Bite Me

A new plan forms. My period starts, basically, at least I think it starts. It's slow getting underway - the tale of the reluctant uterus. But it's started, pretty much. So I call the office.

First, call the nurse, who never picks up the phone (and I mean, not once in a year and a half has anyone actually *answered* this telephone). Leave a message saying guess what, it's day one, I'm doing X procedure this month, and I'll need meds called in. Hang up, forgetting to ask her about the possibly infected injection site on your left butt cheek. Awkward. Well, we'll watch it another day. It could be an allergic somethingorother. It could be adhesive allergy. It could be anything. And I'm pretty certain they would prefer it to be nothing, so that is what they'll say it is.

Next, call the mystery person you have never heard of who, you are told, exists only to schedule this procedure. This person answers the phone. Go back and forth with her about what day in your cycle it really is. Write down all the various stages of things you have to do before you undergo this dreadful sounding procedure which, she says as an afterthought, isn't covered by your insurance, so that'll be a thousand bucks when your next IVF cycle starts, thankyouverymuch.

"Awesome," you say.

"And you can't try to get pregnant this cycle," she warns. "We'll be doing a blood pregnancy test before the biopsy, so you should avoid intercourse around ovulation."

Bullshit, you think to yourself. I'm having sex with my husband whenever I fucking feel like it, and if I should happen - against ALL FUCKING ODDS - to get pregnant NATURALLY this cycle from MAKING LOVE WITH MY HUSBAND then that's what I'm going to fucking do, and fuck you and your biopsy and your not-covered-by-insurance.

Obviously I have a very healthy attitude these days.

Anyway. Period's started. Next stop, ovulation kits. And then we see what lies ahead.