A Little Pressure

Man, today's IUI was frickin' HOT.

Not just because Dr. S is a SART-registered dreamboat, no, although that does get me yanking on my collar Jerry Lewis-style. Not because we had to wake up at 5:30 in the a.m. so my beloved husband could whack it into a cup so we could try one last time to make a baby, although as romantic gestures go that one's up there with unprompted oral sex of whatever duration necessary. No, it was hot because the air conditioning was broken at the clinic. That, and the electricity was out in some of the exam rooms, including what we infertiles call "that IUI room with...the pictures" because it is wallpapered alternately in gore-covered babies held aloft by a grinning, dreamy Dr. S, younger and with a bit more hair, and informative posters about egg retrieval. It's the visual equivalent, for hardcore barrens, of chasing a pot brownie with about twelve gimlets: far, far too much. You don't cross the streams.

But it all went off uneventfully as ever, except that the four of us -- Dr. S, his nurse, me, my husband -- were all crammed into a room about five feet by eight, and mostly filled by my stirrupy throne. You walked in that door, you pretty much walked directly into my vagina. I felt bad for the other nurse, who had to endure the Pedro Almodóvar dream sequence without warning when she came in to spring me. But then it's nothing she hasn't already seen and written about every other day for months.

It was a bittersweet morning, of course, it being our final IUI. As you might expect, babies were absolutely the last thing on my mind, as I lay there, looking at the doctor's face framed fetchingly between my carefully shaved knees. Babies? Whassat? What I'm mourning is this: the every-other-day attentions of Dr. S. Maybe, sure, I'll never have to have that forced-march SEXUAL INTERCOURSE when my chotch feels as beaten as a vintage baseball glove; I'll be able to sleep in until seven most mornings. Of course there are benefits to be had in stepping off this train.

But what about my Sweetybooty fix???

Even on those mornings I hear the nurses grumble that "he's having one of those days," he's pleasant and reassuring, always anticipating whatever I might be concerned about. He never forgets to say "a little pressure" before prodding, and I've seen him return to the lube bottle rather than shoving aside delicate tissue with said pressure. He manages to be tender and kind without being slimy, cheerful without being dismissive. He turns the ultrasound screen! The other day I stuck my head into his office to ask a question. "Dr. S...?" I asked, very quietly. He jumped up from his desk, was the picture of concern: "What is it, Jo?" I was disappointed that my question was about appointment times, and not about whether he'd like to smooth my hair while I wept about it all. Oh, he is the star of my rescue fantasies sometimes, in which I sob from the horror of it all, and yet am beautiful: eyes clear but for a little red around the edges, lips fetchingly bee-stung but nose somehow dripless. He comforts me in my imaginary sadness. Perhaps later there is sex; I haven't gotten there yet. But if I do, I'm sure he'll say, in my weird little daydream: "A little pressure, now."

And then I'll show him exactly what I can do with this cunt.

Oh, shit, did I write that? Um. Yes. Well, anyway.

I am hooked on his attentiveness. Besotted. Addicted. He is the hardest habit to break, in this whole infertility drama. I know, I know, he's just doing his job, and he's doing it so remarkably well; but that does not diminish my enjoyment. Not one bit. I don't care if he's faking it, so long as I get my fix. Sweet, delicious concern.

So what's an attention whore to do? Do I persuade close friends to stop by my place, every few days, and instruct me to remove my pants so that they can tell me everything's progressing beautifully? Maybe we could arrange some sort of quid pro quo in which I cook elaborate dinners and they insert long plastic objects into my vagina? It wouldn't be the same, though. Nobody does attention like Dr. S.

I'm planning on writing him a letter explaining our decision, thanking him for everything he's done, particularly the things that aren't strictly medicine: every small kindness that meant the world to me, each gentle gesture where it would have been so easy to be brusque. Combined with the fact that he is among the best in the country, particularly for women with PCOS, this makes it possible for us to move on with hearts free of doubt, knowing that everything has been done that could have been done (save IVF itself), and that emotionally speaking, we are really in very good shape thanks to his conduct.

Of course I plan to include a few choice snippets from the preceding paragraphs as well. You know, in case we ever come back. I want to make good and sure he remembers me.

Comments

[Mamarama]

"And then I'll show him exactly what I can do with this cunt."

I think you definitely need to include this part in your letter, along with the fantasy.

I'd trade you dinner for comfort if I could. However, you're a great cook and all, but that's a long trip.

[Mollie]

Come over to my house and cook for me, and I will stick anything you want into your snatch, baby. I've got a vac-u-vin that Nico likes to pretend is a submarine in the bathtub, but I bet I can get him to spare it if there's an edible meal in exchange.

Jo, Jo, Jo. This post is amazing. How about I insert some TLC and something probe-esque into your cooter and you insert some comic flair into my writing?

I love you so much.

P.S. I have now come to the conclusion that every male RE is attractive and charming, and had my RE been male, maybe I would have embraced ART, fantasies of exam-style sex, and a long trip down the road.

[getupgrrl]

Listen, about the adoption thing - the hardest thing is going to be giving up the RE addiction. Really. I suggest that you wean slowly. You know, like, maybe have him check your thighs, then your knees, then your ankles, then your toes, over a period of months, until there's no reason to take your pants off anymore.

"No reason to take your pants off anymore."

*weeping*

[Julia]

Did you just use a "Ghostbusters" reference and an Almodovar reference in the same post?!! You're my hero.

[Brooklyn Girl]

Jo, how could anyone ever forget you? I mean really.

[Danae]

I agree with Grrl. And now I'm weeping.

I'm going to email you...

[Kristine]

You use that choice line in your RE Love Letter. He may feign disinterest in the name of professionalism, but you bet your sweet ass that comment will haunt his dreams for a good long time!!

[gretchenosis]

alright, i firmly believethat it is not possible for someone to totally separate themselves from the sexual aspect of...sex stuff. you know what i mean, though.... it just isn't possible that it never occured to him that you're fucking hot and he was looking at your chotchke all the time, and that he spent a lot of time with you while your pants were down. it just ain't possible, is all i'm sayin.