We've Only Just Begun

I have to say, a six a.m. awakening on a Saturday is, for me, akin to being marched at bayonet-point down to the cruddiest latrine at Camp Seicook (that's "cookies" spelled backward, Girl Scouts) and instructed to scrub can with my autographed copy of Southern Ladies and Gentlemen. Not a bright start to my long holiday weekend.

We arrived at 7:30 to a stuffy room full of pissed-off-looking infertile women. Ah, my people, I thought, and settled in with my Gameboy, the better to further the illusion of me being a fourteen-year-old whose mommy is maybe getting a bit old to be having another. Oh, but then I tuned in to the grumbling. And it became clear that the doctor was not yet in. She was expected, oh, maybe by eight.

Unprofessional, you say? Well, this doctor is a middle-aged woman, and I am prepared to entertain the idea that she is the one responsible for getting the kids off to field hockey and chorus, and therefore susceptible to these variations in schedule. I was ready to forgive, this one time. The women around me were not; I heard whispers of recently tripled patient load, of frequent tardiness on the part of this female doctor (but not my male doctor; again, see field hockey theory). Ignoring the knot of frustration in my gut, and imagining a future in which I'd been burned too many times to forgive, I turned my attention back to Wario Ware.

"See, that's the thing I hate about living here. The property taxes! This state is fulla freeloaders and I for one hate payin' for 'em! Those bleeding-heart senators just throw money at everybody, and I..."

Mister Pegged Pants next to me (who in that tiny room wasn't next to me?!) continued the diatribe until his wife, who was first in line, had completed the requisite poking and prodding. I so appreciated listening to this jerkwad decry the fiscal state of the state, as well as the lack of available USA Todays, while I waited to ride the white dildo and his obviously embarrassed wife made pallid attempts to shush him. He did offer to get coffee for his fellow waitrons (I like that term for people who are waiting in a waiting room. It sums up the robotic numbness that descends in a stuffy room jammed with mauve chairs.), but I just can't forgive him for wearing drastically tapered khakis with little stitched-down cuffs, no socks, and Nikes.

So the doctor arrived, about 7:30, and immediately began ranting at the (largely absent) office staff. "Where the hell is everybody? I want staff here now!" Neat. I can continue blaming the office staff, then? They whipped through everyone's bloodwork -- at what point did it cease to be the custom for phlebotomists to not also be receptionists, and to either wash hands or glove up? -- and I got right in for the ultrasound, performed by a harried but pleasant doctor. Oh, but you guys'd be proud of me -- the tropical-sunset-clawed woman who took my blood, when I told her someone needed to show me how to do the injections, said, "Ooooh, that might be a problem."

And I said, in a cool, measured yet firm tone: "It's not an option. I called on Thursday. Someone will show me today." Oh, but I was proud of me.

And guess what? Not five minutes after my ultrasound, a nurse who didn't quite have a handle on the past tense of "bleed" (it's "bled," not "bleeded," hon) demonstrated the technique. It's actually pretty simple; draw up the goods, insert the needle at a 90-degree angle to...wait, the whole thing? You're telling me to push that entire quarter-inch length of needle into my stomach? Um, oh jeez, okay...

I barely felt it. Not bad at all. Except that I left the needle in too long, and then I sat with my waistband pressing against the spot, so now I have a tropical sunset bruise.

We were out of the office by 9 a.m., which was well within expectations. If I hadn't heard (and participated in) all the complaints, I would have left with a shiny happy feeling, believing all was right with the world.

And I wouldn't have had a damn thing to write about. This one's for you, Mister Pegged Pants, you xenophobic classist asswipe.

Comments

[jilbur]

Not being proud of you is not an option. *preening (I'd like to think I can take a little credit for your beautifully maturing inner queen bee, but candidly, I think you would be doing just as well without me. In that respect.)

Hey--you still haven't turned on the option for html in comments! give a girl a break!

[CJ]

Amazing how the asswipse of the world give us plenty of writing material, isn't it?

[Sonetka]

You have an autographed copy of "Southern Ladies and Gentlemen"? I am in awe.

Re the injections: I've just done a few weeks' worth and am now driving myself crazy waiting on the result. It gets better after the first few times; just jab that needle in as fast as you can; if you're slow it becomes exponentially more painful. Good luck, & hope you don't need to use up all your amps, if you know what I'm saying :).

[OliviaDrab]

KUDOS!!!! Excellent job of telling it to her like it is. One point for the home team.

Glad the needle didn't hurt!

[Lisa]

Nice work! Glad to hear all went well.

[Karen]

Gameboy rules. I love Wario games! And I love that you were playing gameboy in the RE's office.

Good work with the injections--and the beyatchio nurse. Go Jo!

[Julia]

"Camp Seicook (that's "cookies" spelled backward)"

... um, no not quite. That would be Camp Seikooc. Do I win a prize?! :)

[Jo]

D'oh!

Yep, you win a Treasure Chest, made of a fast-food styrofoam container encrusted with plastic beads. You can keep your stamped leather bracelet from crafts in it!

See, this is why I quit Brownies.