The Old Fashion Way

We had tried everything. We watched the calendar, rushed to the bedroom when it was time, saw a specialist, took the medications, even considered adoption.  Then a few tests and we found it was me. I was who was keeping us from having a baby.   My sperm count was lower than the Mets batting average.

It was traumatic to find it was me.  The specialist suggested artificial insemination, but Claire objected to the artificiality of the process.  The mechanics of sitting on a table with her legs spread and a doctor inserting sperm with what looked like a turkey baster.

Finally, one afternoon in June, she asked the question that had been on her mind all week.  "Could you accept the old fashioned way?" she asked.  I pretended not to know what she meant, but I knew.  From the first moment I understood what she wanted.

Could I accept a donor who did his own implanting?  When she'd rejected the artificiality of normal artificial implantation, I knew the other options. There weren't many.  One sure way to get sperm in her, without a doctor putting it there was for a living, breathing donor to do the task himself.  Could I handle someone else inserting his own sperm? I wasn't sure.

It was true she was so unhappy to not be able to be a mother, and I was the reason she couldn't.   That was depressing.  It was almost as bad to think it was me that was keeping from having children than it was to think about another man giving her the sperm in the "old fashioned approach."   If a baby was the goal, and I couldn't manage that for her, wasn't it the same with adoption: it would be another man's child from his sperm.  If a doctor implanted the sperm, they would be another man's seed.  It would simply be another process, right?  Wasn't it just a different tool to implant the semen?

If it was that simple, why did I have so much trouble with it?   Was having a baby the most important thing?  And if it was, what did it matter?   I could not think of anything else throughout the day, and I was torn between having a baby and the way to get that result.  I was angry with myself because I was being so possessive and insisting she do it my way, but then my way was the normal way, the biological way.

I did not understand her objection to the normal way an artificial insemination was done.  She simply said it was too mechanical, too impersonal.  I tried to argue that it was no more impersonal than a tooth decay filling, that it was just part of the process, but she said this is not a filling, this was "having a baby."  She even got angry that I equated it with dental work.  That had not been a good strategy.   I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.

I have tried to think of this unemotionally, like as if it wasn't sex anymore than would be with the doctor injecting semen into her vagina.  Would she be having sex with a turkey baster?  It got to be a "how could you be so insecure to not allow her to get pregnant any way she could?"  Finally, I decided I had to bite the bullet and talk to her about it, to at least consider the possibility.  I asked her if we could talk.  Yes, the old 'we have to talk' ploy.

We sat at the kitchen table, like we were going to talk about dinner plans.  She looked positively devastated, like her last friend had died, like the mortgage was due and the landlord was at the door twisting his mustache between his fingers.

"I know you don't want to go the artificial insemination route.  You want to talk to me about it?" I said.

"I know it isn't fair to ask you to approve of a donor, an old fashion type donor to have six with me, but I just can't accept the turkey baster full of sperm thing," she said.  "That's just gross," she added.   I knew if she thought something was "gross" she would never agree to it.  "Gross" was her way of saying that something was undignified to her, like a kid saying something was yucky.

We sat silently for awhile, then I said, "How would you like to handle it?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a romantic thing, or anything like that," she said.  "I just thought we'd find someone, you know, then get some time together, for me and him."  I told her if that was what she wanted, I would work with that. I said if that was how she would get a baby I was fine with it, that I would learn to accept it.

"I would just think of it like you were seeing a doctor, a specialist.  It would be like he was doing a service for us," I said.

"Could you love a baby that came from someone else?" she asked.

"You know I could love a child that we adopted, right?" I said.  "Of course I could."

"Then could you handle this?" Claire asked again. "This is what it comes down to," she said.  "We want a child. Could you deal with a man coming here to fuck me and give me a baby?"  I said I thought so.  I hoped it would be one time, but I thought I could.  "Well, it has to be more than you think you can," she said firmly.  I said I could.

"Well, I have some candidates," she said handing me a sheet of paper.  There were ten names on it with descriptions and personal information.  I asked where she got it.  "I have been doing research," she said.  Claire had found a group online at a site listed as Natural Way.  She handed me a copy of a very impressive list.  Each man was the very best in his specialty, each one described by others as most talented.  One of them was the the handsomest man many had ever seen.  Another was described as the most gifted mathematician they'd ever seen.  The third on the list was thought to be the most brilliant musician any had encountered in the lives.  One fellow had the highest IQ ever tested at Stanford.   One fellow was thought to be the strongest man to ever enter a weightlifting competition at the Olympic level.

Each of them were the very best in their specialty, but each one also had at least one gigantic flaw.  The handsome one was described by some as dreadfully arrogant.  The mathematician was "hopelessly" over confident.  The musician was debilitatingly insecure.     The man thought to be the best athlete in a generation was monumentally thoughtless when it came to the plight of others. The gifted scientist was so single minded he could not achieve anything out of his specialty.  "He couldn't put gas in his own car," someone said

Was this going to be a 'pick the least negative' type of thing?   Was it going to be a matter of finding the least offensive, or starting all over again?  Was it a fact of life, however, that all of us have a weakness that would disqualify us for a list of this type?   Was this just what humans were like?   Was looking for the best sperm provider a matter of also accepting the worst?

She wanted my input, but my honest answer had to be you could get the top in one thing and the bottom in something else.  Was it a personality decision?  Could it be that simple or that uncomplicated?   When people listed their skills and talents at a fertility clinic did they just ignore their weaknesses?  Of course.  No one says, "I am really very bright, but I am also terribly shy, uncoordinated, or quick tempered."

The list of men we put together showed how the best sperm providers were not necessarily superior in everything.  We decided to wait to make a choice, let her check further and do more research to find the best candidate, and we would put together another list of men.  She still wanted to do it the natural way, and I supported what she wanted, even though I didn't fully understand why she objected to artificial insemination.

The second group of men were much like the first, but there was one candidate who had not one single negative mentioned by those who had evaluated him.  He was a college athlete from Los Angeles, was six foot three, had won scholarship awards in high school, was senior class president, and he was black.  Not one person rated him lower than five on a six point scale in anything.

He was listed as subject #421 and he could be reached by email at naturalway421@donor.com.   Claire looked at me and shrugged.   I took her in my arms and told her I would support whatever she wanted to do.  "I think I want to meet 421," she said.

We sent the email and gave our own as well as her cell phone number.  That afternoon her cell phone played Uptown Girl, which was her ringtone and the caller ID just said 421.  "Hello," she said timidly.

"This is subject 421, did someone here inquire about a emission donor?" the person asked in a deep male voice, deep but soft.  She left it on speaker and the voice sounded pleasant and educated to me.  She said she had sent the message and asked if it would be possible for us to meet to discuss it.

He directed us to a Starbucks on Pacific and said to be there at ten that morning and he would be at table eight.  I wondered if he would asked anyone already at table eight to move. Table eight was outside and none of the outside tables were taken except that one.

A black man in a brown suit coat was sitting at eight and stood up as we approached.  "I am Julian," he said putting out his arm.  She let him take her hand and then I shook his and told him my name was Andre and hers was Claire.

"I want a baby, but I want to do it the old fashion way," she said with an embarrassed grin.

"That is what we do," he said handing her a pack of papers.  They were certificates from a medical clinic certifying him healthy and disease free.  He also gave her a paper with his high sperm count noted at the top along with his name, address, social security number, picture, and finger prints.

She started to sign the contract and looked over at me before she did, giving me her this-is-your-last-chance-to-object look.    I nodded and she signed.  It was agreed it would happen the next day.  We said goodbye, shook hands, and drove home.

That night neither of us said a word about any of it until we were getting into bed.  "Well, we should know soon," I said.  She kissed me and we made love the last time before she would have sex with another man to receive his sperm to have him give her a baby.

The next morning during breakfast she was excited, that was clear.  On the drive to the hotel she was quiet, thinking, I was sure, about what we were about to do.  At the hotel we went to room 301 and knocked.  Julian open the door, greeted us, and I left her with him, then I went to my own room.

Our agreement was she could call it off at any time, although if she did we would still pay him for his services.  Once inside my room I turned on the television and tried not to think of what was happening down the hall. That simply was impossible.

It took two weeks until we got a positive result.  The baby's name is Candice and she is now three.  She has beautiful chocolate skin, dark eyes, and was an almost perfect baby.  Do I have any trouble loving her as my own?  Not even one single bit.  Her middle name is Julia, in honor of her father, and she is the perfect image of the man whose sperm led to her birth.  We probably won't tell the story of her birth, but what is important is that she is happy.  It may not the normal way it is done, but the Old Fashion Way turned out the best way for us.