Not really the words you want to hear from the nurse at the fertility clinic who is about to do your second insemination. Doesn’t give you too much confidence that things will be any more successful this time around. I’m sorry, you are a nurse at a fertility clinic, is this not what you do all day every day? Seriously?
For anyone who doesn’t want to hear the details, avert your eyes, or maybe just check in again next post. My second get me a bubba day had arrived. It had been a horrific journey this time around, with anything that could go wrong going wrong. Right down to the clinic screwing up my donor options and me having to ‘choose again’ the day before the insemination! Yeah, okay, because that’s an easy thing to do. Like deciding what to have for lunch. Or not.
Despite all of this, I was just as excited but probably a little more nervous this time around – because I know that it doesn’t exactly tickle, and I know that it might not work, and if it doesn’t, I know the devastating disappointment I’ll feel. But I’m going into it trying to be as positive as I can. It’s a couple of months since the first attempt and in that time between, I’ve tried to rid myself of any toxic relationships (yep, him) and opinions (everyone has one, I’m not paying any attention to the negative ones, or trying not to at least).
My sister picked me up for this trip to the clinic – I feel that she needs to be there for it to work. On arrival at the clinic, we’re told quite sternly that we are very early and we might like to go and wait somewhere else. We’re not early – in fact, someone from the clinic confirmed this very early appointment over the phone yesterday. And we don’t want to go and wait somewhere else, there’s nowhere else open in the neighbourhood at this godforsaken hour of the morning on a Saturday. So no thank you, we’ll just wait in your lovely waiting room, avail ourselves of your trashy magazines and try to giggle our way through the excruciatingly long wait until the nurse arrives.
Perhaps because she was rushed (we were early after all!) or maybe she just doesn’t have great bedside manner, the nurse wasn’t anywhere near as lovely or comforting this time around as the one at my first attempt. I would go so far as to call her rude. And that would probably be the nicest thing I’d call her. She was also rough. Any girl who’s had a pap smear will know that it’s not the most comfortable thing you’ll ever do. Imagine having your feet in the stirrups for about 15 minutes while someone not so gently tries to get their instruments sorted into the right spot, only to say I’m going to do that again, I’m not convinced that is your cervix.
At this point, I’m stressed. My Little Sister, because she’s my sister, knows this despite the fact that I’m showing no external signs of stress. She tickles my forehead and attempts some humour. This only serves to induce a dressing down by the nurse are you supposed to be the support person?. What I thought was: Um, yes, she’s my support person, and she’s the best support person I could possibly ask for because she knew exactly what to do in this moment where I was so stressed that I wanted to get up and walk away. Shut up you horrible bitch and just do your job. Shut the f*ck up. What I did was: look over at my sister and squeeze her hand, willing this to all be over as soon as possible so we could leave.
Isn’t it interesting how the exact same procedure can be so incredibly different because of the person looking after you? (I use the term looking after loosely in relation to this latest attempt).
Once it was done, I felt not fabulous, just as I had the first time around. Thank heavens for my Little Sister who took me home, made sure I had hot chocolate, magazines, something to watch on television and supplies for my furry loves.
Then I spent another weekend on my couch willing the swimmers to do their best work and get me a bubba.