Okay so my husband and I were doing pretty well. We both had good jobs. We lived in NYC. We both had vehicles. We ate out frequently. Then came fertility treatments... and their bills. And the upsides of living in your car, are that you and your spouse grow closer in every way, and you rarely miss a doctor’s appointment if you live in the clinic’s parking lot.
There were twelve other yuppie fertility clinic couples living there during our IVF era. It was quite the commune. We were a loving, supportive but also competitive group. Who ever said “Keeping up with the Joneses” wasn’t a priority for the homeless?
We constantly compared notes on: Who responded better to which treatments; whose wife’s ovaries produced bigger follicles; whose home came equipped with GPS . Who leased and who owned.
The couples who lived in a four door felt superior to those in a two door. Those in fancy two-seater sports cars suddenly weren’t feeling so fancy, while those with secondary infertility felt pretty special in their eight year old mini-vans.
One guy tried to get us declared a “sub-division” so he could be elected president of the association.
The same yutz got a ticket for talking on his cell phone without his hands-free headset. At the time of the offense, he was switching parking spots because he didn’t get along with his next door neighbor (on the passenger’s side) who happened to be a cop.
There was a lot of anger and frustration all around. Our quaint upscale parking lot was turning into a bad neighborhood. Tires were flattened, batteries were drained, gas was siphoned. Four times in one month AAA had to be called.
And still, like everybody else in the fertile world, we all got up every morning, brushed our teeth in the side-view mirror, put our legs up on the dashboard to shave them, went to work, earned a combined salary of three million dollars and came home to our outdoor homeless shelter/tailgate party.
We would then disband so that we could each inject hormones in the privacy of our own back seats. Why not? That’s probably where fifty percent of all pregnancies begin anyway.
Nobody ever lost sight of the fact that we were all there for the same reason: To realize our dreams of having a baby. I think most of us didn’t really mind the small inconveniences, like no running water or having to keep our three rooms of furniture within the yellow lines.
We even got some national publicity. Habitats for Humanities offered to build a garage around us, and CBS-TV scouted out our parking lot as a potential location for “Survivor 46.”
Finally after endless testing, blood samples, and hormone injections, our parking lot paradise adventure was over. My doctor had us all arrested for trespassing. He fingered me as the ringleader. (Perhaps “fingered” was a poor choice of verbs considering the man’s profession.)
Should I have switched doctors after that? I’m still not sure.
It was probably all for the best. The parking lot was in a terrible state of disrepair: There was a hole in the security fence, several of the yellow lines were faded, and the handicapped sign had been knocked down. He was a great doctor but a lousy landlord.
Listen I gotta go. My husband promised to barbecue for Memorial Day weekend and I think the grill is almost ready. I’ll talk with ya tomorrow.