Friday, September 2, 2011

I know you hear me calling you

I thought this morning about our last insemination.  Or, rather, I thought about it failing.
I don't know what it was that sparked it, only that I remembered Heather's voice on the phone when she told me she had started bleeding, and I wondered if this newfangled waiting game is any better than that.  The trick to this pause for testing and doctor-meeting is that, while we aren't directly confronting that moment of terror and grief, we don't have that two-weeks-wait to give us hope and energy.

Tuesday I'd left a message for Dr. C's assistant, saying that Heather had finished the dye test (hysterosalpingogram for you fancy folks) last week and we wondered if we needed to set up a follow-up appointment.

(None of this is actually "we."  I just say "I" because I don't want to explain to the doctors' offices that in fact Heather is the patient and I'm just an assistant.  The variety of phone numbers and the respective likelihood of a call being answered makes phone tag very complicated.  They leave a message on her number, which is on file, but I keep trying to have them return calls to my number, which I pretend is also Heather's.)

So Heather got a call at 8:30am Wednesday on her cell, but didn't recognize the number and elected to go back to sleep (not unreasonably).  Hours later, she told me that she'd had a message from Dr. C's office, so I immediately called the office again and left another message.  We haven't heard back, so I'm anxious about calling them again and fearful that Heather got a message and never told me.  I programmed the clinic's number into her phone so she wouldn't blow off their calls, but I doubt she'd drop everything to answer the way that I would.

I guess this is better than the 7am calls to the sperm bank to arrange overnight delivery, but at least that feels like progress.  This feels like, "Well, it wasn't happening anyway, so what difference does it make if we wait another few months?"  The difference is another few months, motherfuckers.  I want to pick up those calls and make appointments and get Heather's blood drawn.  I want to find out what is or isn't wrong.  I want to find out whether Dr. C is a drug-pusher and whether H is a drug-buyer.  I don't want to wait to research the side effects of fertility drugs, but if I look into it now and learn that Heather's going to break into hives and start hissing when her alarm goes off in the morning, I'll know to either argue with Dr. C or leave.

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