So there I was - a dead car battery, the hospital a mile away, and a pants pocket full of expiring sperm (don't worry, they were in a container). As I quickly hoofed it down the sidewalk hurrying to get the "little guys" tested, I had to laugh at the ridiculousness of the present situation. Mom had always said to wear clean underwear, but imagine what they'd find if I was hit by a car now? But then, that nagging concern returned. What if there really was something wrong with my little "swimmers?" No guy wants to consider his "bad boys" may have finally gone...well...bad.

Let's face it, there is a rather deep-rooted male belief that you're only as good as your sperm. Lots of guys out there would rather stick their heads in the sand (so to speak) and ignore the problem rather than find out they are the problem. It's the stigma, the blame, the emasculation - "Bad motility, not me!!!"

My wife and I had been trying to conceive for just a few months. Still, our advancing age in "conception years" (mid-thirties) made our doctor feel it might be a good idea to have a few tests done. Her Hysterosalpingogram (an x-ray that checks the fallopian tubes for blockage) had come back fine. No problem, great news...except it was now my turn. And I, like most men, did not want to go through this rather embarrassing sperm test.

Think about it. You go to the office, they know exactly why you're there and exactly what you're going to be doing once that door shuts. And how thick could those doors really be? But then the realization -- certainly a few humiliating moments compared to what your partner will eventually go through during delivery is the least any guy can do to eventually get to that moment. And it's not like it was going to hurt.

I spoke to friends (you'd be surprised how many guys in their thirties have gone through this) and I talked things over with my doctor. I found out that since sperm can live for about an hour (if the container is kept in the pocket at body temperature), I could actually "give" at home, then bring it in to the hospital lab for testing.

Of course, the dead car battery wasn't part of the plan. Neither was running into my old-lady neighbor who wanted to know what was in my pocket.

A year and a half ago, my wife gave birth to our healthy little baby boy, thus giving my story a happy ending. It turned out our only problem had been nothing more than bad timing...and a cruddy alternator.

-- Mike Zack