As a survivor of military trauma (both mental and physical), I spend a fair amount of time at Veterans Affairs, aka the VA.

Due to a TBI, my lack of memory means I follow a system: Receive an appointment letter, place it on the fridge, and on the correct date I grab the letter and head to the VA.

I don't bother looking at what the appointment is, since I'm sure they know what they're doing (a laughable concept in US healthcare). Besides, I'd forget what I left the house for by the time I arrived.

Today’s appointment was a surprise.

After a difficult bike ride into the wind, I further overestimated my physical prowess with an 8-floor climb up the stairs. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I wheezed my way over to the nurse’s desk.

“Can I help you, sweetie?”

“I’m…. looking for……. 8101?”

“You’re there, hon. I’ll check you in.”

I wandered away to slump into a waiting chair. I was early, so I had some time to breathe before--

“Bones? Mr. S. Bones?”

Shit. Okay. I heaved myself up, my heart rate still refusing to normalize as I followed a second nurse to the examination room. 

“Have a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

I relaxed, happy to have a little time to stop sweating before I had to interact with Dr. Whatever-Department-This-Is.

Then I stopped relaxing. 

On the wall across from me was a poster of male anatomy. I’m comfortable with nudity and the human form; What caught my attention was the addition of a vividly blue hand, index finger extended. 

My eyes darted around the room, taking in new waves of information. 

• An examination table, mostly reclined. 

• A handwashing station nearby. 

• A single tube of mystery paste, crushed in the middle without ceremony. 

• Piles of tissue boxes.

• *A can of POWER DUSTER™. I sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be needed.*

Mounted in reach on the walls, an unnecessary number of glove boxes. Every size was available. It took me less than a blink to see they, like the offending poster, were a deep, calming blue. 

This did not make me calm. An extended blue finger loomed in my future.

To be clear, I understand the fun of an additional poke in your tickle session. But today I wasn’t *prepared.*

Sure, I keep myself groomed. But had I used the bathroom today? Was I clean? And WHY HAD I BIKED AND HIKED UP 8 FLOORS?

Some poor doctor was about to have their face within a foot of a potential biohazard, and I’d done nothing to prevent their fate. 

A knock at the door interrupted my quiet panic.

“Mr. Bones?”

I turned to see my doomed doctor, a 6’3” muscular man in his late 30s. This, at least, was a small relief. If it’d been a woman, I probably would’ve imploded under the force of my embarrassment. At least a fellow male can empathize with our specific, myriad smells. 

He walked into the room and sat across from me, reaching forward for a handshake. I watched in dismay as my hand disappeared in his grip. This could get intense.

“I see you’re in here for some fertility concerns?”

“Yep. The main room I spent time in on the ship was surrounded by radiation generators. I’ve never had any pregnancy scares, so I wanted to see if everything actually works.”

I was a stereotypical Navy boy. Lots of promiscuous nights in worldwide port towns and this little sailor didn’t bother with protection. I got lucky. The only STI I caught was from my ex-wife after a year of marriage. Where'd she get that, you ask? Great question; We're now divorced. Anyway, back to the present.

Doc and I went through all the usual questions about libido and erections, and he made up his mind.

“Okay. It sounds like everything is fine, mechanically. I’ll order a sperm analysis and get you a sample cup. You can even provide the sample at home.”

Relieved that the end was in sight, I threw a joke into the ring.

“You don’t want me to use a ziplock bag?”

“We prefer paper, actually. Better for the environment.”

I stared at Doc. He stared at me. Then his eyes crinkled and our laughter broke the tension. 

Alright, free and clear. Just need the cup, then I'm out of– 

“Do you mind if I take a quick look at everything, just to be sure there’s nothing abnormal?”

“.......................................no?”

“No, you don’t mind?”

“................yes?” Damn.

“Great!”

He sat and waited as I unbelted and dropped my shorts. The only solace I had was that the ongoing ‘Vid scares required us to wear masks. Hopefully he would be spared from the crotch miasma by his own coffee breath. 

After feeling around for a bit, the doctor uttered a terrifying word: “Huh.”

I glanced down at his forehead, which was wrinkled with confusion.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes…. one second.”

Further squeeze. Further silence. He finally released me from his grip. 

“Okay, I’ll need you to hop onto the table. Maybe it’s just because you’re standing.”

“Maybe what’s because I’m standing?” I was nervous about his ambiguity. 

“It’s nothing to worry about, totally normal, it just happens sometimes.”

“What happens sometimes?” I pressed, dismissing my potential swamp situation. 

“One of your vas deferens is missing.”

“Missing? What, did it just fall out? Get eaten away?”

The doctor shrugged. “Possibly never developed.”

I laid down on the table, a little stunned. Further searching followed. A minute of silence.

“Y’know, I have a flashlight in my bag. Need me to stick a light under there, see what you see?”

He let out a small laugh, gaze unfocused.

“No, it’s mostly a feel kinda thing. I’ve inspected, god, must be tens o’thousands of testicles at this point. You get used to what you’re looking for.”

“Jesus. What time scale are we talking here? Because anything less than five years is a deluge of nuts.”

Another distracted chuckle. 

“No, it’s more like… Oh! There it is! Weird. Turns out one of yours is backwards.”

“………….cool?”

“Yep. A little unusual, but nothing to worry about. Alright, great. Get dressed, and I’ll go get that sample cup.”

I cautiously pulled up my shorts. Doc hadn’t mentioned a prostate exam, and I wasn’t going to remind him. Not with those fingers.

Once he left the room, I finally relaxed. Then his words sank in. One of yours is backwards? What does that even mean?

The doctor’s return pulled me from my thoughts.

“You’re in luck! We have the cup and you get a ziplock bag. Now you get choices!” he winked. 

“So to be clear……”

“Yes?”

“One of my testicles is backwards?”

“No, no. Just the Vas Deferens. It usually attaches to the front. Yours is at the back.”

I nodded, staying silent.

“Yep! So you’re good to go. I’ll walk you out. Here’s that cup.”

He pressed the container into my hand, and strode out the door. I followed, a little dazed by his cheerful lack of concern. He pointed me to the exit, then ducked back down the hall. I assume he was rushing his return to the deluge.

I was halfway through my ride home when I realized they hadn’t told me where to deliver a plastic cup of semen. 

Guess I’ll find out my usual way: totally unprepared, and blindsided by an expectant doctor.   

As a survivor of military trauma (both mental and physical), I spend a fair amount of time at Veterans Affairs, aka the VA.

Due to a TBI, my lack of memory means I follow a system: Receive an appointment letter, place it on the fridge, and on the correct date I grab the letter and head to the VA.

I don't bother looking at what the appointment is, since I'm sure they know what they're doing (a laughable concept in US healthcare). Besides, I'd forget what I left the house for by the time I arrived.

Today’s appointment was a surprise.

After a difficult bike ride into the wind, I further overestimated my physical prowess with an 8-floor climb up the stairs. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I wheezed my way over to the nurse’s desk.

“Can I help you, sweetie?”

“I’m…. looking for……. 8101?”

“You’re there, hon. I’ll check you in.”

I wandered away to slump into a waiting chair. I was early, so I had some time to breathe before--

“Bones? Mr. S. Bones?”

Shit. Okay. I heaved myself up, my heart rate still refusing to normalize as I followed a second nurse to the examination room. 

“Have a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

I relaxed, happy to have a little time to stop sweating before I had to interact with Dr. Whatever-Department-This-Is.

Then I stopped relaxing. 

On the wall across from me was a poster of male anatomy. I’m comfortable with nudity and the human form; What caught my attention was the addition of a vividly blue hand, index finger extended. 

My eyes darted around the room, taking in new waves of information. 

• An examination table, mostly reclined. 

• A handwashing station nearby. 

• A single tube of mystery paste, crushed in the middle without ceremony. 

• Piles of tissue boxes.

• *A can of POWER DUSTER™. I sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be needed.*

Mounted in reach on the walls, an unnecessary number of glove boxes. Every size was available. It took me less than a blink to see they, like the offending poster, were a deep, calming blue. 

This did not make me calm. An extended blue finger loomed in my future.

To be clear, I understand the fun of an additional poke in your tickle session. But today I wasn’t *prepared.*

Sure, I keep myself groomed. But had I used the bathroom today? Was I clean? And WHY HAD I BIKED AND HIKED UP 8 FLOORS?

Some poor doctor was about to have their face within a foot of a potential biohazard, and I’d done nothing to prevent their fate. 

A knock at the door interrupted my quiet panic.

“Mr. Bones?”

I turned to see my doomed doctor, a 6’3” muscular man in his late 30s. This, at least, was a small relief. If it’d been a woman, I probably would’ve imploded under the force of my embarrassment. At least a fellow male can empathize with our specific, myriad smells. 

He walked into the room and sat across from me, reaching forward for a handshake. I watched in dismay as my hand disappeared in his grip. This could get intense.

“I see you’re in here for some fertility concerns?”

“Yep. The main room I spent time in on the ship was surrounded by radiation generators. I’ve never had any pregnancy scares, so I wanted to see if everything actually works.”

I was a stereotypical Navy boy. Lots of promiscuous nights in worldwide port towns and this little sailor didn’t bother with protection. I got lucky. The only STI I caught was from my ex-wife after a year of marriage. Where'd she get that, you ask? Great question; We're now divorced. Anyway, back to the present.

Doc and I went through all the usual questions about libido and erections, and he made up his mind.

“Okay. It sounds like everything is fine, mechanically. I’ll order a sperm analysis and get you a sample cup. You can even provide the sample at home.”

Relieved that the end was in sight, I threw a joke into the ring.

“You don’t want me to use a ziplock bag?”

“We prefer paper, actually. Better for the environment.”

I stared at Doc. He stared at me. Then his eyes crinkled and our laughter broke the tension. 

Alright, free and clear. Just need the cup, then I'm out of– 

“Do you mind if I take a quick look at everything, just to be sure there’s nothing abnormal?”

“.......................................no?”

“No, you don’t mind?”

“................yes?” Damn.

“Great!”

He sat and waited as I unbelted and dropped my shorts. The only solace I had was that the ongoing ‘Vid scares required us to wear masks. Hopefully he would be spared from the crotch miasma by his own coffee breath. 

After feeling around for a bit, the doctor uttered a terrifying word: “Huh.”

I glanced down at his forehead, which was wrinkled with confusion.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes…. one second.”

Further squeeze. Further silence. He finally released me from his grip. 

“Okay, I’ll need you to hop onto the table. Maybe it’s just because you’re standing.”

“Maybe what’s because I’m standing?” I was nervous about his ambiguity. 

“It’s nothing to worry about, totally normal, it just happens sometimes.”

“What happens sometimes?” I pressed, dismissing my potential swamp situation. 

“One of your vas deferens is missing.”

“Missing? What, did it just fall out? Get eaten away?”

The doctor shrugged. “Possibly never developed.”

I laid down on the table, a little stunned. Further searching followed. A minute of silence.

“Y’know, I have a flashlight in my bag. Need me to stick a light under there, see what you see?”

He let out a small laugh, gaze unfocused.

“No, it’s mostly a feel kinda thing. I’ve inspected, god, must be tens o’thousands of testicles at this point. You get used to what you’re looking for.”

“Jesus. What time scale are we talking here? Because anything less than five years is a deluge of nuts.”

Another distracted chuckle. 

“No, it’s more like… Oh! There it is! Weird. Turns out one of yours is backwards.”

“………….cool?”

“Yep. A little unusual, but nothing to worry about. Alright, great. Get dressed, and I’ll go get that sample cup.”

I cautiously pulled up my shorts. Doc hadn’t mentioned a prostate exam, and I wasn’t going to remind him. Not with those fingers.

Once he left the room, I finally relaxed. Then his words sank in. One of yours is backwards? What does that even mean?

The doctor’s return pulled me from my thoughts.

“You’re in luck! We have the cup and you get a ziplock bag. Now you get choices!” he winked. 

“So to be clear……”

“Yes?”

“One of my testicles is backwards?”

“No, no. Just the Vas Deferens. It usually attaches to the front. Yours is at the back.”

I nodded, staying silent.

“Yep! So you’re good to go. I’ll walk you out. Here’s that cup.”

He pressed the container into my hand, and strode out the door. I followed, a little dazed by his cheerful lack of concern. He pointed me to the exit, then ducked back down the hall. I assume he was rushing his return to the deluge.

I was halfway through my ride home when I realized they hadn’t told me where to deliver a plastic cup of semen. 

Guess I’ll find out my usual way: totally unprepared, and blindsided by an expectant doctor.