Going into the doctor’s office I was floating! I envisioned her bright smile, tiny stature, and blond bob bouncing into the room, full of great ideas and promise.
We’re going to get this right out of the way, TODAY!
I pictured her rushing me to the bathroom, pregnancy test in hand, and gabbing like girlfriends while I sat with my hand jammed awkwardly under my stream of pee.
We’d laugh about my anxiety while we waited on the test and then spin in circles when it turned up two beautiful pink lines.
We would giggle and shout hurray!
But she didn’t rush me to the potty.
And there was no spinning or shouting hurray.
There was a “discussion” and words like, “Secondary Infertility,” “Referral,” and “Factors to Consider.”
Cause I’m not already bat shit crazy.
She wasn’t bopping or gabbing, instead she was typing letters to other doctors and giving me the same sympathetic look that she gave me when she told me I was having a miscarriage.
“It’s not your fault.”
Then whose stupid fault is it?
Tell me so I can go punch them in their ugly face.
The perfect day I had planned (in my head like a wackadoo) suddenly went straight to poo and I needed to cry.
“…and continue to try, eat healthy, track your cycles. I bet you’ll be pregnant before your referral even goes through.”
I saw her mouth moving but all I heard was go eat a cheeseburger, large fry and top it off with a muther heffin’ frosty.
Oh, and cry sister.
Because the doctor is using big words, and right now that’s all you can do.