Seriously, if timing sex for conception isn't stressful enough, timing shots of god only knows what hormones and chemicals into your belly for conception is a full-on panic attack of legendary proportions. At least when it's just you and your husband timing the deed, you at least have some control over that. But when your chances of conception are suddenly being controlled by a doctor, a pharmacist and four or five faceless voices on the other end of a telephone line, things get a little more stressful.
I'm not what you'd call a confrontational person. I'm rarely a squeaky wheel; I'll just take my grease when whoever's giving it out gets to me. But with this? I turned into a bit of a harpy.
I tried not to be. All day Tuesday I took deep breaths, and when I called the clinic or the specialty pharmacy, I spoke in soothing, easy tones. I said things like, "I just want to check that..." or "I'm sorry to bother you again, I am just wondering if...". And when the responses I got were, "I will check on that and get back to you," or "No, ma'am, I do not have that order," I took more deep breaths, and double checked with the voice on the other end of the phone that these meds could indeed be shipped overnight, so if I needed them by Thursday, I still had a shot (no pun intended) at getting them on time. And then I'd get off the phone, wait a couple of hours, and start my calls again.
By Wednesday morning, though, I was starting to get a little bit testy. After being assured by the clinic on Tuesday that the prescription would definitely be placed by the end of the day, I discovered, from the pharmacy, that they had in fact NOT been ordered yet. This is when I started to feel the synapses in my brain firing personality-altering messages to my mouth. I called the clinic again, and did a whole lot of interrupting whenever I heard the phrase, "I'll look into it." I do believe at one point I said, "Maria, you're going to do more than look into it. You're going to make sure it gets done. And you're going to call me back to let me know it's done."
I have no doubt that in my medical record file, the words "Gigantic Bitch" are written in red across my full name. I don't care. Maria can suck it. An hour after that phone call, while we were at Ethan's dentist appointment, someone who was NOT Maria called me back from the clinic to let me know that she had personally seen to it that the order went through to the pharmacy. I wish I could remember her name, but I was so busy being madly in love with Ethan in the dentist's chair (see yesterday's post) that I didn't catch it. Whoever she is, I love her.
A couple of hours later, Neisha from my insurance agency called me to set up delivery. That phone call took about thirty minutes. Have you ever tried to change a poopy diaper while talking on an iPhone to a complete stranger? And iPhone, or any cell phone, I think, is really not designed to do the whole cradle between your shoulder and ear thing and I'm not nearly cool enough to have a blue tooth ear piece. So I dropped my iPhone, and Neisha, about six times during our conversation. I'm sure she was thrilled.
But bless Neisha's heart, this morning at 10am, a white styrofoam cooler filled with baby-making serums and syringes and progesterone suppositories showed up, packed on ice, to my doorstep. A--freaking--men.
Moments ago, Husband looked on in, I'd like to think, awe, as I gave myself the first shot of nine. The needle looks pretty scary, but it really didn't hurt. According to the calendar my RE gave me today, the IUI date is either the 22nd or 23rd, so a full day or two before family arrives for turkey day. But, due to overwhelming demand, I will do my very best to fit a turkey baster joke into my Thanksgiving repertoire.
Tomorrow's post will be about something far more fun than this baby-making riggamaroll; I will be writing about my return to TARGET!!!! SQUEEEE!!!!