Monday morning seems to be when Clinic One is most on its game. My blood was drawn and I was ushered into the dimly lit ultrasound room almost before I had a chance to take off my coat.
I winced as they called my name. For some inexplicable reason both my first and middle name are listed on the files at Clinic One, and they always call both. I don’t mind my first name, and my middle name is fine in its usual redundant state, but the combination of the two grates on my nerves. It’s an incredibly feminine combination, at odds with the ambiguously gendered person it’s attached to.
Anyhow, I was called into the dimly lit ultrasound room where the technician stood at a computer screen. “There’s going to be a movie”, she said, pointing to a website open on the screen. Featured was a picture of Princess Diana, smiling at a small African child. The technician began to read the description, a summary of the late royal’s life, pausing when it said she had died at 36. “36 is a bad year”, the technician, a fairly recent immigrant from China, explained in a woeful voice. “36 and 41 are bad years in my culture. If something bad is going to happen to you, it’s going to happen during those years.” I wondered if she had checked my age on my charts before making this pronouncement, whether it was meant as a reassurance because I’m not either of these ages, or whether the same warning would be issued to the unsuspecting 36 or 41 year old who entered the room next. As she performed the ultrasound, she continued to elaborate. “You know those… oh, what are they called? Astronauts? The ones in the… rocket? The one that crashed? Three or four out of the six of them were 41.” She reassured me that I just had to be really good leading up to those years, and then good things would happen to me instead. I told her that I would remember this, and we moved on to talking about how she was overqualified for her job. As she finished the exam she asked if I was going to try naturally or do IUI. “IUI”.
Back in the waiting room I was joined by my acquaintance, who sat clutching her abdomen as she waited to be called. The last cycle hadn’t worked, clearly, and she was lamenting the number of figs she had eaten in vain. Our conversation was cut short by the appearance of Dr. Text who, uncharacteristically, paused for me to catch up with him before rushing down the hallway to an empty examination room. Using the medical table as a desk, he flipped through my files. “The follicle is now 18.5mm. You’re getting close!” he announced. “And the second follicle?” He seemed surprised. “Second follicle? Oh yes, look, there was a second follicle.” The second follicle seems to have disappeared, though Dr. Text told me to ask them to look for it when I came in again tomorrow.
That’s right, I’m now on daily cycle monitoring until my bloodwork shows a surge. We’re getting close. I should probably go and eat some figs.
Total Ultrasound Count: 8