(Start with “Monday” if you can. If you dare….Dare, shmare..Could you just read it? Geez, I ask for so little.) So what were we talking about? Oh right. Signing away your mental faculties when you sign on to fertility treatments.
I spent the first two doctor appointments just saying “What?”
The bearers of bizarre news were mostly the nurses:
“Okay, well, first we’re going to send you to take a test called a Hula Hoopa gram. You can’t go to the bathroom for two weeks before you take it.”
“Yeah, we have to make sure that your fallopian tubes are open, so after you haven’t peed for a couple of weeks, our technician is going to yell “Riiicooola” up your tubes and see if he hears an echo.”
“Yeah and then you’re going to go home and take this vial and stick the syringe into the rubber part, precisely in the middle and take out any bubbles and make sure you get the right amount out…"
"What? My degree's in Spanish."
"And then you’re going to pinch the skin on the front of your stomach on the fleshy part, luckily you have a lot of fleshy part, and then give yourself a shot subcutaneously.”
“Subcu…what? Did I mention that my degree's in Spanish?”
“And then your husband is going to take this long needle and give you shots in the upper outer quadrant of your buttocks.”
“What? Upper outer, what? My husband’s going to...what? I don’t have any geometric shapes back there. It all kind of rolls together. Like one big happy loaf.”
"Yeah, but don't worry. He's going to put ice on the spot to freeze it first."
"What? My husband's in charge of the anesthesia? He doesn't even have a degree in Spanish."
I was unaware at the time that slowly but surely... I had entered "The Infertility Zone".
Listen I gotta go. It's 96 degrees here. I have to find someone with a pool to befriend. I'll talk with ya tomorrow.