Scare Tactics

Or, when good trips to the bathroom go bad.

I can easily count on both hands the number of times that a trip to the  bathroom has scared the beejezus out of me – and I am not including the large spider in the West Virginia outhouse or the no other option use of a port-a-potty.  I mean where what you find in the bowl is not what you thought would be there.

JanesdeadFor a lady in a family way, that usually means one thing: bright red blood.  And, I had it.

Last night around 7, after a quick trip to the grocery store, I went to the potty for a respite before making dinner.  I wasn’t really paying attention until I wiped and the previously pristinely white tissue had taken on an alarming shade of bright red.  But wait, there’s more!  A nice pool in the bowl as well.  Gives new meaning to the phrase blood in the water.

So, I quickly hurry out and tell Mr. X of the latest development in five words or less (“I’m having red!”) and we pow-wow on what to do.  I really did not want to go to the ER.  I’d had a terrible experience there the first time I was pregnant and while bright red bleeding is certainly not a great thing, I had no cramping.  I decided instead to contact Dr. Salsa who advised that if the bleeding was heavier than a period, then do not pass go, go directly to the ER.  If not, we could see him the next morning at 7am.  Have I told you how much I love my RE?

Anyway, having 20 years of menstrual experience behind me, I could tell very quickly that this was not heavier than a period and elected to stay put.  The bleeding came and went which was just awful because you get lulled into thinking that the worst is over and then the worst starts all over again.  The good news was that it wasn’t getting heavier and I still had no cramping.

alice-palaceThis morning, I put off going to the bathroom as long as I possibly could and finally couldn’t stand it any longer. Sure enough, still bleeding.  We headed out at 6:30 am and Dr. Salsa saw us first thing. 

After a very uncomfortable encounter with the speculum, he declared that it was true blood – to which I wanted to respond, as opposed to fake blood?  But, I kept my mouth shut and deduced that he meant as opposed to menstrual blood.  And, it was definitely coming from the cervix. 

Out came the speculum (thank God!) and in went the dildo cam and there was the little bugger, apparently oblivious to the commotion going on around it.  I could have sworn that I saw it wiggling, but Mr. X thinks it might have been the camera angle.  Either way, the heart was beating away.  Dr. Salsa also found the source of the bleed: a blood vessel outside of the uterus had likely been broken by the overly aggressive tentacles of the growing placenta, which he – no kidding – likened to a tumor.  This of course required me to say in my best Ahnold voice, “It’s not a tuh-muh!” 

Dr. Salsa declared that he was not concerned, particularly since my cervix was shut tighter than the credit markets.  Still, I’m on somewhat modified duty on a wait-and-see basis.  Today’s highlights have been little to no cramping and brown spotting/bleeding.  I’m learning the hard way that when it comes to me and the big P, there is never a dull moment.

Also, I had planned on posting a lovely little entry yesterday since yesterday was our bi-weekly check up appointment at 9w4d or 9w6d, depending upon who’s method you use.  Everything looked good – heartbeat was 180, measurement was at 9w5d and we saw little arm and leg buds.   We’ve never made it this far before – with the first, the baby died at 9w2d and with the second, it didn’t make it past 8w6d.  So, it was quite the milestone and while it is not the same as an all clear, we savored it nonetheless.  Needless to say, this has been tempered a bit by last night’s fireworks.  While we’ve made it farther than ever, we were reminded that we’re not out of the danger zone.

images: Janesdead, alice-palace

The Sixth Symptom

I’ve been pretty fortunate so far in this go round with symptoms. And, frankly, I’m like Goldilocks when it comes to them – I don’t have too few or too many, but just the right amount at the right (read not incredibly uncomfortable) level.  I have the usual suspects – nausea, sore boobs, occasional back pain, tiredness, crankiness – all of which make feel better and worse at the same time. 

I have also developed another one that until today I did not realize I even had.  It is the most anachronistic one too, one that I had originally chalked up to that general personality change that I go through in the beginning of a pregnancy (think Jeckyll and Hyde).  What is this mysterious new visitor?

I’m almost embarrassed to type this because I know when I was not knocked up if I had read this I would have likely said something very unladylike at the screen. But, here goes:


Yes, I am depressed – the version where you have no interest in anything that used to bring you joy or pleasure, the version with the extremely low attention span – huh? – the version that you really wonder why you get out of bed in the morning, the version that makes you question, will this ever get better?

I was incredulous at first.  Depressed, really? Not a toxic side effect of the hormone soup going on?  But, deep down, I knew that no, that was not the cause, although it damn well may have helped. 

I have given a lot of thought as to why I might be depressed.  On paper, this would appear to make no sense – I have finally gotten that thing I have been trying to get for a really long time and while there are no guarantees, there have been no statements of alarm yet. 

The problem is the no guarantees part, the part where I don’t feel as if I can plan past tomorrow because I don’t know if the little p will still be around.  And, I love to plan.  Along with the no guarantees comes the uncertainty. Will it work? If it doesn’t, when will we know that it won’t?  I was perversely fortunate last time to know pretty early on that viability was not looking good.  This time, Dr. Salsa has been nothing short of maddeningly cheerful making it that much harder for me to remain skeptical and preserve my fragile little heart.  I can’t let myself look forward and I can’t look back so all I am left to do is look at now and see the ocean of uncertainty that I just don’t know how this is going to end.  And that doesn’t help. 

Should we have progress tomorrow, I will talk with Dr. Salsa about this issue and will ask him about other options that are safe for me to take because I have finally figured out that this is not normal and I don’t have to live this way.

So Wrong on So Many Levels

tantekFirst Response, that purveyor of hope and warm fuzzy images of normal fertile ladies, has a new product on the market that tests a woman’s fertility.  Apparently, it “accurately” measures your Day 3 FSH giving you a picture of the quality and quantity of your eggs.  I’m not going to address the fact that FSH is in some circles considered to be an inexact measurement of a woman’s egg quality (note that I didn’t say fertility – a woman can have the eggs of an 18 year old and still be unable to get pregnant due to other issues such as tubal blockage, uterine abnormalities, hormonal issues, etc) nor am I going to address what I consider to be First Response’s blatant use of this product to freak women the f*ck out and make them think that if they have a high FSH, they are permanently screwed. 

No, I’m going to address how they have marketed this scare tactic because it is a real smack to those of us who are fertility challenged.  They have put together a commercial for which I was not able to find a link, but that has been transcribed here

artnooseMy blood started to simmer at the first line, “The moment we pass from womanhood to motherhood, we cross a threshold“.  At least it could be read to include women who become mothers through adoption or even women who provide additional parenting as aunts, etc.  But, what is this magic threshold? Does that mean that you cannot be a mother and a woman?  Or, is it like the field in Iowa where you walk into the corn never to be seen again? What of those women who cannot be mothers or choose not to? Are we left behind in womanhood never to cross this magic Rubicon?

If only that were the top of the mountain.  Instead, it was only the tip of the infuriating ice berg. Here is the real blood boiler line:

Fertility is a woman’s most sacred birthright.”  What. The. F*ck.  Are you shitting me?  If this is the case, then I’ve been totally cheated!  I want my money back!  I’m going to call my parents and tell them that they really screwed this one up. 

 I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around how ridiculously awful this is.  It’s as if the most important thing that a woman’s most prized possession is her ability to reproduce, to repopulate the species.  (Notice that there is no mention of man’s most sacred birthright (or as the commentary so eloquently put it, “[s]trangely, I never see Viagra commercials arguing that knocking people up is a man’s most sacred birthright.” That would be sexist, right?)).  And, what of those of us who are infertile? We apparently lack that most sacred of birthrights, and have little else that can be nearly as important as this. We are, in essence, lesser people because of it.  Is it really necessary to beat on infertile women to sell a product?  Have we reached that low?

As unbelievably an eye-roll inducing a statement as it is, I know in my heart that my fertility, or lack thereof, is not a measure of me anymore than it is a sacred birthright.  I cringe at the word birthright anyway because it has so many connotations of people getting things that they have done nothing to deserve, although, frankly, I’ve thought this about quite a few fertile ladies in my day, so many they aren’t that far from the mark.  No, fertility is no more a sacred birthright than expecting that you will have blonde hair or blue eyes.  First and foremost, it is a choice, one of many that women get to exercise now that we have moved out of the Dark Ages.  Women can be mothers, but, they can choose not to be and still have fulfilling, non-spinsterly lives. 

So, shame on First Response for trying to repackage fertility into something that should be seen by women as a thing that they are entitled to or, by extension, must exercise.  

images: upper left – tantek; bottom right – artnoose, both used through Creative Commons.

Looks Like I Picked a Bad Day to Quit Drinking…

Caffeine, that is.

I’ve had the mother of all headaches from about 1pm onwards and I haven’t helped it by brooding over an incident at this morning’s monitoring appointment.

The monitoring itself was fine.  Nice number of contenders, same dosage and a follow up visit with the dildo cam on Friday.

No, what bothered me was what I saw when I got in the room. 

7am to 9am is cycle monitoring time and they see a slew of patients.  I understand that the clean up between patients can be hasty. What I don’t understand, though, is how you don’t clear the image from the ultrasound screen from the prior patient. 

Especially when it is me who is going in for the next appointment.

The person they saw in there before me was pregnant, 7w3d to be exact.  How did I know this without having met her?  The ultrasound screen hadn’t been cleared after she had left and there on the screen was the telltale baby blob. And, just in case you had someone who couldn’t quite make it all out, the tech had helpfully written above it the words “Hi Mom and Dad!” Un-freaking-believable.  And, this is not the first time this has happened at his office, either. The last time this happened, there was no picture.  No ridiculous anthropomorphic utterings from the baby written on the screen. 

What’s amazing is that I wasn’t bothered that she was pregnant or that I had to see the picture of her blob. What bothered me was that they were able to write that message from their baby assuming that seven or so months from now, they will meet that baby, and they were able to do that without a hint of worry or foreboding.  I lost the ability to do that with my first miscarriage (after hearing the heartbeat. Twice.).  So now, I grieve not only the loss of my two babies, but I also grieve the loss of that innocence, that surety that now that there is a bun in the oven, it’s smooth sailing from here on out.  I wanted to bang my head on the wall (or the screen). 

When Dr. Salsa came in, I nicely asked that they make sure that the ultrasound screen is clear before I go in to the room. 

Unfortunately, that’s not going to erase the rest of it.

Four Long Miserable, Wonderful Years

One of the many longstanding jokes in my family revolves around anniversaries of the wedding variety.  My parents had friends many years ago who were celebrating one of the anniversaries in the 30-range.  Someone asked the husband how many years they had been married.  His response was priceless:

“Thirty-six long, miserable years.”

What made this priceless was that he said it in front of his wife.  I don’t think she talked to him for several days after that.  It was also priceless because we’re pretty certain he was kidding, but we weren’t sure. 

I have an anniversary of sorts today.  It was four years ago at the beginning of May that the mister and I chucked the pills and began planning for whether I would work after our child was born.  We all know how that went.

In that honeymoon phase, I was looking forward to a brief fling with conception before moving on to the solid relationship of parenting.  But, as the months dragged on, conception played hard to get and stopped returning my calls. Eventually, my number found its way to the red-headed stepchild, infertility.  IF and I have now been together for quite some time, and, in fact, I learned later that we were together from the beginning of my journey to junior(ette).  We’re joined at the hip (or more precisely, the pelvic area), inseparable, two peas in a pod, bound but hopefully to be put asunder by at least one man, if not more.

And, when people ask us how long we’ve been together, I will answer, “four long, miserable, wonderful years.”  I don’t think I need to explain “long” or “miserable”. But wonderful?

I’ll be the first to admit that my usual feelings about IF are not that it is wonderful or even palatable.  Usually, my feelings begin with a four letter word.  But, on this, our fourth anniversary, I feel compelled to say something nice about my constant companion. So, I will say thank you.

(warning: statements below have not been approved by the FDA and are solely the rather saccharine opinion of Mrs. X. Individual results may vary.)

Thank you for helping me exercise my sense of humor.

Thank you for making me a better writer.

Thank you for making me more empathetic.

Thank you for forcing me to find new hobbies and interests.

Thank you for pushing me to be more social and find more friends.

Thank you for showing me that bad things happen whether I deserve it or not and they are not a statement about my worth as a person.

Thank you for teaching me that life can suck and in ways that are unimagineable, and I can make it through and still be happy.

Please forgive me, though, if I actively work on getting a divorce from you.  I don’t want to grow old with you and I don’t want to have you as my companion on the porch of a retirement home.  I don’t want any more anniversaries.

Panic! At the Bunco

Monthly Bunco has been a relatively safe outlet for me. I can meet up with lots of women, enjoy girly conversation and not be worried about surprise pregnancy announcements or bulging bellies since all of the women are the parents of at least teenagers and are much more interested in discussing what the people down the street are doing (or not doing) to their lawn.  Monday night, I presented myself on the steps at the appointed hour for our monthly get together and greeted friends right and left. It was shaping up to be a typical low-key Bunco affair.

I made my way to the kitchen and commenced dishing with my neighbor down the street about something really trivial and stuffing some awesome cheese into my mouth.  I was simultaneously eyeing up the bar and debating if I wanted a red-wine hangover the next morning. 

This train of thought came to a screeching halt when something waded into my peripheral vision, that looked an awful lot like a large, swollen beachball of a belly.  It broke the waves ahead of its owner.  It had that slow movement favored by people carrying a lot of weight in the front.  Sure enough, it was a pregnant lady. At my bunco. WTF?!

If you could have taken a picture of me, the imge would be me with very wide eyes, with hand bearing cheese on cracker frozen in place on trajectory to meet open mouth that is now open for another reason.  In other words, I looked like a freaking deer in her very ample headlights.

I unfroze, ate the delicious cheese, and headed out to the other room away from this paragon of fertility.  I debated for about 20 seconds if I could excuse myself from the festivities.  But, I decided that this was a good challenge: could I stick it out, have a good time and manage to avoid her?  I was going to find out. I decided right then and there that neither this interloper nor her giant stomach were not going to run me out of my bunco night!

But, she kept following me, being introduced by the Judas of a neighbor who brought her along to meet the girls.  I developed a sudden interest in the backyard, answered the door when the doorbell rang and tried to get the hell away from her.  I got trapped in the kitchen , though, with her and some of the ladies where the first question asked of her was, “So, when you are due?!” Ugh. Preggo declares herself to be 7 months along but, “huge” – her words, not mine.   This started the ladies who had popped babies previously to chime in with their stories of being huge and ending up with twins.  Preggo dispels any notions that she is carrying two – “We only saw one heartbeat!”  Double ugh with knife stabbing. 

Not a moment too soon, it was time to go to the tables. Mental notations of where Preggo was heading were made and I went into the exact opposite direction.  I proceeded to eat too much chocolate while beginning what would turn out to be a spectacular losing streak (10 out 12). 

Losing on the fourth game at a given table means that you have to move to another table. Winners get to stay.  Needless to say, I lost the fourth game and headed to my second table where I breathed a huge sigh that Preggo was at the other table, at least for the next four games. 

Luck, that bitch, ran out on me again, and I lost the fourth game meaning I had to go to the third table where, you guessed it, she was sitting, enthroned.  This was easily one of the hardest things I have had to do in a long time.  I sat at the table and actually conversed with a very pregnant lady who I am pretty certain got that way the way most people do.  And you know what?

It wasn’t that bad.  We had a decent conversation. She made a few gratuitous preggo references, but all in all, it wasn’t terrible.  I am at that point in my infertility journey that I have a very visceral, usually negative reaction to visibly pregnant women, but sitting there with her, I was able to see her as someone I could relate to, even if she is pregnant and I am not. I was so proud of myself that I stayed there, I talked with her and was able to forget that she had what I did not.

And, I realized, walking home that night, that it hurt to be near her, but it was a self-inflicted hurt. No one else was involved.  She did not come to Bunco to flaunt her luck in my face. Even my neighbor who invited her (and knows some of our IF history) didn’t invite her to make me feel like shit.  And I felt such relief at this realization.  The power of the Preggo on me is only that which I give her.  And, I didn’t give her more than a centimeter.

I enjoyed my evening and I enjoyed meeting her.  I enjoyed deciding that my evening was not going to be ruined by her and I was going to have a good time even if she was there.  And I did.  I was a winner after all.

Got Cliché?

My infertility reading – other than blogs – has been rather haphazard.  When we were first diagnosed, I read just about anything I could get my hands on, partly to learn, partly to not feel as if I was the only person who was dealing with this.  Some books helped. Others, not so much.  As we got deeper down the rabbit trail of treatment with more and more experiences behind us, I found my own voice and also found that most books just kept saying the same thing.   

41lcshl2b3jl__ss500_By the time Waiting for Daisycame out, it was late 2007, I was two and a half years into the journey, with one lap, two HSGs, 6 IUIs and one spectacularly awful miscarriage behind me.  I was no longer interested in reading the prepackaged success stories (I did it and so can you!) that most books seemed to be or the books about miscarriage that never seemed to give me much comfort (this onestill grates me).  I also had never heard of Peggy Orenstein and wasn’t particularly interested in what she had to say on the topic of infertility. 

After my second miscarriage, a thoughtful commenter directed me to her article about how the Japanese mourn miscarriage.  It helped me a great deal, but still I wasn’t ready to take the plunge and read about how she eventually went on to have a child. As we got back onto the rollercoaster again for IVF #2, though, I began to feel that familiar tug to read more of these completed stories about infertility.  I decided that my wait for Daisy was over and it was time to pick up the book.

It didn’t take me long to finish. Peggy Orenstein is a beautiful writer, and her experience is so raw. She lets it all hang out – every ugly emotion, every flaw. More than a few times, I caught myself nodding knowingly at the sentiment that she put so much more eloquent words than I ever did. I also found myself shaking my head at her and her husband – neither should win the award for Best Communicator in the Marriage.  But, I digress.

I stayed with Peggy – all through the multiple miscarriages, the donor egg fiasco, the failed adoption.  I was nearing the end, anticipating the denoument , assuming that Daisy was the product of adoption.  Do you know what happened, instead? If you haven’t read the book, you might not want to read any further. I’m just warning you now.

She got pregnant on her own. Over 40. With one ovary.

1418417514_dae7a872c2My first reaction at her final triumph in reproduction was not joy.  It was not hope that if she could do it with one ovary over 40 and after multiple miscarriages, so could I.  It was anger.  I was angry that she ended up fulfilling the Cliche To End All Infertility Cliches. She had become Charlotte who got pregnant when she decided to adopt.  She was Tina Fey’s character in Baby Mamawho ended up getting pregnant with a freaking t-shaped uterus after her surrogate faked a pregnancy.  She was Nicole Kidman who’s dip in magical waters made her fertile.  It’s the “When All Else Has Failed and You Have Reached the End, You Will Get the Pregnancy and Baby that You Always Wanted” Cliche.

I bet you are thinking right about now, gee, Mrs. X, bitter much?  A lot of this anger comes from the fact that I still haven’t managed to have my Cliche moment and I don’t know if I ever will.  But another portion of it comes from the fact that a great majority of the books, movies, etc., out there that touch on infertility give an unrealistic portrayal of how many people end their battle with infertility.  Most end it either by adoption, getting pregnant through ART or deciding to live child free.   It’s a rare couple that after many, many years of heartache and pain have a child naturally. 

But, we are suckers for a happy ending.  And, I am genuinely happy for Peggy.  I’m also sorry that she had to go through as much as she did to get there, but I’m thankful that she wrote this book about it because for a while there, I saw a lot of myself in her.  Just expressed a lot better.

Requiem for A Cycle

It was a beautiful spring day today. The sun shone brightly, the trees showed off their new green bling, the geraniums were in full bloom. I started off the day on a professional high after having given a kick-ass presentation yesterday out of town.

By 12:30, I felt the defeat that only infertility can sock you with.

At 11:30, I had my IVF post-mortem with Dr. Salsa.  I had no problem with the clinical details – my E2 levels, number of follicles on any given visit, lining check – all of which were projected onto the wall in a weird sort of Excel spreadsheet.  I could handle the discussion of a new protocol.  I could even handle the discussion of what could have possibly gone wrong such that my two beautiful embryos decided not to hang around. 

What I couldn’t handle was when Dr. Salsa decided to share with me just how unbelievable it was to him that this cycle didn’t work by sharing stats from the clinic:

Of the 13 women, including myself, who cycled in that particular period, 11 – yes, 11 – got pregnant.  I was one of 2 who didn’t.  And, just to drive home his point, he said, “I would have put money that you would not have been one of the two.”


So, let’s recap. Even though I had a pretty perfect cycle with an embyro that made it to the freezer and no apparent risk factors, I managed to be one of 2 out of 13 women who still couldn’t get pregnant.  I already felt awful about the negative. I already felt – rightly or not, that is not the question – like a giant failure with a capital F. I already felt like shit just being there, seeing the financial coordinator who did get knocked up with Dr. Salsa’s brand of IVF.  THIS WAS NOT INFORMATION THAT I NEEDED TO KNOW, AND CERTAINLY NOT NOW. 

Later, when I was home and had spent some time decompressing with the dog, I sent Dr. Salsa an email. I explained that I did not want to know about how everyone else did. I explained that I am an inherently competitive person and in this particular arena, hearing about others did in the exact same IVF cycle when mine did not work was just not helpful. I asked him not to share that kind of information with me again because it just sends me into competition mode, and usually, I end up with the short end of a very long stick, which just makes me feel worse.  Sending the email helped and his response was very nice. He apparently knew by my expression the minute he finished the sentence that this was not information that was helpful to me.  It doesn’t un-ring the bell, though. It doesn’t make me forget that I was in the 15% who didn’t make it this time. 

And, so what if I was able to have a lovely glass of w(h)ine with dinner? I’m still no closert to being in that magic 11.  I can feel the bitterness choking me.

Second Verse, Same as the First

“I’m scratching my head at this one.”

This is what Dr. Salsa said when he called this afternoon to confirm the BFN.  We make beautiful embryos, including one that made it to freeze – which for this clinic is apparently a big deal.  I’m still (relatively) young.  I responded well to the stims. Mr. X’s swimmers, while not particularly abundant, are good.  So, he’s scratching his head at why it didn’t work and why I am – yet again – on the bad side of the statistics.  I didn’t find his head-scratching particularly comforting either.  It makes me feel all the more broken, especially when he mentioned that of those of us who had negative cycles, most were not a surprise (women in their 40s, etc).  Me? I’m apparently a genuine medical mystery.  Even with a 60% chance of getting knocked up, I still can’t seal the deal. 

Personally, I would say that it was my old friend Luck. Or lack thereof.  Shit happens.  This was particularly expensive shit, but I know that I did everything I was supposed to do to make this work. So, while I am very, very disappointed and not a little sad, I have no guilt.  For whatever reason those two little buggers decided not to stick around in the posh accommodations that I so thoughtfully (and at great expense) provided.  Ungrateful brats. 

i-can-haz-boozeOn a slightly lighter note, thanks to everyone for your suggestions on what to do this weekend. I was particularly impressed that no one caved and used the dreaded ‘s’ word.  I even warned Dr. Salsa not to use it and he obliged. It was the nicest ‘negative’ call I ever received.  Once I’m ready, I am to follow up with him and the embryologist for the Failure Meeting.  I think I need to do some boozing before then, though. Thank God I got Mr. X that margarita machine for Christmas! 

I’m sure I will be pondering quite a lot over the next few days, but there is one question that is playing like a broken record right now:

Will it ever be our turn?

Don’t Make Me Use My Angry Infertile Voice


I’d like to think that even in the midst of this struggle, I maintain a certain level of self-control and politesse when coordinating with Dr. Salsa’s office.  They are just trying to help us realize that elusive goal and I try to let them know that I appreciate that by being polite and courteous.  There is hardly ever a need to raise one’s voice or be just plain rude. image: haxed

But, this credo was sorely put to the test this week.  On Thursday, to be exact.

When I was at the office for my whirlwind of a visit last Friday, Nurse Chipper (as in she’s always chipper and happy and actually chirps) promised that she would have my IVF schedule ready by the following Wednesday.  I called her on Thursday because I hadn’t heard anything. 

I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, that she had forgotten to send it to me the day before, that she was just finishing it up and would have it over to me in no time.  What I didn’t want to hear is what she told me:

Nurse Chipper: “So, I was looking at the calendar [WHICH WE BOTH WENT OVER AD NAUSEUM ON FRIDAY] and it looks like the lab will actually have to close the week that we had looked at for your retrieval, so we are going to have reschedule your cycle.”

Me: Silence. Inside, I’m beginning to feel that heady mixture of anger and disappointment.

Nurse Chipper: “See, the lab has to close for one week every three to four months for an inspection and this just happens to be that week.”

Me: “And they can’t move it?”

Nurse Chipper: “No, it depends upon the inspector. And, I knew that they were going to close it, but I just didn’t know when. But, now I do know.”


What I did say: Really big sigh.  “I have the worst luck in the world.”

And, then it just got worse.

Nurse Chipper: “We can move it up so that we have a retrieval the last week of February.” [WHICH IS THE EXACT WEEK I TOLD YOU MR. X IS OUT OF TOWN, IN ANOTHER TIME ZONE FOR THE WHOLE WEEK.] Or, you have to wait until the end of March to begin stims and have a retrieval in April.”


Me: “Like we discussed last week, Mr. X will be out of town that whole week.  But, let me talk to him and see if he can move his travel schedule. I also really don’t want to wait until the end of March to get going.”

“Nurse Chipper: “Ok! Talk to him and then give me a call back so that I know where to put you on the calendar.”  No sorry, no I should have told you that this was a distinct possibility when we went over the calendar on Friday, no oops. 

And, when I tried to call her back that afternoon with questions that Mr. X and I had about scheduling, I’m informed she’s gone for the day. At 1:30pm.  I appreciate that you work on Saturdays, lady, and I don’t begrudge you the right to have your time off. BUT FREAKING TELL ME SO THAT I DON’T GET EVEN MORE FRUSTRATED AT EVEN MORE INFORMATION THAT YOU AREN’T GIVING ME THAT IS KIND OF IMPORTANT.

How did it end?

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