I'm sure you've heard of Performance Anxiety. I had Registration Frustration. Besides that we're all apprehensive if not horrified about having to go to a fertility clinic, I was scared that I was going to get off the elevator on the wrong floor of this enormous medical building and end up having some part of me removed. (Or I would just freak out and security would have all of me removed.)
Once I peeked my head out of the elevator and was convinced by all of the non-pregnant-looking women of child-bearing age in the waiting room, that I was safe... well, maybe not safe... correct... I begrudgingly disembarked and headed inside.
My first task, naturally was to register at the registration desk. Okay, good. Where is it? What happened to the smiling receptionist at the doctor's office? She was there. Just not to register anybody. She did a great job of pointing me toward the long line at the lone registration computer though. Am I the only one who panics when there's a line of people waiting for you to do something? It's not just filling out info on computers either. I'm not keen on one-seater public bathrooms. Anyhoo... So all of the women before me seemed to just click and tap and enter and then take a walk to the waiting room chairs. Clearly they had done this before. Then it's my turn. My hands are shaking, my palms are sweaty and I'm trying to pump myself up. "You can do this! Make your family proud!"
Name... Kori... Okay, it's not "Lori", but there are eight women behind me so I figure 3/4 of "Lori" is close enough. Address, address, address. Come on. You know this!: 3 Widman Court. Oh, wait, that was my address in high school. They probably wouldn't still forward mail would they? Oh wait, I got it: 1261 Bartlett Road. Oh, geez. We live at 1281. So close. Well, I know the nice lady who lives there. I'll give her a heads up.
Date of birth: Month. Got it. Date. Got it. Year: Scroll, scroll... this bastard is a slow scroller. Already I can feel the hot breeze on the back of my neck courtesy of the group huff coming from the women behind me... Heavy metal and big hair decade... Brady Bunch decade... scroll scroll... It felt like it took a week for the Beatles to get to America.
Then it wanted to know my insurance, demanding little fuck. Okay, that was easy. It was Cigna. Oh wait. "Cigna Platinum" Cigna Gold" "Cigna Select" "Cigna Paper Mache" "Cigna on Toast". Where the hell was just plain ol' Cigna? (I chose "Cigna Platinum". I deserve the best.) By this time, the twenty-seven women behind me were rubbernecking to see what the hold up was, as if there was a train wreck up ahead... which, of course, there sort of was.
Then the computer got personal... and all of the answers had to be typed in. I knew this wasn't going to be good. I never would have gotten my date of birth right if it hadn't been multiple choice. I never know whether I should put a zero before the one-digit month, slashes vs dashes, two-digit year or four-digit year.
Question one was: "Main reason for visit". I do much better with multiple choice questions not only because they steer me in the right direction but because they save me from myself. Multiple choice questions do not leave room for sarcasm. Those blank spaces staring back at me do.
"Main reason for visit" - Do I state the obvious?
"Unable to get pregnant" or do I screw with them and write:
Maybe I shouldn't. Considering where a fertility doctor spends most of their time... I probably shouldn't mention anything about rooting through my canal.
As I ponder my dilemma, I realize for the first time in my life that you can actually hear toe-tapping on carpet. I figure I'd probably be better off if I didn't turn around and just kept typing. In college, I had the opportunity to run with the bulls in Spain and passed. And after all those decades, the prospect of being trampled to death still didn't sound that appealing.
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