‘Your wife joining us?’ The consultant’s voice tolled like a bell announcing his expensive education at Westminster, then Cambridge.
‘She’s just out there with our daughter. We didn’t want to bring Millie in here.’
The doctor nodded, an efficient bob of the head; he understood and didn’t want to spend any more time on the matter. He opened the file on the desk and started talking.
Simon had heard a lot of the words before. They burnt his ears; the heat of the sting hadn’t gone away even after all these years. Even after Millie. Asthenospermia, motility, zona pellucida binding. He had been quite good at science at school, but he quickly became lost. He was trying to concentrate, although annoyingly he found he was drifting in and out, hearing the words but not absolutely one hundred per cent making sense of them. Not quite able to string them together. This did happen to him from time to time. Occasionally in client meetings, after a lunchtime jar, or when Daisy was telling him something about his mother. He didn’t mean to lose track. It just happened. Percentage motile concentration, average path velocity, non-progressive motility. He wanted to get to the bit where the doctor asked if he had any questions, because he did. One. ‘Would there be another miracle?’ That was all that mattered, that cut through all these big words and small percentages.
Non-progressive motility though? That couldn’t be good. It had the damning prefix ‘non’. The doctor continued to intone, Simon reminded himself just how much this consultation had cost and redoubled his efforts to concentrate, to take it in.
‘It is estimated that one in twenty men has some kind of fertility problem with low numbers of sperm in his ejaculate. However, only about one in every one hundred men has no sperm in his ejaculate.’ The doctor used these words without a trace of embarrassment, of course he did. It was exactly like Simon using the words ‘colour palette’, ‘tactile fabrics’, or ‘commanding wall feature’.
‘So, you have non-progressive motility, which is as I mentioned, defined as anything less than five micrometers per second. That combined with your low sperm count presents us with some difficulties, I’m afraid.’
‘What is the motility rate of my sperm then?’ Simon asked.
‘One point five.’
Oh. It sounded bad. ‘And the other thing? The sperm count. What’s the range there?’
‘WHO normal range is 15 to 213 million cells per ml.’
Simon nodded but it meant nothing to him. 15 to 213 million. That was quite a range.
‘And mine is?’
‘Two.’ Martell had the decency to meet Simon’s eye. Two million. Not hopeless then. You only needed one, didn’t you? Were cells the same thing as sperm? He didn’t know. He should ask. The expression on the consultant’s face was one of stern concentration. Simon searched it for optimism, assurance, there was none. Martell continued, ‘I understand that this is not news to you, Mr Barnes. I realise that our tests simply confirmed what you discovered ten or so years ago. The difference being, we can give you more reliable data on the exact numbers now. We can be more precise about the diagnosis.’
‘But things can be done, right? There are advancements,’ Simon asserted. ‘Cooling the testicles, separating out the good guys. I’ve read about it.’
‘There are cases where things can be done. I’m afraid your readings don’t place you in that bracket.’
‘What are my chances? Put a percentage to it. Go on, don’t worry I won’t hold you to it. It won’t be legally binding.’ Simon laughed at the phrase as though the very suggestion was ridiculous. He knew he had to make the consultant feel at ease. He was surprised the man was being so cautious. His previous experience had been that if there was any hope at all the doctors would push ahead. Often, they were always doom and gloom, always presenting the worst-case scenarios but they still took your money. ‘What are we talking about? A four per cent chance? Two, one?’ Simon watched as the doctor became increasingly awkward. He dropped his gaze, tapped his fingers on the ostentatious desk. He was able to say ‘ejaculate’ all day long, but he couldn’t talk about this percentage. ‘We can pay,’ Simon added. It wouldn’t be easy but they’d find the money, he’d already decided that.
The consultant sighed quietly and leaned forward in his chair. ‘Mr Barnes, you cannot impregnate your wife. You are sterile.’
The word was a fucking weapon. He was no longer capable of fathering a child. The thought exploded in Simon’s head. Why? What had happened? Had his sperm quality, or quantity, or mobility or whatever deteriorated?
Before he could form the words to ask, Martell said brightly, ‘There are options. If you want to extend your family, I would recommend you consider sperm donation, as you did before. That worked out splendidly last time, didn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry I don’t understand.’
The consultant reached for the file. ‘It says here you had four rounds of in vitro fertilization. I assumed Millie was conceived that way, correct? I assume with a donor.’
‘No.’ Simon brightened, realising the doctor was missing an essential piece of information. Despite the odds, Millie had been conceived naturally. He was also irritated; he was paying enough, the least Martell could do was get the facts straight. He tried to be patient as he explained, ‘You see that’s where you’re wrong. She was conceived naturally. Against the odds. Which goes to show I can do it. We can. We had been doing IVF. Yeah, like you say, four attempts but—’. Simon stopped talking. There was something different in Martell’s face. Not just seriousness, now there was a flash of unease, alarm.
‘I had thought a donor, but if not a donor then maybe a lab mix-up. These things do happen, I’m afraid. They are rarely acknowledged but they do. That would have been regrettable, an inquiry would have been necessary, but you are telling me that she wasn’t conceived by IVF.’
‘Yes, that’s right. She was conceived months after a failed attempt. We weren’t even sure we were going to try again.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’ Simon demanded.
Dr Martell sighed slightly. It was a breath that offered a level of apology, or regret. ‘All I can say, Mr Barnes, is that with the results here in front of me, it is my professional opinion that a donor would be the only way your wife could conceive.’
Simon began to feel the irritation grow into something bigger. Resentment. Anger. ‘Well the results are wrong.’
‘We can re-run the tests. Certainly.’ The doctor said it like a man who was confident that the results were correct. He brought the tips of his fingers together and placed his chin in his hands. He waited a moment until Simon understood.
‘No, no you fucking idiot. I’m her dad.’ Dr Martell didn’t say a word. ‘Fuck you, you quack. You’ve got it wrong. Do you hear me? You’ve got it wrong!’
Simon stood up and stormed out of the office. The violence with which he flung open the door meant it swung back on its hinges and banged against the wall, causing the pictures of ancient frigates to shiver.