Better Than Prose

April 12, 2014

It was tempting to write about yesterday yesterday. But since Fridays are for what’s making me happy, I waited. There was just too much to say.

Thing the First. Clearly, I’m not supposed to sleep. Midnight nightmare, followed by accidental midnight alarm, was followed by another midnight nightmare. This time it was what would best be called an actor’s nightmare. It really was one. It was borne of the stress of what was coming on Friday.

In my dream, I was at my meeting with the obstetrician. It must have involved a pelvic exam because I was taken to an exam room and given a gown into which I changed. At that time, one of my less-than-pleasant colleagues came into the room to take the meeting. (I am a bit amused that this person was the villain of the piece.) She gave me a large glass of water. We’re talking Big Gulp here. In an orange plastic glass. And I told her she had no business being at my appointment. And she proceeded to try to take charge, so I tossed the water at her. She then bluntly said, “Face it. There will never be another baby.” As I screamed at her that it wasn’t her place to decide that and that she needed to leave, I successfully tossed the remainder of the water in her face.

And then I woke up. And it took a while to fall back asleep. But I did. And I woke up at 5, so I got to work at 6, which meant I got off work at noon. (I’m loving the flexibility my keycard gives me!)

Thing the Second. My parents and I met with a Borgess representative about having them cover some of my expenses for trying to get pregnant again. We were all curious as to just how this would work. Borgess is a Catholic hospital. The Church does not approve of any forms of ART. (If you’re a single woman, you’d better get pregnant because you were talking to an angel, not because you made a conscious choice. Have I mentioned that I’m not a very good Catholic?) Obviously, they can’t pay for my drugs or the donor sperm, but they can pay me. So now I have a lot of thinking and math to do. And this is probably the last you’ll hear from me about Borgess and money. I hate asking for it because it feels mercenary, and I’m not a litigious person. But I wouldn’t be trying to get pregnant again if my daughter hadn’t died while we were in their care.

But the tone deaf nature of our previous conversation remained. I’m just far enough removed to view the conversation more objectively than I was able to back in November. She wants me to come up with an amount of money based on what I need to do to “make [me] feel whole.” And no matter how many different ways my parents and I reframed that sentence, she kept returning to those words.

Needless to say, my blood pressure was elevated by the time I got to my appointment with the obstetrician.

Thing the Third. I’m hesitant to say who my new doctor is. He works at a Catholic hospital, but he does things that the Church does not approve of. Unlike the person with whom I was meeting in Thing the Second, he is very catholic, not very Catholic. I shall just call him Dr O. And the next time I see him, I’ll try to remember to ask if he’s cool with me naming him in the blog.

Dr O was late. But it didn’t really matter. Like any good care provider, as soon as he stepped into the exam room, I was the only patient in the world. He would listen and talk and discuss with me as long as I needed him to. And if my mom still has questions after that, he would answer her questions, too.

No, he had not seen my records from Grand Rapids. Apparently, despite their year-old EMR, transferred records aren’t filed very well. So we told him what we’d done before. He said that the FSH protocol was more aggressive than he preferred. He’d rather use a lower dose and combine it with Clomid.

Yes. He’s totally cool with doing FSH. The other OBs aren’t comfortable with prescribing injectibles, but he doesn’t mind.

He wanted to know when my next period was so that we could schedule an ultrasound and get started. And try. In my next cycle. No hinkle-pinkling around.

The difference between my appointment with Dr O and all of my appointments in Grand Rapids was lightyears. (Oh, and he did confirm what the midwife had told me about the fertility practice here in town being unwilling to work with single women even though a recent editorial in the journal Fertility stated that it is unethical to deny us treatment.)

I walked out of that appointment weighing ten pounds. I could suddenly breathe again. I’ve stepped back into a world where things are possible once more.

Thing the Fourth. Since then, the same Emily Dickinson lines keep running through my head.

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of Eye –
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
to gather Paradise –

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2 Comments

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2 responses to “Better Than Prose

  1. Nonna Sue

    Sometimes as I read these posts, it’s hard to conceive how you, and we, kept moving one step forward at a time. And my tears fall.

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