WARNING: This blog contains themes of a sexual nature, explicit language and general shame & embarrassment. You have been warned.
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No bravado today, just some truth.
Managed to locate the car park and a space swiftly, despite needing the toilet from almost the moment I left Stone with my anxious bladder. All I did throughout the morning was piss; it was pouring out of me; it seemed that no sooner had I left the toilet that I needed to go again. When I'm nervous this nervousness always manifests itself in my urinary system. On arriving at Burton hospital I dashed from the car park to try and find a bathroom, before it all started spurting out of me. Hello it's Mr. Pissy-Pants here to give a semen sample.
Of course things are never simple, I went to the Burton Clinic (as directed on the confirmation letter I received) at 1.15pm, prior to the 1.30pm appointment, to be greeted by blank faces. Eventually I discovered that the Department of Reproductive Medicine wasn't within the hospital but in an outbuilding at the other end of the hospital site. So I dashed over there anxious to not miss my appointment; arriving red, hot, sweaty and flustered (sensations that continued for much of the day)
Matters were not helped by seeing an ex-colleague as I was dashing …
“... what are you doing here? I didn't know you lived in Burton”
“I don't!”
(puzzled face)
(Tell the truth, break some taboos) “Clinic appointment”
“Couldn't you go in Stoke?”
“Nope! They only do it here ...” (pointing to Burton Department of Reproductive Medicine sign)
“Ooh!!!” (moment of dawning, helped by my pointing)
I don't know who was more embarrassed me or him, well I do … me! It was bound to happen, I could have gone to John O'Grotes and would have still seen someone I knew, so a neighbouring Health Authority was never going to provide much anonymity.
All of this didn't set me up well, the whole experience was deeply – deeply embarrassing & uncomfortable.
After a twenty minute wait alone in a waiting room with Doctors being shown on the TV, I was eventually shown to a room (cupboard) by a lab technician who gave me some directions (Can you feel the embarrassment through the screen?)
A hugely clinical and NHS sterile, about the least sexy or erotic place I have ever been. A plastic Ikea garden chair (just like ours at home, only white), sink, coat hook, various health promotion posters stuck to the walls and some 'literature' The most dog-eared hardcore pornography imaginable.
Let's keep it simple (blunt); it took an age to get hard (the porn was no help whatsoever) , then remain hard and when I did ejaculate it was a pitiful amount. I was never under the illusion that I produced a porn-star gush, but I knew even by my standards it was rubbish!
Wanking away, but it was hopeless, I was dry.
So once I had regained my composure (less red, sweaty and generally grubby) and took my head out of my hands, I put my sample in the allotted cupboard, exited and bravely asked to speak to someone. Quite courageous for a wet lettuce like myself.
They were lovely and offered many words of encouragement; not the first by any means, they have to deal with all manner of situations (I didn't ask her to elaborate) and were more understanding still when I divulged that I was a nurse. If I'd prefer I can bring a second sample in from home next week, but they will still test today's sample.
Why didn't they offer this option initially, reducing the stress of hanging around all morning, having to drive for nearly an hour and obvious performance anxiety. Let me be frank (Hello Frank) I'm not and have never been one of life’s natural performers .
Beyond this, I didn't and don't have the inclination to make any jokes or draw attention to the situation. So no posts on Facebook or Twitter, just an anxious / embarrassed call to EJT.
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