My husband has identified my fake laugh.
Sometimes I just need silence, and he shuts up. Quickly.
But some people just don’t get it. Some people say really stupid things at the wrong time.
There’s one specific ultrasound tech whom I loathe. I swear she’s going to walk into the exam room one day, and I’m just going to say, “I can’t handle it today. Where’s Kim … or Dr. L evens … or anyone else but you?”
Like, she’s just one of those people whom I don’t get, and she definitely doesn’t get me.
Before I elaborate on our pointless correspondence this morning, let me be upfront.
It’s Monday morning, and it snowed last night. Besides the fact that I’m so over this winter, I just don’t really like scraping off my car at 7 a.m. I don’t really feel like driving 30 minutes to the doctor, especially when I feel like my uterine lining is just growing in vain. What else? Do you really want to know? Well, it would have been nice to use the restroom—like, the restroom—so I didn’t feel bloated for the first two hours of my Monday. I’m a little tired, but not too much. I mean, I don’t really have a case of the Mondays or anything. The estrogen running through my body probably saved my morning to be honest with you.
What I’m trying to say is that—yes—my mood could have influenced my lack of tolerance with this ultrasound tech, but—in all honestly—I was okay this morning.
She walks in the room, and the first thing she says is:
Tracy just said you look like the real-life Strawberry Shortcake!
Me: Fake laugh. (Do you really think Tracy wanted you to pass on that observation of hers? Would you like to know what you look like?)
I wouldn’t say I’m self-conscious about my size, but people have said those kinds of things to me all my life. I just think it’s kind of inappropriate and ignorant. It just really annoys me. Like, shut up. Just shut the f*** up.
Let’s see, what happened next?
She jammed Mr. Wandy up there, and I winced. WTF, lady? We all know that once Mr. Wandy slams into our goodies, it’s all over from there. Nope—we can’t recover from this, Mr. Wandy. My stomach is empty; it’s 8 a.m.; now I’m annoyed. I don’t care how gentle you are from this moment forward, my ladies don’t like you, and I’m feeling nauseated.
She asked when my transfer is. I told her I have no idea because Mary has a cyst.
Oh, so she hasn’t even started her medication yet?
Just measure my lining, you idiot.
Well, my uterus looks really good with a lining of about 8.5. I can’t complain. At least I know Delestrogen does the trick. Mary’s cyst grew between last Thursday and yesterday. Her doctor has reason to believe her estrogen level might be peaking. They are going to bring her in one more time—on Wednesday—and either she’ll be ready to go, or we will “press the reset button” as they like to say. I have to remind myself that this isn’t the end of the world. Because it’s not—I guess.
After the exam, she asked, “What number are you? One, two, or three?” As in, what’s my recipient status …
I told her I was the secondary recipient.
Her: “Oh good. So you’ll get something. I always feel bad for the third recipient.”
Oh good, I’ll get something? And—dear Lord—I hope you don’t actually tell the third recipient you feel bad for her. Knowing you, you probably do.
Shut up. Just shut the f***up.