Still, there was something unique in this week; waiting for the results of my semen analysis. After all – this time I was not dreading news that could potentially limit my future, no, this time rather I was praying for laboratory results that could possibly blow my entire future wide open.
