My Fertility Clinic: The Receptionist

Have you had revolving receptionists at your fertility clinic too or is it just me? I want a good, permanent receptionist at that desk. I need a good, permanent receptionist at that desk. Damn it, I deserve a good, permanent receptionist at that desk! It's nice to have doctors at a fertility clinic. But, let's be honest. Just like the rest of us, they're at the mercy of the receptionist. I don't care who signs whose checks. Receptionists aren't in it for the money. They're there for the power. And we as patients have to understand this. We have to make nice with the receptionist or fertility game over.

If she doesn't set up the appointment: Game over. If she doesn't tell the doctor you're waiting and he goes home: Game over. If she doesn't give the nurse your message: Game over. If she doesn't record your visit and you don't get charged...Well that would be okay.

When I started going to my fertility clinic, there were two receptionists. Jessica and Jamie. They complemented each other beautifully. Jessica was lovely but as smart as a tuna fish sandwich.

Jamie was speedy, intelligent, and as nasty as a summer rash in the crack of your sweaty… knee. (I do have some class you know.)

The pair sparked childhood memories for me.

My sister and I had identical twin babysitters who switched off watching us. Wendy would let you juggle knives while she fell asleep in front of Saturday Night Live. Cindy used to follow us into the bathroom to make sure we were just going to the bathroom and not, I guess, chugging iodine. (Even at seven, I knew that was creepy and had enough presence of mind to politely close the door in her face.)

What we needed was the middle twin: The one born with ALL of the chromosomes.

And that’s what the fertility clinic needed: A receptionist who could multi-task: Be pleasant and competent at the same time.

Of course the pleasant one got canned first. I've never figured out why, (maybe someone could write me), doctor's offices hang on to intolerable receptionists for decades. If business falls off, they never seem to consider that maybe the surly passive aggressive troll who greets the patients and answers the phones is the cause.

Anyway, after the pleasant one went, there was always a new receptionist at the desk.

They were all named Giselle or Jaleesa or Jenna… It got way too complicated. I just called them all Becky.

Becky One went to lunch and apparently kept on going.  Becky Two gossiped on her cell phone about her coworkers while she took your insurance. Becky three was "in training" for six months.

I just kept repeating my mantra: "It's okay. She's not allowed to touch your prescriptions or your needles. It's okay. She's not allowed to touch your prescriptions or your needles."

Surprisingly, I don't complain much anymore to the higher-ups about crummy receptionists. 1) I don't want to be responsible for someone losing their job. 2) You don't know who she is.

Once my chiropractor ushered me into his office, closed the door and as I situated myself face down on his bench, I said through the face hole:

"That lady at the desk is always so rude." To which, of course he responded:

"That's my wife."

"Ow! My spine!"

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