So, I had my first monitoring appointment yesterday since the Clomid. I have two potential lead follicles that look good, and my hormones are heading in the right direction. All good news.
Not-so-good: the continuing need for frequent transvaginal ultrasounds. Man, do I hate these fuckers. They are the worst. I’d like to personally administer one to every Republican congressman who’s ever suggested making them mandatory for women seeking abortions. We’ll find a place for the wand, if they don’t have a vagina handy.
The worst, this last time, was that I got all situated on the table, sans pants and with my feet in the stirrups, modesty sheet in place, only for the doctor to announce that the system didn’t have my records queued up, so he’d need to go speak to the front desk.
About that. I didn’t love how he phrased it: “They must not have put it in the computer.” To me, that’s peaching on your co-workers, and it’s not OK. I’m not suggested we all agree to hide the bodies for each other, but I don’t think we need to volunteer to throw our colleagues under the bus quite so quickly.
But I was inclined to be pissy with him anyway, because he came in with what I decided, in my Clomid rage haze, was a snottypants attitude and didn’t look me in the eye, which I hate, especially if someone is about to stick something where the sun don’t shine. It turns out that the attitude, if indeed it existed, might have been false arrogance covering insecurity, though, because as soon as things went south with the computer system, he couldn’t stop apologizing.
Which was very nice of him, since it wasn’t at all his fault — we are all helpless in the face of computer error. But maybe he sensed my rising fury and was trying to construct a bomb shelter around himself before I went nuclear. (Or maybe he was just a nice person, and my sense of proportion has been destroyed by Clomid. It’s up to you to decide.)
Anyway, the second time he came in to say it wasn’t fixed and it had been 20 minutes and I was still lying there with my cooter out for God and everyone to see, I said, “IS IT OK WITH YOU IF I WAIT WITH MY PANTS ON?”
He visibly recoiled and said, “Of course. I’m so sorry. Let me figure out what’s going on…” and then disappeared again, looking defeated by technology. (Although I did hear him explain my pants-wearing situation to an inquiring staff member with a plaintive, “SHE INSISTED.” Which was both annoying and hilarious. She insisted on wearing pants! I couldn’t stop her! Her passion for not being naked cannot be contained using the currently available technology!)
Eventually, he came back, this time with the nice doctor who did my last ultrasound, but I could tell from both their demeanors that I was now A Crazy Patient. It took me five minutes of being perfectly pleasant and cooperative for them to look a bit more chill.
Anyway, I’ve got eggs and shit. They’re ripening up. Also, I have pants. And finally, as my title may have suggested, I’m thinking of inventing a perfume called Lady Rage. I feel like it’ll sell. I’m open to suggestions about what it should smell like.
Image via Ephemeral Scraps at Flickr