We’ve battled infertility for 5 years, and to this day, I can say I’m a better man. However, I can’t say that I have always been been a shining example of zen that I’ve strived for. I’ve experienced a range of emotions ranging from intense joy, as well as deep sadness. It’s amazing how those emotions, and everything in between can pop up at any day.

Today, for example, we went from a sense of dread, foreboding and sadness when Shelby had some pretty major bleeding this morning, to great joy when we found out that everything is ok, and wonderment when we saw the little sprout FRICKING MOVE on the ultrasound. However, let me bring you back about 2 years ago, where I wasn’t quite the example of manliness I prided myself in. This day, my emotions were set to “HULK SMASH.”

I haven’t been exactly shy when sharing what it is like when providing my half of the ingredients for our Baby Shelby recipe, but this one incident takes the cake. All our attempts at making Baby leading up to this day were met with failure and our doctor requsted me to provide him a sample of my (hopefully) millions of minions which will help determine what was missing in our homemade Baby recipie. They provide me with a sterile cup (by the way, who designs these things? You’re supposed to get the entire “output” into the damn thing and why the hell are the edges SHARP!!! HULK SMASH) a drop off time, building and address to leave my goods. I admit, it’s a little nerve racking having my minions examined so closely. What if we’re dealing with only A Few Good Men, or even worse, what if I have some weird problem where my matter creates the Danny DeVito twin instead of the Ahh-nold twin. Regardless, things are looking up (ha!) because Shelby was home and able to, ahem, lend a hand, and I didn’t have to resort to creating my knuckle babies alone this time.

Waking up in the morning, knowing that I need to go into a stinky office and provide a sample isn’t exactly the best way to start my day. But this day, when my alarm goes off at 7, birds are singing, the sun is shining and I get to wake Shelby up to give me a little assistance. This day, I am a TV sit-com wanna-be Dad, I am Danny Tanner without the Full House. I get up, shower, shave, dawn my long sleeve collared shirt, slacks, dress shoes, and walk down the stairs while humming to myself, happily. My wife hands me my coffee, and a brown paper bag. Here’s where the similarities between sit-com dad and I part. Let’s just say, this brown paper bag does not contain a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I hop in the car, and leave with plenty of time to get my brown bag to the hospital in time. My drive is uneventful, traffic is light, and parking is bountiful. I get out of my car and enter the office of where I’m supposed to drop off my sample. I approach the reception desk and announce, maybe a little to loudly, that I have a time sensitive sample to get to the lab for analysis. A few old ladies, sitting in chairs, look at me like I’m a crazy person. I could care less what they think, but to my dismay, the receptionist has the same look on her face.
Her: “Sir, this is the Geriatrics desk”
Me: “Is that some sort of joke about my lazy, double headed sperm, because I’ve heard better?”
Her: “This isn’t the right building to drop of samples, who sent you here?”
Me: “The nurse who left the message on my phone with directions of where/when to drop this off”
Her: “Well, this isn’t it.” She then informs me that the building to do the drop off is 30 minutes away, with traffic an hour
Me: “WHAT?! You’re telling me that I was given the wrong address to drop this off and that it’s about to be wasted?”
Her: “Sorry sir, you’ll have to provide another sample”
Me: (my temper flares, and I lose my paitience. This is simply too stressful) “Do you realize that this isn’t piss lady? I can’t JUST provide another sample. This was 4 days in the making and I can’t JUST provide another sample.
Her: (Getting a little indignant): “Sir, it wasn’t my fault that you didn’t confirm the drop off address and that there is nothing I can do with this. This is not my problem”
Me: Not YOUR problem?!? I’m upset at this point, too much is riding on these test results. I hate waiting, I hate this process and I hate the blank stare the receptionist is giving me. I’m angry and say “Well it is now. Here, do an IUI or something because my doctor, who gave me the wrong address, just killed millions of mini-me’s”

(ok, maybe I WISH I said that last sentance)

I slam the brown paper bag on her desk, turn and walk out the automatic sliding doors.I storm to my car, get in and slam the door closed. I sit there for a few moments to collect myself. After I cool town, I sit back and realize what just took place. I just left my genetic material on a random receptionist desk in the GERIATRICS building. I…just…left…my…sperm…on a strange woman’s desk.

At this moment, I realize how out of whack my emotions can get when dealing with infertility. It’s not rational at times, and nether am I. It’s too much effort, money and tears. I broke for a second. As I’m about to drive away, I start to laugh. What else beside infertility would cause you to get upset that you get to have your wife help you provide a sample? I imagine myself walking though my door at home, greeting my wife, and saying “sorry hun, looks like you gotta warm up the other hand, because we’re doing it again.”

Maybe an incorrect address and the resulting spermicide isn’t so bad