Sunday, April 22, 2012

Bring out the cigarettes

To no one's surprise, Heather is not pregnant.  She got to about day 32 of her cycle, then started some very subtle bleeding, and then her period flaunted itself.  As the saying goes, it is what it is.  Or isn't.

Throughout the whole two weeks, we'd been continuing in our various efforts to prepare for IVF, although it feels like none of them have been even remotely worthwhile.  Dr. King's office is a big one-- the practice includes, I believe, eight ob-gyns-- and there are three times as many nurses and who knows how many admins.  I have talked to all of them.  If you want to get in touch with Dr. King, you have to leave a message on the nurses' voicemail, with no assurance of which will call you back or-- I've learned-- which will look at your chart first.

"Okay, yes, CMV was part of the blood tests, but that's not what I'm worried about.  We need the whole panel and we need all of it sent to the Nashville clinic."

That seems like a pretty reasonable amount of information, especially since there should barely be a sentence of Heather's chart that doesn't refer to IVF.  And Dr. King has her own particular nurse, so it seems pretty reasonable that she would know Dr. King's charts and be the one communicating with us.  Why on earth does she have her own nurse(s) if those nurses can't be likewise allocated to communicate with Dr. King's patients?  I don't understand.

What I also really don't understand is why some lady calls back and asks for an e-mail address to send the release form to (FYI, fuck you if you're feeling grammatically judgmental about that sentence; I'm grumpy and I'm beginning to have a lot of hostility towards the ending-with-a-preposition business), then needs to be reminded how to spell "yahoo."  No, ma'am.  If you can't spell "yahoo," that's when you need to take up greeting unprincipled shoppers at Wal-Mart.  (Also fuck you if you want to get into a conversation about Wal-Mart's relationship to labor and pricing.  I don't have time, and you're wrong.)

Heather and I work in retail, both in semi-administrative roles, and I spend a goodly amount of my day having to explain to customers that the particular person they want is unavailable.  I don't want to leave a voicemail, either.  Sometimes it's like that, though.  Sometimes the person you need is a dumb-ass.  That's what goes on.  Sometimes, though-- both in retail and administrative matters-- it makes a fucking difference whether the person calls you back quickly and whether that person has her shit together.  In our world, there is a customer database, and we're constantly reminded to add thorough notes to those accounts so anybody can say, "Yes, I see you paid that on X date in Y amount." 

Two weeks ago-- in real or emotional time I can't say-- a lady said, "This note says I talked to you on such-and-such a date," resulting in the discovery that the next person down the line had never called us per the first person's promise.  Somebody's daughter was in the hospital and wasn't in the office very often.  Okay, that's a shame.  There's some wiggle room. 

Nonetheless.  Nonetheless.  Nobody else can use the fax machine?  No one else can e-mail a form to Heather? 

So Heather got the form on Monday-- after the "y-a-h-o-o" conversation-- and I faxed it Wednesday.  Thursday I called to ask about it, and Friday I talked to some lady about it, but she said that the sick-daughter lady had been in and out and I'd need to wait till Monday to talk to her.  What if she didn't send the form?  How many days longer will it take to get the goddamn test results to Nashville?

Tuesday, Heather and I are going to get haircuts.  I'm going to get weed-killer and lamb's ears at Lowe's during her appointment.  Should the Monday fax discussion not work out, we're going to take a moment pre-haircut to stop at Dr. King's office and flip the fuck out.

My version of flipping the fuck out is to get a very tense voice and talk a little faster, but Heather's version is a little more... emphatic.  Should hospital-daughter lady not have figured out the faxing, we're going to sign the form right there at the front desk and watch them fax it.  Then we'll go get pretty.

Heather's brother has led a somewhat chaotic life recently, and Heather had a voicemail this week from his mother-in-law.  They're not in touch all that often, so that wasn't a great sign.  Not because anyone's in the hospital but because there's hardly a good time to call your niece and nephew's grandma back when you don't know what's going on but you know it's shitty.

This morning, Heather got back from her bike ride-- see how she's getting all healthy?-- and said she'd gotten another voicemail reminding her of the grandma's number, so she was trying to get motivated to return the call.  We were curled up on the couch, considering the possibility that the niece and nephew might be in need of a more stable environment and that we might be called upon to be that environment.

Honestly, I was kind of excited.  Free kids?  Yes, please!  As Heather noted, that was super fucked-up, because nobody should ever be excited about kids being across the country from their parents, and nobody should ever be excited about taking on kids whose early years have been so complicated.  Nor is it good for us if we get free kids, then they move back across the country once we've gotten deeply attached.  It's also way fucked-up because it would put on indefinite hold every baby plan we have in place, maybe even meaning that Heather could never have a baby.

That's where I am, though.  I want to be a mom, and I want Heather to be a mom, and this most recent disappointment with ICI has made IVF look so much uglier.  Even if we can get the staff at Dr. King's office to take care of forms and testing, we still have several trips to Nashville ahead of us, thousands of dollars, more than a month of hormones, then a procedure that probably won't be altogether thrilling for Heather. 

Heather is still on the phone right now.  No mention of the kids yet.

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