A fertility clinic is totally different than just about any other medical facility you'd ever go to. You don’t go twice a year like a dental check-up. (And if a dentist ever tries to examine you like a fertility specialist does, I would call someone)
You go to a fertility clinic twice a week… at least. So you know all of the AM nurses, (Don’t let Lisa take your blood. She has no idea what a vein looks like), PM nurses and the ones who only work Saturdays (I guess they can stand the sight of blood but only on a very limited basis).
You know the receptionists by their voices and all the doctors by the tops of their heads.
Still, the relationships are extremely lop-sided. I have no idea if any of them have genetic disorders or if they shave their legs.
But they know every missing link on my DNA chain and every hair on my bodybefore it even grows. (The brown ones, the red ones, the gray ones: Coincidentally the colors of the infertility flag and I wave it proudly... Do I have a choice?)
So this week I’m going to introduce you to my medical team, medical staff, medical hangers-on (for all of us infertile people with groupies):
Everyone from my doctor who was yawning over my naked body while he was elbow-deep in Lori explaining: "I'm not a morning person". I didn't have the guts to raise myself onto my elbows to see if he had set a cup of coffee on my abdomen.
To the nurse who was training another nurse during my insemination. (At least I hope he was a nurse and not just a curious mailroom guy.)
To the doctor's assistant: The helpful woman from Hades who, naturally, is the roadblock between patient and doctor.
If you’re lucky enough to never have set foot in a fertility clinic, I feel sure you’ll still recognize the cast of characters from your dermatologists’ office, or your job, or your family.
I don't mean that they will remind you of those at your dermatologist or your job... No...I strongly suspect that a lot of these people have a ton of other jobs on their resumes.
And as for your family...well...I suppose even nasty receptionists must be related to someone somewhere.
Listen, I gotta go. I'm waiting for the manager at Target. I want to ask her why they bother selling short shorts in my size if I'm obviously going to look horrible in them.
I'll talk with ya tomorrow.
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