This morning, I arrived at the fertility clinic at 7:30 for an 8:00AM appointment, which meant that I was sitting in the Vortex until 930AM. Naturally. I’ve heard it said that catastrophes – such as war, famine and natural disasters – are all about hurrying up and waiting. Apparently, this is also true of fertility treatments. You rush to make sure you get to the appointment in time, even deciding that hairbrushing can wait until you are on the El, only to find that Paul, The Sperm Guy is running late because he had a flat tire.
Paul, The Sperm Guy is a tall, lanky, unassuming man. His hair is brown and wispy, he speaks in a soft voice, and he does all sorts of fun stuff with my sperm. (Wierd to think that me with all my X chromosomes has sperm. In storage, even.) He washes it, and warms it up by soaking it in water and then he rolls it around in his hands to wake up the little swimmers and get them ready for their big day. Last time, I even gave him permission to seranade the little fellows (but I don’t think he did). Me, I wouldn’t object if he broke into an inspiring little ditty. Anyway, I’m digressing. Paul, The Sperm Guy works with sperm. That’s why he’s called Paul, The Sperm Guy.
[I often wonder how he got that job. Did he have to get specialized training? As a child, did he sit on the roof of his house and stare at the stars, hoping and dreaming that one day, ONE DAY, he was going to thaw sperm for a living? When did he discover that determining motility and swimmer count was his life's calling? Stay tuned: Paul, The Sperm Guy may just be my first interview.]
And just so you know: I didn’t come up with that name for him. I’m not that clever. When I went to the fertility clinic for my first IUI, I waited and waited and waited. That is when I learned that Paul, The Sperm Guy has punctuality issues. I asked – ever so nicely, because I know it is vitally important to suck up to the nurses, as they could make my life hell – what the hold up was, and the nurse/receptionist informed me that Paul, The Sperm Guy had arrived late but that never fear, he was now working with my sperm. She said his name just like that: Paul, The Sperm Guy. Not PaulTheSpermGuy or Paul The Sperm Guy. It was Paul, The Sperm Guy. I said, “Oh. OK.”
Later, when the nurse came to do the IUI, she laughed and said she almost forgot to get my sperm from Paul, The Sperm Guy. Just like that. She didn’t say Paul. And she didn’t say The Sperm Guy. No. It was Paul, The Sperm Guy. With a little pause between Paul and The. I realized then that this was his name, regardless of what his mama wrote on his birth certificate.
So the name stuck with me, too, and this morning, after I’d hurried up and while I was waiting waiting waiting, I asked the nurse/receptionist if Paul, The Sperm Guy was here yet. And she told me about his tire and didn’t seem even a little surprised that I, too, was calling him Paul, The Sperm Guy. Interesting how quickly strange becomes normal, you know?
And I wonder: Does Paul, The Sperm Guy know about his title? Is he OK with it? Yes, now that I think about it, an interview is most definitely in order.
Oh, and Internet? Just like that, I’m back to being possibly maybe could be you never know I very well might be pregnant, please? At least for another two weeks. Ugh.