Argh.

Have I mentioned before how no matter how much I like my doctor, his receptionists aren’t the best or the brightest?  Received a phone message yesterday that my appointment today was getting pushed back because of all the transfers/retrievals, so could we reschedule?  Ok, that’s understandable; even I wouldn’t claim that my consultation appointment trumps anything that’s on a time-schedule.  But since I specifically scheduled it for today since I had the day off & my sick days aren’t cutting the IVF mustard anymore, I needed to reschedule for later on today.  So I called to tell them so.  Only their phones weren’t picking up, just the emergency service.  

An hour before my appointment I finally reached them, and they denied there had been a phone problem.  Ok.  Whatever.  So when should I come in?  ”12:30.”  Fine.

Which I did.  And there I sat until 1:30, at which point I asked how much longer would it be?  ”At least 45 minutes more.”  Um, what the fuck?  So I ranted, raved, generally acted like a bitch before sitting down to wait some more.  Wouldn’t you know it, not five minutes later, they found time to squeeze me in.  Sorry, I know my doctor is an important, busy guy, but either they need to learn how to schedule him better, or they need to hire him an assistant to deal with the consultation part of it, or they need to not take on so many new patients or something. I do, actually, have a life outside of this clinic, and I would really appreciate it if they wouldn’t assume that this is the only thing in my life.

(Well, ok, it sort of is – in my own brain at least, IVF/pregnancy/child-prospects are running a little hamster-loop about 23 out of every 24 hours).  But I’m busy and important too, damnit!

But I had my consultation.  He asked how I was feeling, healing, etc.  Still no pathology report back from the surgery, but he’s not really expecting anything bad, so I won’t worry.  He wants to do another HSN next week to make sure everything’s cleaned up in there.  Which makes sense.  He seemed to want to tell me that DHEA is good for me, and rehashed the oft-repeated comment regarding the remarkable number of women who conceive “spontaneously” whilst on DHEA, waiting for a new cycle to begin.  

A) Excuse me while I snort derisively.  Which is to say, “Hah.  Funny one, Doc.”

B) Really ready to not be on DHEA any longer than necessary – certainly not based on anecdotal evidence regarding a slightly increased chance of what amounts to a miracle at this rate.  Zits and thinning hair, not to mention the increased risk for just about everything deadly.  Coming back to the teen-look, at this rate, I’m going to have to use artificial tech to get pregnant, simply because my husband won’t want to touch me.  Ok.  Exaggerating, but it’s still annoying.  And can’t be good for me, long-term.

Nevertheless, my doctor said he did want to wait another cycle, not jump on this next one.  *sigh*  Which would make my upcoming a beginning of December cycle.  Which would mean that traveling for Thanksgiving would be out of the question.  I expressed some disappointment about canceling (nonexistent as of yet) travel plans, and he said he’d see what he could do.  

When the nurse came to talk to me, she seemed to think that as long as next week’s HSN comes out normal, that we’ll start a cycle this month (well, beginning of November).  Making me think that in the weird world that is Manhattan, travel plans are more important than a deep and abiding urge to start trying for the one-thing-that-I-want-more-than-anything-in-the-world obsession.  Am I really unusually impatient, or is that strange?  Or did he just take pity on my upcoming birthday-angst?  Or did his receptionist beg him subliminally to get me the hell out of there as soon as he can, one way or another?  Needless to say, I’m happy that it looks like we’re back to the original schedule.  Also, it sounds like the nurse is the one who is going to be dealing with my insurance co. re: the injectables next time, not me, so a big “Woohoo” for that.  It sounds like he’s upping my meds this time, though.  Yikes.  I thought I was already on the outside edge, what with the 6 vials of Bravelle at a time & all.  

Of course, with my luck, the reward for my stubbornness will just mean that I have to bail on the WFC trip over Halloween.  Because it’s just that sort of thing that happens to me.  You know what, though?  I’d rather get started a month earlier on this next round than go to Calgary and see old friends and schmooze with editors, if it comes to that.  

If I were truly lucky, I’d manage to make a baby the old-fashioned way this month.  I hear that if you really want it, if you just relax &/or keep your hips elevated, it’s possible to get pregnant without medical intervention.  It helps if you happen to be a Republican, Evangelical high-schooler hooking up with someone who publicly states that he doesn’t want to be a father.  *sigh*  I guess I’m out of the running on all of those counts, too.  I guess God just doesn’t want me to be a mother.  

Sorry.  That was bitter.  It’s why I’m trying not to think too much about my sitch these days.  It makes me feel bitter. Bitter as soon-to-be-proscribed coffee grounds.  Bitter as bile from the nausea-inducing hormonal cocktail.  Bitter as a pint o’Guinness, drunk warm and foamy.

Hmmm.  Guinness sounds good right now.  Going to go take advantage of my non-pregnant state of being and bring one home for tonight.  Maybe with an espresso chaser.  Vomiting can’t be far off.  And on that happy note…