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A few hours before beginning chemotherapy, a man named Chris faces his cellphone camera with a mischievous smile and describes a perfectly absurd milestone at 1.37pm on a Wednesday. “There is no more beautiful moment in a man’s life…” he says with puckish glee. Because how can you not laugh when you’ve been invited to bank your sperm in advance of being “Godzilla-ed” with chemotherapy and radiation, all just four days after being diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia at the age of 43 and given a 5 to 15 per cent chance of survival?

Oh, and the fertility clinic forgot to send someone over with a specimen kit and they’re closing in little more than 20 minutes so you have to fire up your iPad for some quick visual stimulation to help you fill a sterile tube. Just try to ignore the legal consent paperwork all around you and the catheter that’s been surgically inserted into your jugular vein.

And because there are no couriers available, your sister – who has been running half-marathons to get in shape – gamely volunteers to tuck the freshly filled tube in her sports bra to keep it at body temperature before dashing the mile to the clinic. You imagine her arriving as the window is closing, lurching towards the counter and shouting “Nooooo!” in the slow-mo way they do in action movies. She hands over her precious cargo in the nick of time and triumphantly exclaims, “This is my brother’s!”

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Image: © MaricorMaricar @ Handsome Frank

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