With a tasty low fat yoghurt? Went for a jog perhaps? Or maybe leisurely skimmed through the morning papers?
Me? I milked myself in the name of procreation. Again.
You know you are getting to the sharp end of this process when you are excommunicating yourself into luxuriously wide rimmed, heavy duty, tinted glass pots, and not the measly plastic pill bottles the GP hands out.
Wide rimmed or not, I still had to despair at the volume I produced. Again, I mean quantity, and not decibel level. I’m no good with judging millilitres, so let’s just say the amount would probably stop a wasp in its tracks, but not be enough to drown a small bat.
I’d have wrung my own neck if my hands weren’t busy wringing out my own head.
The race was on. As sensible as putting the pot between my legs seemed to be at the time, when I saw the state of the roads from last night’s storms I had a rethink. One slam on the breaks could mean explaining to police exactly why my windscreen was covered in semen, awkward, even in Holland.
Instead, the fruit of my loins was popped into my jacket pocket and delivered incident free. Unless you count the scornful look I received from the receptionist as I used both hands to hoist the pot onto the counter to emphasise its tremendous weight.
Once I’d assured the nurse, who I’m certain also works as a baggage check-in person at the airport, that I had filled the pot myself, that no-one could have interfered with it since I had interfered with myself, and that the potent potted produce she was pawing, was in fact, mine, I was out of there.
*** *** ***
Four and a half hours later, ET and I were sitting in the small waiting room behind the heavy white door, alone. Footsteps came and went, and the puddle of water from her closed umbrella spread on the floor between us.
An unsurprisingly blonde, incredibly tall, and reassuringly friendly IVF doctor came and took us down to a treatment room.
There, she explained what was about to happen, absolutely none of which registered with me as I was too busy grinning from ear to ear with the news that the sample, after washing, had 21 million Spencers ready and waiting. The usual target after washing is 5 million.
When I returned from cloud 9, ET was again semi-naked in the chair, refusing to wave hello to Spencer like I asked, with stranger number 7 chalking up carnal knowledge.
Out came the catheter and the syringe filled with my self abuse, and in it went.
Seemingly ET’s uterine cavity didn’t take too kindly to this jizz filled stranger popping it’s head around her door, so the good doctor called an assistant to bring a different catheter.
In a world of ever decreasing stereotypes, the assistant was a 50 plus year old bald man, with a bandage on his head the size of a post-it note. Despite becoming the 8th stranger to gaze into my wife’s nether regions, he brought with him the new improved catheter.
A moment later it was in, and so were 21 million of my finest. After a 5 minute rest (and I think ET had one too) it was done and dusted.
On reflection it’s a simple procedure, painless and quick, but that doesn’t deter from how proud I am of that midget wife of mine. Five times in stirrups in one week is at best a real pain in the arse, or that approximate area anyway, and I know how nervous she was in the moments just before the IUI. I hope she knows it’s those same moments that make me most glad that it’s her and me.
Now, we just wait. I’m half afraid of what for.