The One With the Sterility Test

My bride-to-be isn't always on top of the latest trends or cultural phenomenon. Just last week I explained Twitter to her (I just figured it out the week before). We live in the tax bracket most likely to get screwed by Octomoms, corporate bailout queens, House Financial Services Committees, and guys who pretend to be a former Foreigner drummer, so we aren't able to afford the latest fashion trends. But I no sooner had moved all of my stuff into her third story, vaulted ceiling haven than she put on the latest Flu season fashion.

If I didn't know better, I would believe it to be a calculated move to ensure I was committed to the "sickness" part of "sickness and health". While excited for the opportunity to take care of her, I was also not-so-silently proud of my immune system because I seemed to be avoiding the sickness as she slowly degraded into a pitifully cute, deep coughing, loogie spitting, high-fevered contagion. I walked through the fire and was not burned!

Then, while we slept, the virus moved in a style reminiscent of the Venom symbiote from her to me, bonding with me on a cellular basis. Even as I type, the fight for dominance continues in my body:



Today also marks 10 years, 11 months since I was diagnosed with Burkitt's Lymphoma (Sept is 11 years in remission). In celebration, I finally went for a sterility test (Science Fact: chemo can cause sterility). What I had been lead to believe by movies and television shows is that I would be provided a cup, a room, access to some sort of stimulant, and perhaps a hot nurse.

The reality of the situation ended up being very much in keeping with a sitcom episode. The lab company only has one accommodating office for this test despite many, much more convenient branches. The truth is this one office is just really close to the mother-lab as to ensure freshness.

After arriving and waiting about half-an-hour I was given the expected cup and escorted to a room. I use the term loosely, as it was more of a closet. There was a lonely four-legged chair to the left when you walked through the door. This was next to a sink with hand sanitizer and a small stack of paper towels. On the opposite wall was a small blood taking stool, the kind with the black leather cushion seat and arms. Next to the stool was a small bookshelf with toilet paper rolls. A picture of Mickey Mouse hung on the left of the door frame.

I was told to lock the door behind the nurse and bring out the filled cup in a nice bio-hazard bag when finished. That’s it. The first thought to pass through my mind was that every other guy who had to get this test done had sat in the chair and made his deposit. That was enough to pretty much kill my chances of success.

The sound of children screaming and multiple conversations and alarms going off in the other two rooms and at the front desk destroyed whatever illusion I was trying to create that I was alone. It was a lost cause.

After admitting to the lady at the desk that I could not perform such an act in such surroundings, she recommended I bring back my fiancée later in the day to try again. Nobody offered the other alternative (2:20).