The Semen Sample - January 2024

6.8 miles by bike feels like a bit of a chore at the best of times, but when it’s a drizzly January morning, this feeling is only enhanced. Especially when you’re fairly confident that the route through the outer reaches of Bristolian suburbia won’t exactly be a bucolic landscape to ride through. That said, I’d heard rumours that there was a Tesco Extra on-route which I could drop into on the way home, and who isn’t excited by those massive supermarkets, so big they include a mezzanine level for clothing?

I had booked a semen test, the cheapest one I could find, a couple of weeks after Christmas. It was my first concrete step towards becoming a co-parent. All of my thoughts of potential fatherhood up to this point had felt somewhat academic until I knew whether I was physically capable of actually producing offspring. I felt relaxed about the concept of the test - ejaculating into a test tube wasn’t going to be an issue - not that it was a sexual fantasy of mine or anything, it just didn’t overly concern me. The woman on the phone had said that ideally I would produce the sample at home, and then bring it to the clinic within a 90 minute time-frame, but the image of a frantic dash across town clutching a pot of semen, yelling at anyone in my path that “my sperm was going to die!” if they didn’t get out of the way, dissuaded me from that option.

I set off on the Thursday morning more concerned about the Tour de France-esque trek to the clinic, than what was going to occur once I got there. A clammy 40 minutes later I arrived at the clinic in its faintly secretive location tucked among anonymous, red brick units on an industrial estate next to the motorway. There was a cafe immediately next door and I wondered how many hopeful parents had gone in there after visiting the clinic, to process upsetting news about their attempts to conceive, or maybe to celebrate joyous test results?

The clinic had an atmosphere about it, as though it was haunted - not by the ghosts of headless Victorians, but by the spirits of all the awkward men, anxious women and nervous LGBTQ folks who must have passed through over the years. The receptionist handed me a clipboard with a form to complete. I took it over to the waiting area, carefully selecting a seat where the chances of accidental eye contact with the one other patient in the room were slim to none. I knew what he was here to do, and he knew what I was here to do, and acknowledging each other’s presence was only going to make it more awkward. Aside from the expected questions about my medical history and my personal details, the form I’d been asked to complete also contained questions about my ‘partner’. Not for the first time I was struck by how uncommon it must still be for single people to be on the path towards parenthood. I scribbled ‘N/A’ in all the fields relating to my partner, and hoped the receptionist wouldn’t raise any questions when I handed it back.

I was excited to see they had a copy of Top Gear magazine in the waiting room, a new issue too, with a feature about what it’s like to own an exclusive Ferrari. It wasn’t the sort of magazine I had been expecting here, but I was more than happy. Before I could get fully immersed in the article I was called by the receptionist. She showed me to my room, explaining where to put the container once I’d deposited my sample into it, before pointing to a packet of wet wipes in case I needed to do any cleaning-up of the room afterwards. It occurred to me that this might be one of the oddest locations at which to be cleaner. I also cringed at the imagined scenario of having to go downstairs to the receptionist to explain that unfortunately I’d missed the sample pot, and that could I please book another appointment?

Thankfully I managed to avoid this imaginary chain of events. After a few motivational words to my sperm, I placed my sample pot into the collection cubby built into the wall of the room. As I was leaving I was startled by the sound of someone in the adjoining room retrieving my sample from what must have been a door on their side of the cubby. Once out in the corridor I noticed that the room next to mine was some sort of laboratory, populated with white-suited technicians. The realisation that there was so little separating my private room from this bustling lab left me grateful that I hadn’t been noisy when generating my sample. I pictured technicians with their ears on glasses pressed against the wall, sniggering to colleagues - “hey Gordon, listen to the noises this guy is making!”   

As I signed out at reception I wondered if it would be inappropriate for me to sit back down in the waiting room to finish reading that Ferrari article. Are you allowed to sit in waiting rooms after you’ve had your appointment? I decided against it and went to collect my bike. Anyway, there was a massive Tesco around the corner that I was keen to explore.