Mr. Demille, I am Ready for my Close-Up
Sitting in the IVF waiting room preparing to undergo my very first and hopefully only egg retrieval, I looked around the tasteful room to the other infertile couples and thought "why us?" At that point, it wasn't really the pitying "why me?" that I am usually all too quick to proclaim, but more of a scientific why. What went wrong? I wanted to go around the room and ask "so what are you in for?" Male factor? High FSH? Most of us appeared young and healthy, so why were we on the unfortunate side of the odds? For me, I like to think it is a karma kick back for all those times I wore empire-waisted dresses and tried to look pregnant so that I could get a seat on the N train.
When we arrived the receptionist gave the ladies the gear to change into then we were to return to the waiting room until it was our turn to have our ovaries aspirated by a large needle. With all the women in gowns and robes, the waiting room looked like a deranged slumberparty. I couldn't concentrate on the newspaper (Gail Collin's fluff piece on Sarah Palin/Levi Johnson included), and didn't know what to do with myself especially after my IV was placed. It is hard to act casual and nonchalant when you are in slumberwear and there is a needle hanging out of your arm. I started to think about being a parent. I know I will make a good mother. Just the other day I stopped some kid from licking the pole in the subway. A few days later, I made another kid spit out the crushed (yes, by someone's shoe) skittles he'd picked up from the sidewalk. And these kids were mere strangers; imagine the lengths I would go to protect my flesh and blood from the dangers of New York City health hazards!
After watching everyone else get sent back, the receptionist whined my name and joked that she had forgotten all about me. Comedians! I was up. After being told three times to empty my bladder, asked three times what allegergies I had, and told, yes, three times to remove my pants (once by the anesthesiologist who sized me up and then directed me to "lose my pants." Fresh!), I hopped up on to the slab and started to assumed the position. No candy-cane, candied-ass stirrups, this time. My calfs were hoisted into these cuffs that rendered me completely exposed, baby-birthing exposed, ass-hanging-off-the-table exposed, Jennifer-Aniston-on-a date exposed. Mercifully the anesthesia worked its magic before I could get too worried about my vagina's extreme close-up.
I have always had a bit of fear of being put under - even that phrase makes my-need-to-be-in-control self bristle. After my lap, some of those fears dimished. That anesthesiologist was great -funny, reassuring, competent, not at all a heroine junkie. This guy, however, had the markings of a high functioning alcoholic. Maybe it was the way be commanded me to "lose my pants" while he questioned me on my smoking/drinking habits by rattling off an exhaustive list of possible makes and models of intoxicating beverages I might consume on an average evening. I think I even heard him say jungle juice. I started to panic that he might give me what they gave Michael Jackson. But functioning he was, because I happily emerged from my twilight sedation and announced that I had gone to Fiji.
When we arrived the receptionist gave the ladies the gear to change into then we were to return to the waiting room until it was our turn to have our ovaries aspirated by a large needle. With all the women in gowns and robes, the waiting room looked like a deranged slumberparty. I couldn't concentrate on the newspaper (Gail Collin's fluff piece on Sarah Palin/Levi Johnson included), and didn't know what to do with myself especially after my IV was placed. It is hard to act casual and nonchalant when you are in slumberwear and there is a needle hanging out of your arm. I started to think about being a parent. I know I will make a good mother. Just the other day I stopped some kid from licking the pole in the subway. A few days later, I made another kid spit out the crushed (yes, by someone's shoe) skittles he'd picked up from the sidewalk. And these kids were mere strangers; imagine the lengths I would go to protect my flesh and blood from the dangers of New York City health hazards!
After watching everyone else get sent back, the receptionist whined my name and joked that she had forgotten all about me. Comedians! I was up. After being told three times to empty my bladder, asked three times what allegergies I had, and told, yes, three times to remove my pants (once by the anesthesiologist who sized me up and then directed me to "lose my pants." Fresh!), I hopped up on to the slab and started to assumed the position. No candy-cane, candied-ass stirrups, this time. My calfs were hoisted into these cuffs that rendered me completely exposed, baby-birthing exposed, ass-hanging-off-the-table exposed, Jennifer-Aniston-on-a date exposed. Mercifully the anesthesia worked its magic before I could get too worried about my vagina's extreme close-up.
I have always had a bit of fear of being put under - even that phrase makes my-need-to-be-in-control self bristle. After my lap, some of those fears dimished. That anesthesiologist was great -funny, reassuring, competent, not at all a heroine junkie. This guy, however, had the markings of a high functioning alcoholic. Maybe it was the way be commanded me to "lose my pants" while he questioned me on my smoking/drinking habits by rattling off an exhaustive list of possible makes and models of intoxicating beverages I might consume on an average evening. I think I even heard him say jungle juice. I started to panic that he might give me what they gave Michael Jackson. But functioning he was, because I happily emerged from my twilight sedation and announced that I had gone to Fiji.
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