Friday, February 1, 2013

my own worst advocate, cycle 3?

Nearly a year into this whole (in)fertility adventure and fanatical passionate lawyer that I am, I’m apparently my own worst advocate when it comes to my own medical care.

I don’t get it. I’m the kind of law-talking-blog-lawyer who spends a not insignificant amount of time in court, fighting zealously on behalf of clients who aren’t exactly the most lovable on paper. But when it comes to asserting myself in the pursuit of the one thing I want the most, I gotta get it together.

Earlier this week, when I found out I was getting successfully less pregnant by the day, I let the nurse’s instructions run over me, not questioning a thing. At this point we need to make sure your HCG gets to zero, then you’ll meet with the doctor and make a plan for what’s next. Though I balked at how long I’d have to wait to see the doctor – 10 ever-loving days! – I did little else. But two rounds in, I know full well how the game is played – get your period, call the nurse, fill the Clomid prescription, order the GMO Chinese Hamster Ovary and have a sort of uncivilized dispute with insipid insurance trolls over covering it, give them your blood, perhaps several times, early morning wandings, carefully-timed-but-super-romantic sex and bam, chemical pregnancy pregnant!

So why, when I actually got my period, did I not call the nurse, demand Clomid and get on my merry way? Well, because she didn’t tell me I could. She told me to wait. And so I did. Dutifully (albeit somewhat fitfully). I waited (in pelvic agony). Until today. When I began to wonder what all this waiting was about. An absolutely riveting internal monologue followed:

Why are you waiting? Why do you apologize when you “bother” the nurse with a question that you, paying-out-your-ears-patient, is entitled to ask? Why don’t you stand up for yourself? Why have you eaten so many cookies today and don’t you know a scone is just an excuse to have cake before noon? You're a lousy feminist, etc. <End scene.>

Emboldened by my inner advocate, I asserted myself and, after apologizing to the nurse for god knows what, confidently inquired whether I might begin taking Clomid. After conferring with the doctor, she scheduled me for yet another blood draw to confirm that I’m totally, 100%, not even the littlest bit, pregnant. If I’m not – and I say this with all of the irony I can muster, please, please, please let me not be pregnant – then round three of Clomid begins tomorrow. It's going to be a wild Saturday night.

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