Infertility Groundhog Day

Infertility Groundhog Day is almost upon us. Infertility Groundhog Day is much like regular Groundhog Day. If you're  not in the U.S. or Canada and are unfamiliar with Groundhog Day, you're really missing out. Every February 2nd, if this groundhog in Pennsylvania sees his shadow, it is considered a prediction that we will have six more weeks of winter. If he doesn't see his shadow, it means an early spring. Infertility Groundhog Day is similar. If the groundhog sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of infertility. If he doesn't see his shadow, it means things will be blooming sooner than later. And for most of us, the groundhog feels about as good as a predictor of what we can expect next as just about anything anybody else has told us.

But let's face it: Most of us who are going or have gone through infertility can relate less to the holiday and more to the Bill Murray movie variety of Groundhog Day.

Monday: The alarm clock rings. You get up, brush your teeth, eat breakfast, get into your car, drive to the doctor's office, say "good morning" to the receptionist, choose a chair in the waiting room where you won't have to share an armrest with anyone, read the same paragraph of a magazine over and over trying to make sense of it while anxiously waiting to be called, go in, roll up your sleeve if you somehow forgot to wear sleeveless, get your blood drawn, get a cotton ball taped to your vein instead of an actual Band-aid, return to the waiting room, get called to the examination room, get undressed, slip into a paper tablecloth from Party City, climb aboard the examination table,  move all the way down on the table until your lower half looks like a capital "M" so that the fluorescent lights shine where the sun don't shine, do your best to hurriedly put your clothes back on right side out, drive to work so you can earn $14 an hour so you can pay the $10,000 medical bill, pretend your morning is normal, go home, call a nurse, ask an online support group what the nurse meant, read way too much into it with your best online stranger friends, have a short private freak out, stick a needle in your belly and go to bed.

Wednesday: The alarm clock rings. You get up, brush your teeth, eat breakfast, get into your car, drive to the doctor's office, say "good morning" to the receptionist, choose a chair in the waiting room where you won't have to share an armrest with anyone, read the same paragraph of a magazine over and over trying to make sense of it while anxiously waiting to be called, go in, roll up your sleeve if you somehow forgot to wear sleeveless, get your blood drawn, get a cotton ball taped to your vein instead of an actual Band-aid, return to the waiting room, get called to the examination room, get undressed, slip into a paper tablecloth from Party City, climb aboard the examination table,  move all the way down on the table until your lower half looks like a capital "M" so that the fluorescent lights shine where the sun don't shine, do your best to hurriedly put your clothes back on right side out, drive to work so you can earn $14 an hour so you can pay the $10,000 medical bill, pretend your morning is normal, go home, call a nurse, ask an online support group what the nurse meant, read way too much into it with your best online stranger friends, have a short private freak out, stick a needle in your belly and go to bed.

Friday: The alarm clock rings. You get up, brush your teeth, eat breakfast, get into your car, drive to the doctor's office, say "good morning" to the receptionist, choose a chair in the waiting room where you won't have to share an armrest with anyone, read the same paragraph of a magazine over and over trying to make sense of it while anxiously waiting to be called, go in, roll up your sleeve if you somehow forgot to wear sleeveless, get your blood drawn, get a cotton ball taped to your vein instead of an actual Band-aid, return to the waiting room, get called to the examination room, get undressed, slip into a paper tablecloth from Party City, climb aboard the examination table,  move all the way down on the table until your lower half looks like a capital "M" so that the fluorescent lights shine where the sun don't shine, do your best to hurriedly put your clothes back on right side out, drive to work so you can earn $14 an hour so you can pay the $10,000 medical bill, pretend your morning is normal, go home, call a nurse, ask an online support group what the nurse meant, read way too much into it with your best online stranger friends, have a short private freak out, stick a needle in your belly and go to bed.

There's a loophole with the real Groundhog Day. Sure, the official groundhog is Punxsutawney Phil in Western Pennsylvania but then there are groundhog knock-offs all over the place. (We had "Mortimer" who retired. Now we have "Snerd") So if Phil doesn't predict what you want to hear, you just keep searching. Somewhere there is a groundhog who will give you a prediction that's more to your liking. Same with Infertility Groundhog Day. Here's to an early spring for everyone!

 

Thanks a lot for stopping by! I hope you feel even just a little bit better than you did when you first got here. If you'd like more laughs at infertility's expense, please take a look at my book- now available in eBook & paperback. It's my true account, written as I went through them, of my travails with infertility, IUI, IVF, FET, waiting rooms, losing my mind, worthless health insurance, my husband, nosy people with dumb advice....  (Available on Amazon / B & N/ Kobo (eBook only))

https://www.amazon.com//dp/0692950117