A Dad's Adoption Story - Part Two
By Robert Reed

[NOTE: At the end of Part Two, the author described the physical difficulties involved in dispensing fertility drugs to his wife. Now, it's his turn.Please bear in mind that some of the following descriptions may be uncomfortable to read, but not nearly as uncomfortable as it was for the author and his wife.]

The day that my wife Marie and I had long been waiting for had finally arrived -- the egg extraction.

Only a few days before, we were pleased to learn that Marie's ovaries responded well enough to the medications that nine follicles were waiting to be extracted. Unfortunately, this meant more needle prodding.

While I sat in the hospital waiting room, browsing through various magazines, I wondered how I would be playing my part. I definitely knew that I was going to have to masturbate. I just didn't know where. In the months that preceded this moment, I'd been asked on numerous occasions to ejaculate into a cup… at HOME… and bring the contents into a nearby facility for testing.

The first time was memorable. When finished, I drove the 20-minute trip to Burbank from our house. I held my breath and opened the door to the dimly lit fertility clinic. Five ladies were sitting in the waiting room, lining the back wall. They were thumbing through pages of various baby magazines. I noticed one empty seat in the middle. I tiptoed to the front desk, and I surreptitiously removed the cup and its contents from my pocket. I wanted nothing more than to get the heck out of there, so I lightly handed my package to the first nurse within striking distance as if I were I transporting plutonium.

"So, I guess you're the babysitter?" I whispered to the nurse, so as not to draw attention to myself.

Lesson learned: avoid using humor when handing strange women your sperm. The lady didn't even manage a courtesy smile. Instead, she grimaced in disgust like I had handed her my dirty laundry, gave me back the cup, and loudly instructed me to take the empty seat in the waiting room.

I did, and it was probably the most uncomfortable moment in my life as I felt every eye in the room staring at me and my only friends in the room, the cup and its contents. Granted, I severely outnumbered the women by millions, but my pals were busy swimming and had no interest in protecting me from my embarrassment.

Back to the hospital waiting room, I wondered: Why wasn't I asked to do anything at home this time? Would I have to go to a hospital toilet and perform my act with the same perfunctoriness as urinating into a cup?

It was then that I imagined lines of old ladies on each side of a hallway, outside of a hospital bathroom. They were staring at me, my cup and the baby batter, shouting: "PERVERT! PERVERT!"

An attractive nurse who instructed me to follow her awakened me from my nightmare. She brought me to what looked like a laboratory, and then I was introduced to another attractive lady who was wearing a paper shower cap. There was no sign of a bathroom, and I wondered if I was supposed to complete my mission in front of the two nurses.

It was then that I was shown to a door just beyond my immediate vision. It opened to reveal a bland room with a bathroom attached. It was the perfect bachelor's pad without the big-screen television and microwave. A single, padded chair sat in front of me. It was covered with a white sheet. The walls were completely bare, and the room was dark and seedy like a pub near closing time -- without the smoky haze and beer taps.

To the right of the covered chair stood a hospital tray, normally used to bring food to bed-ridden patients. On the very top of the tray was a yellow, plastic bin that contained a number of very wrinkled porn mags, some KY jelly, a urine cup, and -- no joke -- a pair of transparent gloves.

Now, in my lifetime, I'd been in many situations where I had to perform under pressure. There were the crucial Little League at-bats, the soccer penalty kicks, the youth basketball last-second shots. But in this moment, I lacked all focus.

I was bothered by the absence of "visual stimulation." Porn mags hadn't worked for me since I was twelve. Sadly, there were no videos in the bin. Then, there was the gnawing thought that there were two female strangers outside the door who knew exactly what I was doing. How was I going to walk out with my self-respect intact? Would they laugh at the amount in the jar? Have they set up some kind of bet as to how long it would take for me to finish?

Some ten minutes passed with the magazines, and I just wasn't getting anywhere. The chair was uncomfortable. The gloves, within sight (no, I didn't use them), were freaking me out. In desperation, I stumbled to the better-lit bathroom to continue. Then, I thought: was I being filmed? I started scanning the ceiling for hidden cameras.

Eventually, I forgot about the cameras and focused, shutting out the thought that my exploits might be transmitted to thousands on the Internet. And, minutes later, it was done.

I met Marie in the short-term recovery room, and we laughed as I told her about my sperm recovery mission.

Days later, we received the happy phone call from our fertility doctor that eight eggs were fertilized, and that we should prepare for the insertion of the embryos. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Marie and I were thankful that -- for the time being -- all of the pain and mental duress that we had gone through during the previous few weeks resulted in a successful egg extraction and fertilization.

Still, we had to face the most important and stressful time of the in-vitro process -- the dreaded two-week wait...

Part four of Rob's story will continue in the September issue. In the meantime, if you have questions, please forward them to us at gregory@familymanonline.com.

Rob Reed is a personal injury/worker's comp attorney and web-site designer located in Mission Hills, CA. He and his wife, Marie, are currently in the process of adopting their first baby. The trials and tribulations of their adoption can be followed at www.adoptblog.com.