Tuesday was mostly a hospital day. My Mom picked me up at the Nashville airport at 10 in the morning. I had spent the previous night packing questionably clean clothes and books as well as tidying up my office/apartment room. Anyway, our first stop was the fertility clinic.
Unfortunately, the first visit there didn’t involve me jerking off into a cup. My masturbation appointment had been scheduled for the next day at 1 PM. No, we went to ask questions and fill out paperwork. I hadn’t taken into account not having my own car and the two hour drive from my house in Jackson to Nashville, so I rescheduled for Friday morning.
As I filled out the paperwork, I found that most of the clauses didn’t apply to me; the disclaimers focused on past pregnancies and partner involvement. However, the last form dealt with the handling of my sperm. The disclaimer notified me that the clinic was able to dispose of my seed in a regulated fashion if I failed to pay the $350 annual storage fee. It also informed me that the clinic accepted no responsibility for birth defects resulting from my frozen sperm. Also, they would not be liable for mishandling, mislabeling, or losing any storage specimens.
That last part unnerved me. My insurance doesn’t cover this type of clinic visit. The first visit would cost around $700, and they were telling me that I couldn’t expect any assurance of my sperm being properly handled?
Here’s a though experiment: Sue works at said fertility clinic. Her only medical experience is a C+ in her high school anatomy class, but her Uncle is one of the hospital administrators. People aren’t sure what she does on a day-to-day basis, but Sue does brew a mean pot of coffee. One day, the clinic has run out of cream…end thought experiment.
I pointed out the clause to my Mom, who was sitting beside me in the waiting room.
“Hmmm – let me see. They’re saying that if you die, then you could choose to have whatever you stored destroyed or you could leave it in someone’s care. Like if you left it to Dad and me and if we ever found a surrogate,” she said.
“No, I meant the part above that,” I replied and pointed to the paragraph above in smaller font. I understood the bottom part perfectly. That part had two options labeled A and B. If I took option A, then the clinic would destroy my sperm upon my death. If I took option B, then I could bequeath the sperm to a person of my choice. It was very simple; if I died, however improbable that might be, then I could revoke my sperm club membership or have someone else pay the annual storage fee.
“Oh, I see what you mean. Are you going to ask them about it?” my Mom asked.
When I asked the receptionist and pointed to the paragraph, she frowned. “I’m not sure about all that. Hey, could you answer his question about this part?” she called over to an associate further behind the service counter.
The associate frowned at the form for about five seconds. “It means that if you pass away, then you have the option of us disposing of it or leaving it in another person’s name,” she said.
I gritted my teeth. Why was everyone drawn to the death clause? I just didn’t want them to fuck up my viable sperm while I still live. I didn’t appreciate the assumptions. “No, I meant the part above it that deals with the sperm being possibly mishandled and there being no accountability,” I replied.
“Oh, I don’t know why they included that. We’ll store it properly,” the associate replied while the receptionist nodded.
I told them that I would bring the form back and sign it on Friday before my appointment. As my Mom and I left the waiting room, I tried not to crumple the form. There were no assurances, but it was odd that the last sentence before the death clause was the one that I focused on the most.
It was a little before noon and my next appointment for a CT scan wasn’t until 1:40 PM, so we killed time at a Border’s. I started reading this book called Room by Emma Donoghue; so far it’s about a five-year-old child who has known nothing but an eleven-by-eleven room and his Mother – somehow, that made me feel better about not getting out so much. I was about to buy the hardback but then my Mom whipped out her Kindle, so I bought the electronic version for half price. Technology’s a bitch for some businesses.
Speaking of technology, the first piece of business back at the hospital was to get a CT scan. I had received one earlier, but that was after my first surgery and while still under the influence of anesthetic. All I remembered was a pretty nurse, being naked under the sheet, and a warming sensation. For CT scans, there are two options: no contrast or contrast. For contrast, there are also two options: drink a solution of have it injected directly. I had the latter done in both cases.
This procedure was done at Vanderbilt Hospital, a huge collection of buildings. There were so many buildings that my Mom and I chose the wrong one for parking. We had arrived at the location that I would be at in approximately two weeks for my surgery. As I grimaced at her hesitant driving and awkward parking job, we wandered along the basement depths of the parking structure in search of an elevator. The elevator led to another floor with four elevators. We looked at our map in confusion before a short man with a gimp started asking us questions. He was wearing an attendant’s uniform and told us that our desired location was about 6 blocks away. He called another attendant to transport us there.
Have you ever ridden in a limo? Stop feeling so smug – you have little to no concept of luxury, you complacent barbarian. The vehicle that picked us up was a four-seater golf cart. My Mom and I smiled at one another as the large woman driving it swerved around SUVs and took us through concrete corridors lined with industrial piping. I recalled being strapped to the back of a two-seater golf cart driven by some of my high school friends and speeding down a ridiculously steep hill. I was 17 and still wearing my neck brace; we flipped the cart on the way down, but that’s another story. Golf carts are the heavenliest of vehicles, so never pass up the chance to ride in one.
Let’s get back to the CT scan. I originally thought that I be drinking a contrast solution this time around as I watched a pale, thin woman wearing a bonnet over her bald scalp sip on a large cup filled with the solution plus ice. Everyone in the waiting room had taken numbered paper scraps from a red dispenser, similar to something you might see at a SuperCuts. I was number 46, one over my lucky number. Instead of handing me a cup, the Nurse who claimed me prepared an all-purpose IV attachment as she eyed a sizable vein on my left forearm.
“Name-birthday?”
“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”
One thing you may have noticed about Nurses is that they always ask you a question before they stick something into your vein. Perhaps giving a response to the question is a way for your brain to not register the needle plunging into your arm. I rifled out the response so I could concentrate. I like the way the needle slips under the skin as well as that slight shock that I’ve been given a temporary second mouth, a portal to the outside world! The Nurse proudly informed me that I could keep the needle attachment dangling from my arm for the duration of my hospital visit so that I wouldn’t have to be re-stuck.
“Name-birthday?”
“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”
That was the required password before each new procedure. I suppose that it’s a security measure to protect against identity-stealing freaks whose idea of paradise is a day filled with waiting rooms and getting stuck with needles. Anyway, I had brought my two-mouthed self over to the CT scan area, which essentially consists of a sliding gurney that passes through a thick ring that bathes whatever passes through its center with high doses of radiation. The truly unnerving part for me was when they injected the actual contrast solution. Within seconds of the injection, there was a sharp metallic taste in the mouth and nostrils.
“Take a deep breath and hold,” a computerized voice chanted over the humming of the machine as the gurney slid through the portal. I held my breath and tried to think healing thoughts. As the radiation and contrast solution interacted, a warming sensation spread through my veins. It felt as if I had wet my pants while inhaling drain cleaner.
“Breathe,” the computerized voice commanded. I obeyed, and we completed this cycle several times until the fire in my body faded. I refrained from asking the technicians in the viewing room what they thought, since they’re not allowed to tell me anyway. If I had chosen the surveillance option instead of the surgery, then I’d be doing this every three months for the next five years.
“Name-birthday?”
“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”
I took a chest X-ray, which was a breeze after the CT scan. “He’s done,” a technician murmured after repositioning me several times. What the fuck did he mean that I was done? I kept silent and shambled over to the third or fourth waiting room of the day.
“Name-birthday?”
“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”
A Nurse Practitioner asked me preparatory questions for anesthesia accommodations, I had an ECG taken, and finally, I was informed that the needle and IV attachment that had been trailing from my arm for the last few hours could not be reused for my upcoming bloodwork.
“Yellow alert – inclement weather expected,” a loudspeaker positioned along the linoleum-lined hallway blared.
“Oh, I just hope it doesn’t snow,” the Nurse Practitioner moaned.
I nodded and stared at a small, coffee-colored splotch on the otherwise creamy skin of her left cheek. “The thing about snow is it can be a good thing if you don’t have to drive or work or do anything, so I’m ready for it,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, but she smiled and a dimple reshaped the cheek splotch into a Pac-Man. I didn’t say that I hoped it fucking snowed until the sky was empty and we were blasted into the next Ice Age.
“Name-birthday?”
“Robert-Egan-seven-thirty-eighty-seven.”
“You know, I can tell that you have a really positive attitude. Most people are dragging their feet and glaring when they come in.” This came from the Nurse who had just reaffirmed that she couldn’t re-use the needle attachment still dangling from my arm.
“Oh – huh- thanks. So can I take out the needle since it’s useless?” I asked.
“No, we’re not allowed to remove it here. You’ll have to go back to the Nurse who put it in,” she replied. I gave her an extremely positive smile and looked to the biohazard disposal box to my side. “Make it quick.” She looked over her shoulder.
I tried to slide the needle out surely but swiftly. I got the swift part down and dumped the plastic catheter in the disposal. I had mixed feelings about there being no impressive geyser of blood. The Nurse stuck me with a new needle in the other arm, drew three vials of blood, and told me that I was finished.
That was it; I was told that I would find out the results within the next few days. However, my Mom called one of the Nurses at the Urology clinic, and she informed me that I could call the Nurse the next afternoon for the results. If any of the tests showed a detectable spread, I would be unable to go to surgery. Chemotherapy and potentially nuking my sperm would be my main option. I slept while my Mom drove me home. She’d been there with me every step of the way.
I’d been doing fairly well about watching my alcohol and nicotine consumption. I hadn’t ordered a drink on the plane and had only chewed two pieces of my nicotine gum. I was at home enjoying a small glass of wine and seeing how long I could hold off before chomping on another piece of gum when the phone rang. It was my Aunt calling for my Mom.
As I sipped my wine, she never left the kitchen, so I heard her end of the conversation. I realized that she had told her entire half of the family about the cancer without consulting me. She narrated the events above and then started making sperm bank jokes that involved words like “deposit”, “withdrawal”, and “interest.” They were lame jokes but all in good humor. She saw me wince-smiling and decided to crack another joke.
“Oh, and of course all the girls will like R even more since most of them aren’t interested in having kids. Oh, he’s glaring at me now.” My Mom walked to the other end of the kitchen and continued her conversation.
I drained my wine and set the delicate glass down so that I wouldn’t crush it. She finished her conversation. “How’s the wine, dear?” she chirped.
“Hmmm- so all the O’Connors know. How many other people have you told?”
“They’re family. We share everything.”
“That’s nice. Yeah that’s really nice. I’m glad you can use my experience to get some more attention from your family.”
“What? It’s not about me. We talk; my sister was also telling me about her dog that has a neurological condition.”
“I see – you were telling each other about your pets. Hey, thanks for cheapening my experience.”
“Robert, they’re family. They care about you.”
“Oh, that must be why they’re so eager to talk to me. Oh wait, I haven’t spoken to a single one. It’s about you.”
We both fell silent. I reminded myself that I hadn’t played my cancer card too often. I’d only told about a dozen close friends. I’d let both of my jobs know that I had to take a medical leave of absence, but I hadn’t mentioned specifics. I hadn’t said a word to my mentor in my writing group for school; I didn’t want him to give me biased feedback on my work.
It wasn’t about embarrassment. I’d lost a nut, a hard-boiled egg probably now festering in a biohazard disposal box somewhere. So what? I was thankful that I got to keep my other one, and I laughed at all the good-natured, one-balled jokes. My Mom thought the ultimate source of my rage was physical.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed about, R. We’ll get through this,” my Mom spoke.
“Listen, I don’t give a shit about having one ball but don’t you goddamned make a joke about me not getting to have kids. Do you got it? Do you fucking understand?” I realized that I was screaming when the dog in the kitchen started barking.
“R, come on, you’re 23. Have you ever really even thought about having kids just yet?” she replied.
“NO NO NO! You’re making assumptions. This might be hard but take 10 seconds to think. Pretend you’re 23 and you’ve got balls. You found out you had cancer, lost your right nut, and broke up with your girlfriend in less than a week. Now they want you to jerk off into a cup ‘just in case.’ Your Mom tells everyone. You can joke about my one ball all you want but don’t you fucking dare make a joke about me not having kids.” I kept pulling the cancer cards out of my sleeve and slamming them down on the table. My hand was red and throbbing. My Mom was crying.
“You’re right -It was about me, I didn’t think, I didn’t know,” she sobbed.
My shoulders slumped. I thought that I had wanted her to cry. She’d been with me to every hospital visit, smiling and waiting. I’d been blogging about this whole experience and commiserating with friends this whole time. Couldn’t she have someone to talk to? This wasn’t my just my experience.
We hugged and she agreed to not make jokes about me possibly never getting to have my own kids. She also reminded me that I shouldn’t be ashamed about my condition. I sighed. She still didn’t get it. We are all alone, but she was there for me, offering support as best she knew how. I drank another glass of wine, chewed through four pieces of nicotine gum, and went to bed.
The next morning, both of my parents had gone to work. I looked out the window and our backyard was covered in white. It had snowed, a relatively unusual event for Jackson, Tennessee. I didn’t have to work. I didn’t have to drive. All I had to do was make a call later that day. Thus, the snow was a good thing, so I decided to make a snow man.
Upon making this decision, I drank coffee, read books, and lazed about. When I looked back outside, I saw that most of the white had vanished. No! I ran outside to investigate and the dog, an eight-month old Australian Shepherd, followed. There was a seven by fifteen foot patch of snow that had survived the rising heat by hiding under the shade supplied by a row of short pine trees.
How much longer did I have? There was no time to find gloves. As I began to roll up the first ball of snow, the dog attacked my creation. I had to put her inside and start over. I had finished the base and was moving on to the torso. I had to pause every thirty seconds or so to shake and rub some warmth back into my hands. When they got really cold, they started to burn, and if they got too warm, they started to burn. The trick was to warm my hands just enough to keep handling snow burn-free.
Halfway through rolling up the torso, the growing snow ball picked up a piece of dog crap. I didn’t want to waste my limited snow, so I shrugged and put the poop-covered side atop the snowman base – perhaps it would a sort of organic paste, additional paste for the entire structure. I added a snow headpiece, took a few steps back, and noticed that the entire structure was leaning to the left. The snowman toppled and shattered before I could catch it.
This was a test. A test of what? No time! The snow wasn’t going to cut it on its own. I would have to build a snow cyborg. I noticed a broken, wooden pallet leaning against the fence; one large crosspiece was still attached like a pair of wings. There was a half cylindrical piece of thick tree bark lying next to a tree stump. I also found a classical-style, plastic face with a depression above its rolling locks; it was a sort of plant holder, meant to be hung along a garden wall. Instead, it had been shot several times with a BB gun and thrown into the trees many years ago by my little brother and me.
With these props, I created my snow cyborg. I told myself that that the patches of brown in the snow from my earlier, failed snowman were just earthen smears. I also found out that some of the plants near the pine trees were covered in thorns. This was because the smaller branches from these plants had either fallen off or been cut, and they kept jolting my numb hands into wakefulness from under the snow at odd intervals. I abandoned the traditional but unstable 3-ball style. My snow cyborg’s base was a huge bubble butt, and I fused this to the next piece and the next until I had a sort of rounded stair step progression. I leaned the broken pallet with the winged crosspiece against the curved backside for support. I smoothed out the front and jammed in the huge bark piece. Each side of the bark was kept in place by a clump, arms clutching a shield. I set the plastic face on top the bark and filled the depression with snow to hold the small thorn branches, dangerous dreadlocks. I tapered the front of the base into several spikes along the ground, extensions of a flowing dress. Finally, I took a few steps back and jammed my hands into the pockets of my sweat pants.
Who was I fooling? That wasn’t no snow cyborg – I had just fashioned an angel.
I went back inside and found my cell phone. The burning had left my hands as I positioned myself at a window that allowed me to see my snow angel. I called the number for the Nurse.
All of the tests showed no detectable spread. I can have the surgery.
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