The Sympathetic Strike
If you are a male entering the fertility system in Australia, you don't usually start in a clinical room. You start in a car, sitting right on the speed limit.
The process is archaic. You visit a GP. They give you a referral. They give you a plastic jar. They give you The Rules:
- Produce the sample at home/somewhere private.
- Get it to the lab within 45 minutes.
- Keep it at exactly body temperature.
This is the Sperm Dash.
Suddenly, you are in the worst action movie of all time. You are the Transporter. Your cargo is your own potential children. And the temperature control method recommended by medical professionals is, quite literally, "put it down your pants".
So there I was. One hand on the wheel. The other checking the seatbelt. A plastic cup tucked against my inner thigh like a lukewarm concealed weapon.
Every red light felt like a personal attack. I turned the radio off because I felt like the sperm couldn't concentrate with the noise.
I sprinted into the pathology centre. I slammed the referral on the counter. I reached into my trousers, a move that usually gets you arrested, and checked for the warm cup. The receptionist was kind but looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.
I felt like I had accomplished a mission. Package delivered.
Then we got the call. The doctor didn't use soft language. He said the sample contained no sperm. None.
I thought: But I did the drive. I kept it warm. I followed the rules.
That empty cup was the first domino. "Zero sperm" is a red flag. They sent me for a scan. That scan found the tumor.
The logic was simple: They couldn't biopsy the mass because poking it might spread the cells. They just had to take the whole testicle. So, I went into surgery. They evicted the intruder.
We waited for the pathology. It came back benign.
A stay of execution. But I was now a card-carrying member of the "Uniball" club. I told myself it was for aerodynamics. I told myself I’d be lighter on the bike.
But here is where the "Sympathetic Strike" began.
My plumbing was broken. The only way to get sperm now was a surgical extraction (TESA). But tragedy hates to work alone. Courtney was fighting her own war. She had Low Ovarian Reserve.
We were fighting on two fronts. My factory was closed. Her supply chain was running out.
This is where the "Support Partner" label feels like a joke. To get the eggs, Courtney had to go on an aggressive stimulation protocol. Needles. Hormones. Internal ultrasounds. She was bruising her stomach black and blue to squeeze every last possibility out of her ovaries.
And me? I had my one surgery. I woke up with an ice pack on my groin. I milked the sympathy. And then... I was just the guy driving the car.
In the labour movement, a Sympathetic Strike is when workers who aren't aggrieved stop working to support those who are. In our home, it felt like our biologies had formed a union and decided to walk off the job at the exact same time.
I helped with the injections. I pinched the skin on her stomach. I drove the needle in.
She didn't flinch. She just exhaled.
I wanted to say something profound. I wanted to say, "I am so sorry that I am holding the needle but you are the one taking the damage".
But I didn't. I just asked if she wanted tea.
Because that is the only currency you have left. Tea. Carrying the bags. Being the Logistics Manager of the apocalypse. You try to control the environment. The traffic, the temperature, the dosage, because neither of you can control the biology.
We don't have "Wine and Cry" nights about Azoospermia. We make jokes. We joke about the "Sperm Run." We joke about the "Uniball". We joke to keep the shame from eating us alive.
But late at night, when the lights are out and you can hear your partner breathing, the jokes stop.
And you are left with the cold, hard reality: That silly plastic cup saved my life. But it cost us the timeline we thought we were going to have.
If you’ve ever had to drive with precious cargo down your pants, [Buy Us A Chip].
