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Day 7: "Ah, my arch-nemesis. We meet again."

I have decided that the doctor who did today's ultrasound is my sworn bosom enemy.

I'd already taken against her for her dippy behavior when we learned my last pregnancy was failing. And I'd been exasperated when, before IVF #3, she couldn't figure out how to work one of those newfangled, high-tech blood pressure cuffs. (Special hint, doctor: It's called Velcro.)

But today she just pissed me off more.

First she didn't even try to show me the ultrasound screen as she scanned me. "I'd like to see, too, if we can angle the monitor," I asked, knees akimbo. "Sorry," she said, "but if we angle it, I can't see." Of course, every other doctor in the practice — and I assume the ASRM — has figured out where to stand to offer the patient a look without compromising the doctor's view. Maybe it's unreasonable of me to want to see what the doctor is basing her decisions on. Maybe it's presumptuous of me to want to see my own engorged ovaries.

But that's not what really sent me stratospheric. That came later, when I asked a question and she looked at me vaguely, asking, "Have you done IVF before?"

The IVF coordinator and I were both surprised into silence by this question. I finally mustered an annoyed snicker in answer. "Um, yes."

Now, okay, I realize this is not, alas, a Juliecentric universe. While I do have some nominal control over the tides and the changing of seasons, the rest of the world does somehow manage to turn without my express consent. But come on. "Have you ever done IVF before?"

My clinic does no more than 150 cycles a year. Three of them last year were mine, and each of them went haywire in a different and unusual way. For one of them, she did the retrieval. On another, she presided with unseemly cheer over a very disturbing ultrasound. And then there was that very tense conversation about my egg quality after IVF #3 — she got defensive, I got mad, and we both went away feeling misunderstood.

Either I'm really unmemorable, or she's a total goddamn space case.

It doesn't feel good to know that a doctor who's empowered to make decisions about my treatment doesn't know who I am or why I'm there. I'd expect that in a larger practice, might even prefer it at this point — the personal touch has proven so far to be a bad, bad touch. ("Julie, show the nice police lady where the scary people touched you.") For added expertise, it would be a worthwhile tradeoff. But if I'm not getting state-of-the-art care at the moment, at the very least I expect the doctors to act like I matter.

So, without further ado, I declare a blood feud.

The scan and bloodwork looked fine. My follicles are growing apace and it looks like we may trigger Sunday night. Next appointment: Sunday morning, 8:30. If they're running late this time I swear I will commit mayhem.