I had my WTF appointment last Thursday. Because my husband was out of town for work, I went by myself.
I’ve been seeing the “Can’t Get Knocked Up” docs since May of 2010 — 1 year, 5 months. It’s never been difficult to walk in that clinic… until last week.
Can’t we get our own entrance or something?
Let me explain — the clinic I go to is a full women’s health center, seeing everything from menopausal grandmas getting an annual exam to infertile chicks like me trying to get knocked up. There are 3 waiting rooms spaced out down a long hallway. Guess which is for the infertility patients? Yup, the one at the very end.
After you get your paperwork, you walk past Waiting #1, full of pregnant women with their swollen bellies in various sizes. The ones not showing are clutching anxiously at their male companion’s hand, no doubt with fuzzy sonogram pictures and underwater heartbeat music dancing through their heads. Waiting Room #2 is more of the same — faces full of 40-week discomfort, 30-week itchiness, 20-week giddiness. A mile and a half later, I finally arrived at Waiting Room #3.
The room that day was packed and a sitcom was blaring on the TV. The girl next to me was biting her nails while her fella tapped his heel on the chair. By the time I was called by the nurse, I was ready to crack.
I was meeting that day with Dr. Pancake, who I chose on purpose. When making the WTF appointment, Dr. Redhead was the first available opening. I declined — while she’s a smart doc, she doesn’t really exude warmth. I knew I’d need a bit more careful handling for this appointment. So I scheduled with Dr. Pancake, a likable guy with a good sense of humor (we both have last names that are a common English word, and people like to make bad jokes about them — we had that in common).
I have no idea what I’m doing
His nurse, Kay, was the first person I saw. “Do you have your list of questions for the doctor?” she asked.
The crying started right then. “I don’t have a list,” I sputtered. “I don’t even know what is supposed to happen here. My friend said she’d give me some pointers but I didn’t call her, I should have, but I didn’t, I’m sorry…” I sniffed and trailed off. But Kay was great, consoling me and helping me jot down a few questions about what happens next.
By the time Dr. Pancake came in, I was feeling better. “How are you?” he asked genuinely.
“Shitty!” I responded, with enthusiasm.
He laughed heartily. “That’s an honest answer! I like it!”
He sat down and put his papers on the table. “So how are you doing?” he inquired.
The futile search for a non-pregnant non-mom infertility blogger
I sniffled and told him about my search for a good infertility blog. There are lots of lists of infertility blogs out there. I found one, clicked the first blog on it, and started reading:
“Hi readers! Tomorrow is my 16-week ultrasound…”
My reaction was a swift “Well fuck you too!” I clicked the BACK button.
On to the next blog: “I never realized how little sleep you get with a toddler! Now that my precious miracle is 18 months old…”
BACK. Screw you too, lady.
I told Dr. Pancake this story, about clicking links and swearing at my screen until I finally found a blogger that wasn’t pregnant or post-partum. He couldn’t stop laughing, and then neither could I. (It’s a good sign that few infertility bloggers remain infertile, but at that moment all I wanted was to read a blog written by someone just like me.)
Now, about that private entrance idea…
I told him how difficult it had been to walk into the clinic that day, how it had never been hard before. He explained that the old clinic, before it moved to the other end of the hospital, had a private entrance for infertility patients; he wasn’t sure why they got rid of it.
I wouldn’t have been in favor a month ago, but I get it now.
After our goof-offery, we got down to business, hammering out a plan for the frozen embryo transfer. It’s more complex than you might think, because we have to decide NOW how many embryos we want to transfer. In our case, we’re trying to avoid multiples and we don’t like the idea of tossing out perfectly good embryos. So Dr. Pancake and I came up with a plan that minimizes waste and shoots for one super rockstar embryo.
For a few more weeks, we wait. Until then, I’m scouring the internet for my own set of blinders, for my next walk down the big hallway. 🙂