FEATURE: DIARY OF A SPERM DONOR

Intimations of Immortality from Collections of Early ManhoodIntimations of Immortality from Collections of Early Manhoodby Ben Myers The laboratories of my newfound potential profession were tucked tastefully away near Society Hill. Although I didn't have any trouble finding it, I certainly wouldn't have seen it if I wasn't looking. The offices had some reasonably high security, which mildly surprised me; I needed to be buzzed in to the waiting room. "It is a bank, after all," I reasoned, imagining the far-fetched possibility of an armed sperm heist. Since I was early, I was asked to wait a few moments in the empty waiting room. And, understandably, I began to get a little anxious. Not knowing what to expect, I imagined the worst: did they really use some sort of vacuum device? And would there be a catheter involved? Finally, a white-coated, rubber-gloved lab technician approached me. "Mr. Myers? You can come with me." I followed him around the corner. Pointing into a little room, he said, "the sample container is in the wicker basket." I nodded absent-mindedly, locked the door, and surveyed my surroundings. It didn't even really qualify as a room. It was more of an elongated closet–cum–bathroom than anything else. There was a sink, and a toilet; and, of course, tucked away in the corner was a large, pale imitation leather rocking chair set squarely in front of a 25–inch television set. I double–checked the door; it was locked. The wicker basket itself was the only puzzling aspect of the room. It looked large enough to easily hold a week's worth of dirty laundry, but inside was a solitary, lonely plastic bottle in sterile shrink-wrap. "Is this just the last one, or something? Wouldn't it be easier to just put it on a table?" I wondered. I had to reach way down into the basket to grab it. I re-checked the door: still locked. Assauged, I sat down. The first unwelcome thought was that my mother would certainly not be pleased with my proximity to the television. My second was that, in my semi-reclining position, my potentially valuable tools of the trade were in danger of becoming irradiated by the television's cathode rays. The video selections being piped in weren't what I would call hard-core pornography, but they were still too lewd to be cable-ready. The short clips featured just about everything short of violence. I noticed a sign above the set which read, "Please do not adjust the monitor. If you need help, ask an attendant." I thought about calling someone in to turn the volume up, just for fun, but decided against it. There were a few magazines on a table next to me; exactly the sort of stuff you would expect. On the bottom of the pile, however, was a Hollywood Women edition of People magazine, with a big picture of pre–diet Oprah on the cover. Shaken, but undeterred, I removed into a quiet corner of the room and did the job I was expected to do. Afterwards, I checked my zipper about ten times. I walked out into the hallway and handed my vial to the lab tech who said passively, "Mr. Myers, this will take about fifteen minutes to liquefy." Although I was unsure what I had to do with the liquefication process, I was ushered into another office. "The worst of it is over," I told myself. I discussed safety concerns with a doctor. He told me that rigorous health tests were also performed on sperm recipients to insure that there are no claims of donated sperm causing diseases which were previously contracted. Good to know. And he told me that there was a fifty-fifty chance that my sperm would fail the "freeze-thaw" test. "Some men's sperm just don't freeze well," he explained. Not exactly reassuring. A nurse took a few vials of blood to test for "the good stuff": gonorrhea, hepatitis, the whole fun gang of venereal diseases. I then had the extreme pleasure of taking some samples myself which involved intimate contact between a pair of oversized Q-tips and my urethra. I couldn't help but think of those cotton commercials with "the touch, the feel of cotton" refrains. It was pretty painful stuff and, after this, I definitely knew the worst was over. Finally, I was put to work completing my medical history. Since I'm a reasonably healthy guy, the medical forms went very quickly: no allergies, no operations, no psychological problems, not currently taking any medications. I was flying through them. Finally, I came to a tough one: the Donor Profile. Large letters on the top of the page read, "The information on these forms will be provided to parents and may be given to any children which result from your donations. For obvious psychological reasons, it is important for you to be as complete and as accurate as possible in completing the following questions." I slowed to a crawl. Imagining one of my offspring someday reading this very page, I concentrated a little harder on my handwriting, composed my answers a little more carefully, and began having second-thoughts about the whole process. How could I communicate my abilities and interests on a mere six lines? The thought of condensing something meaningful about my own father onto those six lines made me more than a little uneasy. What exactly is my motivation behind all this self-manipulation? I don't know. And the more I think about it, the less sure I am. I suppose part of it is purely monetary: $150 a week is a lot of money for the work involved. Of course, some of it is undeniably egotistical: the urge to become a father, albeit asexually, could be nothing more than a manifestation of my own significant conceit. After all, any kid of mine has got better than a fighting chance, even considering the unknown factor of my mate-to-be. And there's even some altruism thrown in for good measure: these couples have decided that they want to have a child which is one-half theirs. By purely biological luck, I have some pretty decent genes and am willing to share them. And strangely enough, the thought of unknowingly running into my son or daughter 20 years in the future doesn't particularly bother me. So many of my friends kept asking me, "doesn't the thought of a bunch of little Myers running around bother you?" that I began to be a little offended. "Does the thought of a bunch of little Myers running around bother you?" I would counter. I remembered that everyone in the office calling me "Mr. Myers" began to really irritate me. Perhaps if I'm not ready to be addressed as an adult, I'm not ready to become a father. Even anonymously.