Banking

Did I need to bank any sperm? Probably not. From the professionals’ surprisingly non-judgemental point of view they offered me the opportunity as a precautionary measure. They knew I had no children and they knew I was gay and when they asked me if I wanted to have children I said probably not, but they still offered me the chance. They told me that although my fertility level would be lowered somewhat by the chemotherapy most patients saw it return to normal afterwards and went on to have children normally, and I would probably be the same given I was only getting one dose. But they still offered me the chance. And I thank them for that.

From my point of view, given my sexuality and where I was at in my life right now, I thought it unlikely that I would want children of my own in the near or distant future. Add into this the thought that if I did want children I would think it better to adopt, then it’s increasingly unlikely. But why take away the choice? I decided that, though I probably wouldn’t have any use for my sperm in the future I envisioned for myself, I still wanted it there if I changed my mind.

Plus I wanted to experience what sperm banking was like.

Turns out it’s quite amusing.

So I left work in my lunch hour and headed to the hospital, this time to yet another new department – the Assisted Conception Unit. It was a little awkward at the reception as there were people stood behind me but I eased the situation by using medical euphemisms: “Hi, I’ve come to give a sample.” Much more appropriate than: “Hi, I’ve come to wank into a pot for you.”

A nurse showed me to the room. She explained the procedure: I’m to lock the door twice so the red light is switched on and people know not to disturb you; I’m to produce the sample into the pot, screw the lid on tight, place in the plastic bag, and place into the plastic container to be sent up a shoot (as it were) to the laboratory. She then showed me how to work the shoot (as it were).

She left me to it and I shut the door behind me. I fiddled with the lock for awhile, unsure whether it was locking twice or not. I realised I was nervous and told myself to stop pissing about and get on with it. The room was small with a leather recliner and foot stool in one corner, a sink and mirror in the other and a desk with a TV and DVD player.

I decided to peruse the ‘materials’ they’d kindly left to stimulate you. I was sorely disappointed: all the magazines and DVDs they had were aimed squarely at the heterosexual market. There wasn’t even the odd cock to look at – it was exclusively girl on girl action. I had to rely on the old ‘wank bank’ instead.

(For those not au fait with the term ‘wank bank’, it merely means a collection of sexual fantasies or previous excellent sexual experiences that are stored in the head for the use of stimulation as and when they are required.)

The harsh glare of the hospital light added to the clinical nature of what I was about to do. But they’d thought of that. Between the desk and the sink was a lamp with which you could create ‘mood lighting’. I did just that.

When I was done (I’ve got to tell you I aimed well, not a drop was wasted) I screwed on the cap and had a look at what I’d produced. I was pleased with it. It looked pretty, you know, spermy. I wrote my number on it, put it in the bag and container and went outside to stick it up the shoot (as it were). I braced myself as I opened the door, expecting to have to look someone in the eye who would know exactly what I’d been up to. There was no one there.

I was told I had to wait to see a doctor before I could go so I settled in the waiting room. It was all young couples. I got the odd questioning look. I was kind of wondering why I was here as well.

I waited forever. I filled out some forms they gave me. It was pretty heavy stuff. I had to give consent for embryos created with my sperm to be stored, fair enough, but I also had to decide whether I would allow my sperm or embryos to be used for training (I did) and what would happen to my sperm or embryos in the event of my death or mental incapacity (sperm got rid of, but embryos could be used by my partner, I decided). I wasn’t sure that any of it was the right decision. The enormity of it overwhelmed me a little. It was the kind of ethics I never thought I would have to contend with, yet here it was getting right in my face.

I flicked through a massive book of photos of London to distract myself. I got through the whole thing. I was getting antsy as I’d not told them what I was doing at work, I’d just mentioned blood tests as I couldn’t be bothered to explain this one, and I didn’t want any questions when I got back. I went to reception.

Everyone had seemed to have gone to lunch. I eventually got someone’s attention and reminded them of my existence. I was cajoled by the receptionist, who assured me she would get someone to see me. It took another 10 minutes but she eventually came good on her promise.

A lady doctor saw me. She was pretty and gently direct. We discussed the forms and she told me I didn’t have to worry about the questions of embryos and using my sperm for training. It was more just to get my permission for storage. We talked a little about what would happen if I needed to make a withdrawal (as it were) on what I’d banked. She told me about IVF. It all seemed totally irrelevant to me. What was I doing there? All she knew was I was single with no children, so she was giving me all the information she felt I needed. I made out like it was more important to me than it was.

She told me I may have to bank some more. This wasn’t so appealing. The novelty was totally gone now. But if the sample I’d given them didn’t have enough sperm in it for the IVF process then they would need more, i.e. if it wasn’t good quality they needed more quantity.

Despite my long wait and the chat with the doctor, the lab hadn’t yet analysed my sample. So I made a tentative appointment to return. A couple of hours later the lady doctor called me at work. I retreated to a quiet room where no one could hear me discussing the quality of my sperm. Turns out it was pretty good stuff. The doctor told me it was up to me if I wanted to come back and give more, just to be on the safe side. I said I’d go with her advice: did I need to go back or would there be enough sperm there for the IVF process? She told me it was good enough.

I may be firing on one cylinder, but I’m still firing well.