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If You KNEW This Was Your Last Infertile Day ...
To read more of Lori Shandle-Fox's Trust Me: Laughing IS Conceivable blogs, CLICK HERE.
I mean if you absolutely KNEW with 100 percent certainty that you were going to be pregnant tomorrow and all of your infertility woes would be over forever, what would you do?
(It's my version of either:
"What would you do if you knew you only had a week to live?" OR:
"What would you do for a Klondike bar?")
I know a lot of women would probably thank GD first and then their fertility doctors.
I would do the same. I would certainly thank my fertility doctors. And then maybe say one or two other things to them ... that have been on my mind ... and under my skin ... just simmering, just beneath the surface ... smoldering you might say ... festering if you like ... month after month after month ... just waiting for this day.
"Hi Doctor Helmsley. This is Lori Fox. So, listen, tomorrow I'll be pregnant. Never mind how I know. So anyway, I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me over these past three years and just mention a couple of things:
Did you know you have the coldest hands ever? I'm not kidding. Do you intentionally not wear gloves in the winter so you could warm your palms on my uterine lining? Is it like a cozy blankie in there or what?
Do you have any idea how hard I had to concentrate every time I'd get on the table, assume the position, and see you coming at me with those stone cold fingers? I'd be mumbling to myself: "Please don't kick him in the eye. Please don't kick him in the eye."
Is that why you started wearing sunglasses to the exams? To fend off kickers? Or because of the fluorescent lights? I've always wondered about that. I mean, I'm assuming I have nothing "glarey" where you're focusing your attentions. Or do you have trouble going from light to dark and back out to light again?
So, anyway, all I know is, I hate those glasses. I looked up one day mid-exam and saw what I look like bottomless, in your glasses. It was like a horror movie.
And another thing I really objected to during our time together: Once a nurse came in with someone else's chart during my exam and the two of you stood there and chatted over my crotch for 10 minutes. I'm sorry, maybe it's an ego thing, but when I'm lying naked from the waist down, I really feel I should be the center of attention.
And of course this is a totally made up phone conversation. Not because I wouldn't really say these things to you but because in three years I've never once called to talk to you and actually got you on the phone.
I mean, how come every time I was in the office, there you were at the front desk looking for something or other or gabbing with someone or other ... not two feet away from where the phones were ringing and yet somehow whenever I called, you were never available to talk on the phone and had to call me back?
I mean I know you're a busy guy. And I know all you've done for me. My insurance company has been good enough to itemize all you've done for me on a monthly statement. But I really tried to keep my calls to you at a minimum — a minimum of twice a day.
I would have mentioned these few little minor grievances earlier, like during those three years while I was coming to your office twice a week. It's just that it's always been my policy to be extra nice to anyone who, you know, uses my uterus as his hand warmer.