(Start with "Monday" if you can. Maybe while you make breakfast, do the laundry and mow the lawn. We are women, afterall.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. I was saying how this week I thought I’d give you a little tour of the fertility asylum that I frequented and introduce you to some of its personnel.
(Anybody remember this catchy little ditty from Sesame Street?)
“Who are the people in your doctor’s office? In your doctor’s office? Say, who are the people in your doctor’s office? They’re the people that you meet, while you’re hoisting up your feet…”
Hey, here come some of the Reproductive Endocrinologists, (aka fertility doctors) now.
I'm not sure whose idea it was for the Reproductive Endocrinologists to wear name tags. Great.
Could you trade in your white lab coat for a blue smock so I can complete the image of being inseminated at Wal-Mart?
I often wondered if periodically during the day, the doctor would tap his chest, just to make sure that the name tag was still there. And every so often say to his nurse:
“Crap it’s gone again. And today was a busy morning. It could be in anybody. Well, look under the examining tables anyway. Who knows? Maybe this time we’ll get lucky.”
So, when I introduce you to a doctor, feel free to shake their hand if they offer it. Just make sure it doesn’t have a glove on it.
And if they don’t offer their hand, don’t take it personally. They're probably doing you a favor: Perhaps there’s something they know about that hand that we don’t.
There’s Dr. Barton. He’s wearing sunglasses around the office again.
I’m not sure why, but I don’t trust a fertility doctor who’s trying to work incognito. He gets to see my naked fallopian tubes and I can’t see his naked eye?
I must admit, I am intrigued to know how he does his examinations. I can never go from darkness to darkness.
I once drove into the garage with sunglasses on and nearly ended up in the kitchen. So I have no idea how he goes where he goes with them on.
And of course I’m dying to know why he does it. I mean I never thought of my uterus as “glary”
One day I’m just going to blurt out: “Good morning Doctor Barton. So, what exactly is the deal with the shades? Did your nurse kick your ass again? Are you doing some smokes between patients? Or are you just pretentious and want to make sure everyone knows you drive a BMW even when the car's nowhere around?"
There’s probably a logical explanation. Like some woman’s reflexes took over during the exam and she inadvertently zetzed him in the cornea with her foot. If it happens again, he’ll probably be doing his pelvics in welding goggles.
Then there’s Dr. Shroeder. Look how thin she is. Five kids. I suppose they could have all been natural.
I just always assumed a fertility clinic was like a beauty parlor. When it’s not busy, they perform their services on each other: You know: Haircuts, manicures, intrauterine inseminations.
Dr. Shroeder has it all: Looks, brains, personality, kids, money, a wonderful husband, a beach house in Switzerland, a chalet in Miami, a lover named Maurice, and she’s never had diarrhea. Okay, I’m not positive of the last six or seven.
Listen, I gotta go. I have a hunch I should interview some bodyguards. I'll talk with ya tomorrow.
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