(Start with "Monday" if you can. Hey, ...If you were good enough to show up for work on the Thursday before a holiday weekend, you pretty much can create your own agenda for the day.) So what were we talking about? Oh right. How society is to blame for all ills and evils on the planet including, but not limited to, our infertility issues and subsequent loss of mind.
It's also possible that some of our nuttiness can be attributed to not only people but things as well. "Hormones" comes to mind.
I mean, you know how you don't feel quite like yourself around PMS time?
Maybe you feel a little off-balance, or spacy, or irritable or like you want to choke everyone in your path and punch them in the face until they stop yapping at you?
Well, so here we are: A group who has been diagnosed, tested, and probed to death.
Been prodded and annoyed by friends, neighbors, coworkers, relatives, and your random yenta on the street.
Gone through loss of money, friends, self-esteem and ultimately, our minds.
All we need now are 250 IU's of hormones coursing through our bloodstream at 80 MPH on a nightly basis to finish us off.
And this season's fashion trend will be a straight jacket. All of the upscale infertility patients will be wearing them (over their opening-goes-in-the-front examination gowns I suppose).
So there I was, about four months into treatments and handling everything as well as could be expected. Translation: My straight jacket was coming apart at the seams. Then it happened.
I had had three failed go-rounds with IUI (Intra-Uterine Insemination). I switched clinics and Dr. Wiseacre at the new facility insisted I take a fourth journey into the IUI unknown. Cutting to the chase: I was prescribed a few hormones too many.
Then there was "Steven". (I may as well take the quotation marks away because that's his name): My coworker, my friend. Yes, he was a little nit-picky at work about rules and cleanliness. But I adored him.
A Pre-IUI-hormone overdose conversation:
Steven: "Lori, you're really not supposed to eat at your desk."
Lori: "I know."
In the throes of my hormone high:
Steven: "Lori you're really not supposed to eat at your desk."
Lori: "What's it to you? Why don't you mind your own business?! Who are you? You're nobody. You're just this pain in the ass who always has to be up everybody else's ass.
(He heads to his desk with an urgent gait. I stalk behind.)
What do you even do here anyway? Do you have a job? Do you even work here? You don't ever seem to do anything but irritate people!
So what if I eat at my desk? What's it to you? I'd better never catch you eating at your desk!"
I waved my granola bar within millimeters of his face, having visions of beating him to death with it and stuffing his body in the trunk of his car.
The poor guy. Even in my damaged mental state, I could see he was mentally debating whether to call security or just pee himself.
Listen I gotta go. I'm going to run down to Mexico to get some fireworks for this weekend. Oh, I can get them at Wal-mart? I didn't know. I'll talk with ya tomorrow.
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