**he’s back. ENJOY HIM.**
“Hmmm”
“Hmmmmmmm”
It’s all I can hear as I lie on a table, pants around my ankles, as a septuagenarian (who is a week off retirement) fondles my balls. No – it’s not a fetish I’ve been keeping from my wife. It is in fact my Andrology appointment and right now, I’m the only thing that stands between an expert and his long awaited trip around Australia in a Winnebago.
I’ve been sent to this guy to try and deduce what might be going on, because despite my swimmers being coached by Eric Moussambani, all other tests had come back a-ok. Not only were they ok – apparently my testosterone was through the roof! I mean I don’t know if that means I’m any better at wrestling bears or chopping down trees or doing either of those without crying, but anything positive was gratifying to hear at this point.
The Andrologist continues to murmur to himself as he potters around in the small corner of his office that he’s curtained off. My wife sits on the other side, a cocktail of mild concern and amusement.
I hear a rattle from nearby as my new best bud picks up a mystery object and swings back around to once again fondle my balls – don’t worry, despite his hands being riddled with rheumatoid arthritis, he’s very gentle.
It feels as if he’s measuring my testicles against something… something that suspiciously sound like large beads one might find at their local Sexy Land. I find out later they’re a tool used to measure the size of your balls and apparently mine are “a good size”. Not something I ever thought I’d hear out loud but in the circumstances – happy to call that a win.
The down side is there seems to be no clear medical explanation for why my boys are performing at a local swim school level and not an Ian Thorpe circa 1998 – 2004 level. So with the fellas safely tucked back away until the next time I have to get them out in a strangers room, my wife and I begin our IVF journey whilst our Andrologist heads toward the open road, driving across the Nullarbor with his trusty ball beads hanging off the rear view mirror.
Attempt Number 03
Once again I had to head to a wank house (my term, not theirs) and once again, there was a time limit. Whilst my wife had already endured two weeks of drug injections (the IVF kind, not the recreational kind) and was about to have day surgery to harvest her eggs, I had one job. And that job needed to be done at 8am on the dot. I’d gone from 60min, to 15min, to trying to time a wank to a schedule. I’m normally half an hour late to most things so this was going to be a challenge.
The room was fairly similar to the last place (red couch included – oooooo sexy) although this time I didn’t get the grand tour. The only thing they pointed out was the door lock and the light that you switch on so people outside knew that you were “in session”. I think I would’ve preferred the ol’ “sock on the door handle” – I had my pineapple happy socks on and they are made to be shared.
I went through the process a third time – this time trying to get out of there as quickly as possible as I was well aware of the line forming outside. Turns out there was only one room so the turnover had to be pretty quick. No time for easing yourself into it fellas – it’s go go go.
And as I stepped out of the room, dropped off my sample and headed casually for the door, the shame having subsided seeing as this wasn’t my first rodeo – I walked past the line of nervous men hunched over, waiting for their time to flick the switch.
They were men of all shapes and sizes and all walks of life. The ones that made eye contact with me opted for the kind of nod-smile combo you get at a urinal. It’s a funny sort of nod – one that says “I know why you’re here. Best of luck mate – hope it all works out.”
And it makes me sad.
Sad because the shame I thought had subsided suddenly appears again.
Sad that I came to the realisation that most men don’t feel comfortable talking about their health and wellbeing as much as women do.
And sad that men have trouble supporting each other when stuff like this happens. They can’t call a mate and say “hey – can we talk about the fact that I just had a doctor tell me Go Bombers whilst simultaneously delivering the near fatal blow of telling me I’m potentially infertile.”
I have spoken to a lot of male friends about what’s been going on and they’ve been a mix of unbelievably supportive, supportive at an arms length, and uncomfortable. Of course I don’t begrudge the ones that have been uncomfortable. Talking about jerking into a cup and male infertility isn’t everyones cup of tea. I’ve just found that it’s the men in my life that have found talking about this with me the hardest.
I pick my wife up from the hospital shortly after cup number three (I’m pretty sure I orgasmed bang on 8am by the way – I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t VERY impressed with myself). I had an almond milk flat white for her and an enthusiastic smile that was covering the concern one has when their partner comes out of any kind of surgery. She’s beaming when she walks out and tells me about the experience. How she cracked jokes with our fertility specialist. How she kept talking until the anaesthetic cut her off mid sentence (classic Nicolette). And how she needs more of whatever that stuff was that knocked her out.
And as she talks I think about all that she’s had to go through on this journey thus far and how much she still has to come. The multiple injections every day, the surgery, the mood swings, the bloating, the understanding that even if this works theres another 9 months of being uncomfortable to go before she has to push a small watermelon out of her vagina – and all I’ve had to do is jerk in a small cup a bunch of times.
And suddenly all my anxieties, all my shame – the emotional breakdown I’ve been having over this making me any more or less masculine start to disappear. Because compared to my wife and what she must be feeling both physically and emotionally throughout all of this, my issues seem somewhat insignificant.
So do I feel any less masculine?
No.
Instead I feel incredibly fortunate to have a partner like mine to tackle this with. One that does so with good humour and fight whenever it gets shit (and believe me it gets shit). And I also feel fortunate to feel comfortable enough to talk to people about whats going on – it’s helped a lot. Even if it means that I’ve forced the image of me whacking off on a sexy red leather couch into all of your heads… and If I haven’t then I’m deeply offended.
So make sure you find people to talk with.
Doesn’t have to be your closest friend or family, just someone who’ll listen. I promise you it won’t hurt and the path to having a little one of your own will feel far less isolating and intimidating.
Plus – it’s really fun explaining to people how hard it is to wank into a small cup.
IVeFfort 