It's official. I'm normal. I never really thought I'd take pleasure in normality, or even want to be associated with the word - I'm special, dammit! But when it applies to my sperm, I can't be anything but thankful for being just that. Indeed, as the nurse at the doctor's surgery put me on hold to search for my results, the butterflies in my stomach began flapping, and, sotte voce, I prayed. And then felt abnormally relieved to be told that yes, I am a fully-functioning member of the Fertile Man Club, and that I have a fully-functioning member.
Put differently, there's nout wrong with my tadpoles. No sirry, bob. And given that I wanked to NHS porn after a spunk-free seven days that culminated in a ball-heating (bad for sperm production) 10 mile bike ride to Hammersmith Hospital (which isn't in Hammersmith), it would suggest that I am less normal than the tests would suggest. I am, I'm convinced, in possession of superhuman sperm that have so far failed to find their target due to nothing more than bad luck and poor timing.
My wife, meanwhile, had a blood test that proved she's ovulating normally too. All that now awaits us her is an ultrasound which, we pray, will also come up normal.
