(Start with "Monday" if you can. This week is a take on "The Twilight Zone" and you know how lost you are if you come in twenty minutes into an episode.) So what were we talking about? Oh right. You walk into this fertility clinic. It may be in your own city. It may be in your own neighborhood. But it's like you just stepped onto another planet.
They look like people you know. You think they speak the same language.
Then the nurse comes in and then the doctor, and before you know it foreign words start flying around the room:
"Reproductive Endocrinologist (Can I just call you Doc?) Gonal-F. Lupron. Follistim. Progesterone (Hey! That one I've heard of. Yeah for me!) subcutaneous, follicles, retrieval, Medrol, ICSI, Intrauterine Insemination.
About a half hour into the first meeting, I realized that the last thing I had understood was: "Good morning. Have a seat."
I turned to my husband and asked: "They're just screwing with us to see if we're serious about this right?"
And, truth be told, nobody said: "Good morning. Have a seat." I believe the nurse's precise words were: "Good morning. How are you today?"
Never being one to leave a rhetorical question unanswered, I responded: "Apparently infertile, thank you. And you?"
So, you see, there's a specific reason why I thought they might be screwing with us: Payback for being a smartass.
So there you are, a stranger in this strange land asked to come back a few times a week to visit. That's nice. The medical staff likes you so much they keep inviting you back.
In my hormone-induced + in-denial-about-the-whole-infertility-thing- altered-state, I could see me getting all confused and treating it like a job interview:
"Yeah, I think they really liked me! They want to see me again tomorrow!"
Or maybe I thought I was being invited to a glorious beach party with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello. Yeah, I think I'll wear my pink tankini to my egg retrieval.
You're prescribed all kinds of drugs you've never heard of and instructed to inject some of them into yourself: Making you feel like the love child of a guinea pig and a pin cushion.
Your husband, spouse, partner, lover- whatever you call him in public- is sent into a room ten steps away from the waiting room and told to fall madly in love with a plastic cup.
Who wouldn't feel like they had just entered: "The Infertility Zone"?
Listen, I gotta go. I have a coupon for a free massage that expires at midnight...or whenever the man who issued it falls asleep on the couch watching the Sci-Fi channel.
I'll talk with ya tomorrow.
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