Let me be the first to apologize for the title. (Although I can’t imagine who else would.) I’m a huge baseball fan and rarely pass up a good sports metaphor. As for: “infertility virgin”– that oxymoronic or just moronic part of the title– well the need for that apology is self-explanatory.
If you’re new, or semi-new to this infertility biz, we vets welcome you with open arms to this wild, wacky, unjust world.
I even hate to say “welcome”. I really want to say “sorry”. But you aren’t anywhere near alone… and please do find some comfort in that. There are scores (would I have said: “dozens” if baseball season wasn’t upon us?) There are many many of us who are there and doing that or have been there and have done that. In fact, most of us have done that, that, AND that. (links to find more of your supporters at the end.)
And a lot of it is confusing—especially if you’re new to the fertility treatment game… There are some things I think we can clear up right here:
I mean if you absolutely KNEW with 100% certainty that you were going to be pregnant tomorrow and you were going to have a beautiful, glorious, carefree nine months, and a pain-free joyful delivery, you were going to give one little push and out would float a laughing baby on a bed of bubbles and all of your infertility woes would be over forever, what would you do?
(It’s my hybrid version of: “What would you do if you knew you only had a week to live?” and: “What would you do for a Klondike bar?”)
I know a lot of women would probably thank GD first and then their doctors. Continue reading
(Start with “Monday” if you can. I think, as the week progresses and I get more and more exhausted, it’s fascinating to witness my mental unraveling first hand. Come. Watch me deteriorate.)
So what were we talking about? Oh right. What each medical professional’s role is at the fertility clinic. I like anesthesiologists myself. Just by their title you know immediately what they do there.
My anesthesiologist was a lovely Italian gentleman. (Now that I think about it, I wonder if that might have been my under-anesthesia hallucination fantasy. Maybe things got distorted in my head during the countdown. Somewhere between 98, and 97.
Maybe my anesthesiologist wasn’t a lovely gentleman from Italy at all. Maybe she was just a woman wearing boots.) Continue reading