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Last Hurrah: Blinded by Science

A visit to a fertility clinic wasn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped.
By Tim Rogers |


A friend prepared me for the ordeal. I’ll call him “Bavid.” Bavid had beaten prostate cancer but in the bargain had risked becoming sterile. Not good. Especially if you want to have children, which Bavid claims he does, someday. So he had gone to a clinic where they harvest genetic material for later use. Or, rather, a clinic where they let you harvest your own genetic material for later use. He debriefed me on the entire procedure.

The oddest part, Bavid said, besides the sinister-looking reclining chair in his personal “workroom,” was the library of magazines the clinic provided, along with a disclaimer on a handwritten sign: “We do not approve of these materials, but some of our clients find them useful.”

Thing was, Bavid said, this wasn’t your garden variety porn. He’d never even heard of the titles. Propriety prevents me from relaying Bavid’s description of the shocking images these magazines contained, but we’re talking stuff that would be anathema to even the most depraved, backwater community in Louisiana. On the same level as pictures of underage farm animals coupling with coprophagous puppets.

And here I should remind you that this is a story about trying to have babies. If you’re offended, you need to ask yourself why you hate babies.

Moving on.

Bavid told me what to expect when I went in for the same procedure, not because I have prostate cancer (knock on wood) but because My Fair Lady and I have been trying for a couple years without result. Oh, we’ve had results. On more than one occasion, in fact, she’s experienced multiple results. But she hasn’t gotten pregnant again (our one boy has grown too big to cuddle). To borrow from H.I. McDonnough, we needed to learn whether My Fair Lady’s insides were a rocky place where my seed could not find purchase—or if my seed was just unsound.

Thus did I find myself sitting alone in the waiting room of a small clinic at Medical City. When I’d arrived, the receptionist had told me, “You’ll have to wait. We’ve got one going right now.” That’s what she’d said. Got one going. I can’t tell you how totally sexy that sounded. Plus, waiting for my turn to go, I read a New Yorker article that described, in detail, the suicide of British weapons expert David Kelly. Also sexy.

Eventually, a technician in a white lab coat led me to my room, opened the door, and said, “Here ya go.” No words of encouragement, no offer to dim the lights, nothing. That was when I realized Bavid has a better health plan than I do.

The room looked like every other exam room. There was no recliner. No library of scrofulous—though useful—magazines. There was only an exam table covered in the requisite crinkly exam-table paper, which, judging from its dishevelment, had not been changed after the other guy went. On the exam table sat three objects: one unopened box of Coronet-brand tissues and, propped against the wall, two framed lithographs of bucolic scenes. One of the pictures showed two 5-year-old boys in overalls hoisting a sack of flour. One boy was saying to the other, “Reckon farming’s for us?” I still don’t get that. And, finally, in a chair in the corner of the room sat a tray of vials filled with suspicious fluids. I figured the workers must have moved them. Oh, did I mention the workers? The clinic was undergoing renovations, and two tool-belted men I’d passed in the hall were in the adjacent exam room, hammering on the walls and talking about their weekend. Honestly, I’m amazed I didn’t ejaculate in my pants.

I’ll spare you the rest. Suffice it to say that I am blessed to have a vivid imagination and a will of iron. Veni.

And the verdict? Though HIPAA laws require that I keep my test results private, I can tell you that My Fair Lady has had a hysterosalpingogram, and her fallopian tubes appear perfectly functional. We’re still trying to pinpoint exactly what’s wrong with the old gal. Meantime, I’ll just keep plugging away, with or without her.

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