Inside the Small Room

The hand crushing continued as we sat side by side, in a small room, littered with ageing posters and pamphlets on fertilisation and pregnancy. It was quiet, the room sufficiently removed from the hubbub of the waiting area, the whine of air tickling nasal hairs the only sound. We'd been sitting silently for at least ten minutes, waiting for the nasally man, pouring over some files on his desk to say something. I looked at my wife and noticed her excitement had morphed into irritation. If he sat there musing over that folder for much longer, the irritation would soon become homicidal rage.

"So," he began, turning his head and peering at us over his old man glasses. He was easily over sixty and had that air of someone who had been around for a long, long, long time and therefore knew everything, whether you knew it or not. Slightly unshaven, he watched us, his grey hair dancing on his head as the breeze from the air conditioner played at it. It looked like he was wearing a home made wig in shape of a cat. He seemed tall, if anyone can when sitting down, and his pants rested uncomfortably above his waistline, creating a weird jelly like muffin top effect. "How can I help you today?"

"We want to fall pregnant," came the response from my wife, the irritation drained from her voice and replaced once again by excitement, though a much more tempered version. We? "We just wanted to make sure everything was ok first." What's this we rubbish? I take no responsibility for this woman!

"I see," muttered the doctor, scrutinising us, me. "What makes you think there's something wrong?" He asked, studying me again. Man it's hot in here.

We've been trying for a while now..." Eh? When? What the hell? "...and nothing has happened, obviously. So we want to make sure nothing is wrong," said my wife, oblivious to my ignorance.

"How long have you not used protection?" posed the doctor, his hair bowing for its audience.

"About nine months." Oh! That's what she meant. Hang on. So the recent routine of regular shagging had nothing to do with me looking hot then? The bloody cheek!

"I see. That's not out of the ordinary. A lot of couples say similar things. It can take up to twelve months of trying. It also takes a bit of luck and some careful planning. But that doesn't mean anything is wrong with you," he states. "Either of you." Is that aircon on?

"Still, we would like to, you know, be tested." Again with the we!

"Alright then," he said, scrabbling about his desk for a piece of paper. "Take this and organise a time to have your sperm tested", he mumbles, handing me the paper. "When you're finished, we'll have a better idea of what's what." You're bloody joking right? I can tell you what's what! There'll be no testing of my boys whatsoever! End of. Final. Fin!

"And for you my dear," he said, turning his attentions to my wife, his hair putting on an encore performance. "Here's a request to do some blood tests, as well as some information on scheduling for best results and some techniques to aid delivery," he added sweetly. What's wrong with my technique? I've never had any complaints!

My wife took the handout and shook his hand, smiling like an idiot. Doctor Hair then held his hand out for me to shake, knowing that I knew that he had been insulting me the whole time, and once I did, with a smarmy grin he told us to arrange another appointment with him in six weeks time to 'discuss' the results. We all stood up together and with some not so gentle guidance, he extracted us from his office, closing the door behind us.

"Well?" Quizzed my wife's eyes. Why didn't I say something? Why did I just sit there nodding like a poorly supported muppet.

"That was..."I began, without really knowing what to say. I racked my brain, hoping to find something that wouldn't upset her unduly. "...interesting," I concluded finally. Her eyes beamed.

"I know! How good is he!" she exclaimed. "My sister told me he is the best Obstetrician in town!" She clutched my hand, squeezing it forcefully. The poor thing will be left a mangled mess by the time we get home. "You have to organise your appointment as soon as we get home," she commanded softly, as only she could. Bloody hell. I didn't want to go through with this. I didn't like Doctor Hair. Not one bit. What if there was something wrong with my boys? "This is great," she continued. "I'm gonna call mum and tell her the good news." Oh no...not your mum!