Here are some quick notes from this morning's appointment for an ultrasound and bloodwork.
Eight patients went in before I did. Did they all have appointments before me? If so, how did the staff expect to see eight patients before 8:30? They'd have had to start at 5:50 to get them all in, with 20 minutes per patient.
"All the other patients were running late," the nurse confided when I complained. I guess it's more important to indulge the inconsiderate by pushing everyone back than it is to reward the punctual by, you know, not making me wait almost an hour and a half to be seen.
Two mommies. And another two mommies. And another two mommies. And...
The interesting thing about seeing lesbian couples at an infertility clinic is that most of them aren't actually infertile, in need of big bad science to conceive. Most of them just need a kindly, impersonal squirt — and most of them have a reasonable expectation that they'll succeed.
This is the difference, easily noticeable in the waiting room on weekends. There's still a pall of despair hanging over the place thanks to freaks like me, but the several chatty lesbian couples I saw this morning were doing their best to lift it — talking, smiling, acting perfectly normal. They made me enormously happy and reminded me that despite everything that's happened, I am still hopeful. It was so refreshing, so unusual to see ordinary cheerfulness in this place, that I considered going over to thank them.
But not even I am that much of a dork.
Julie: Oof. Yes.
Doctor: Sorry about that.
Julie, trying to be game: Can't be helped.
Doctor: Sure it can.
Julie: Then knock it off.
Um, which one are you again?
An exhaustive list of the questions my doctor asked about my consultation at Cornell
Maybe I'm too stupid to be allowed to reproduce
This is precisely why my preference for black underpants is wise as well as stylish.