(If you haven't looked at my ebook yet..http://licthebook.com-- That's all I'll say...) I've never been one of those people who has white coat syndrome. You know: Just the very sight of a doctor or a nurse..just the very act of walking into a medical facility makes you panic. So, hmmm, what happens with those people if they go to a fertility clinic? I mean sometimes you've got to be in the joint every few days. That's a lot of freaking out and heavy breathing (and for not one of the funner reasons).
I think for most of us, we get a certain comfort from going to the same place again and again. After you've been going to the facility for a week or two, you walk off the elevator and saunter over to your favorite chair. It's a nice chair. It's a calming color, it suits your glutes, it's far enough from the main circle of chairs so you don't have to talk to anybody and yet close enough so you can still hear your name being called. And it's turned just enough off-center so you never have to make eye contact with anyone while you're waiting either.
It's also nice to see the same smiling faces at the reception desk...and the ample supply of magazines. It's all so hunky dory. The first few weeks are a Norman Rockwell painting called "infertility". It's a Very Brady Clinic.
Then the honeymoon is over. And while we're trying to breed, familiarity is breeding contempt.
So now, a month or two or six into it:
You're on the elevator...Come on, come on...why does it have to stop on other floors to pick people up? The doors finally open and before you even get off the elevator, you see the unthinkable.
"Are you kidding me? Somebody's in my chair. Everybody knows that's my chair between 9 and 9:30 every Monday and Thursday. And sometimes on Tuesdays after work and Thursdays during my lunch break if I couldn't get in in the morning. What is this chick trying to prove? Somebody get her out of my seat! When's her egg retrieval? I want to do it myself!"
"And there are those 2 receptionists again. I register myself at the computer at the desk. So what are they exactly here for? And I'm not sure I ever register myself correctly. I asked one of them once about which insurance I was supposed to check off because I always forget if I have PPO, C3PO, DNR or whatever it's called. She said: 'Not sure'.
Then last week I asked the other one if the nurse would be calling me in soon. She said 'Not sure'. It's ridiculous. All the money I've paid in this place and I can't even get a full sentence? All I get are the clone twins. Do you really need two of them? You can't just have one to have a blank stare AND order pizza on her cell phone at the same time?
Or maybe they could do away with Mary Kate and Ashley altogether and just get a button you can press that will say: 'Not Sure'.
And look at these magazines! Redbook? Isn't that an old lady's magazine? Who here's over sixty? Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition? How'd this get out here? Doesn't this belong in that 'other' room? The men's room? No, I don't mean the men's room. I mean the room...where they... you know...send men."
There's doctor Harrison... Is that man never going to cut his hair? I started coming here three months ago. He needed a haircut then. If those long locks dare touch my toes during the examination, I'll kick him in the teeth.
Okay, so maybe we're not as in love with our medical facility as much as we used to be. (Even hostile one might say..I mean, kicking the doctor in the mouth?) Personally I think we're more stressed out and frustrated about being in the grand trying-to-conceive waiting room for so damn long than being in the clinic waiting room a few times a week. Ya think?