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Wasted (Infertility-Related) Hours of My Life That I Want Back
So, what were we talking about? Oh right. How I'm perhaps a mite disproportionately bitter about the changing of the clocks/losing an hour sleep debacle ... And how many infertile-related hours in our lives we would like to have back.
In particular, I remember one nasty little scene with my fertility doctor.
Okay, Rule No. 1 — Don't argue with anyone whose fingerprints can be found on your ovaries. Seriously. Do you really want to irritate someone who probes your vital organs and a few non-vital ones on a bi-weekly basis?
(Obviously I violated Rule No. 1 or this post would end here.)
I mean you'd hope they'd be professional and not let it affect their work, but the only way to find that out, I imagine, would be the hard way. "Oh look at that, your uterus fell onto the floor. Mercy me, I've never had that happen before. How clumsy of me. My bad."
I admit I may have said something that got my fertility doctor a wee miffed. I didn't say he was a lousy doctor. I didn't even imply he wasn't prescribing the best fertility treatment. I didn't question his abilities or his reputation. I didn't bad-mouth any of his staff. I did, perhaps, possibly, may have, inadvertently, suggested he was only in it for the money. Well that was it. It hit the fan. What you'd expect hit the fan along with some cotton balls, a roll of adhesive tape, his stapler, and whatever else may have been laying around when the cyclone hit.
So here comes the rampage from him of:
"Are you kidding me?! Nobody would do this for the money! The hours we put in! The things we do to help people! All of the years of training I've had! How dare you say I'm only in it for the money?! Do you have any idea how much it costs to run a practice like this?! Some months I barely break even!
Okay, I admit, at this point I should have just quietly backed out of the office instead of saying: "I find that hard to believe."
I'm not sure why I thought that would calm him down. It was like the storm had started to pass, the winds had died down to 30 m.p.h., and then I opened my big mouth and the cyclone, literally, got his second wind.
Receptionists ran for cover under their desks, nurses threw patients to the ground and pinned them to the floor with their bodies to shield them from flying debris, the emergency sirens went off in the streets, cats and dogs were running in a circle, and the TV in the waiting room started beeping with the message from the National Weather Service streaming across the screen.
My husband who had stood side-by-side with me as my partner and protector, at this point not only ceased to yell "duck!," but shoved me in front of him to deflect the 600 m.p.h. swirling office supplies.
When finally things calmed down, and the Red Cross came in with blankets and donuts, should I have not said to the doctor: "Are you done? You know my appointment was an hour ago?" Yeah, you're right. Probably not.
If you have a sec, come see more of this week's posts on "(Infertility-Related) Hours of MyLife That I Want Back" at my daily blog: laughingisconceivable.com