… you’re not going to get one.
Had my beta drawn at the local lab at 7:45am this morning. Drawn by a phlebotomist-in-training. A phlebotomist-in-training that was being trained by “I’ll be your surro!” gal. I was introduced as a frequent flier, and also used to teach vampire-in-training what to do with used sharps containers. It was a laugh a minute. “I’ll be your surro” was genuinely sad when I told her I most likely wouldn’t be seeing her again until October at the earliest. She pouted as she asked, “But why?” I was feeling vindictive, so replied, “If you have $15K you want to give me for our next attempt I’ll come back sooner!” She stopped talking then. The silence was beautiful.
On Monday, the night before beta #1, I was so anxious I couldn’t sleep. I had such trouble sleeping that I overslept and didn’t get to the lab until about 8am. Then I got stuck behind poor little old confused woman that had come a week early for her pre-op and was jamming up the works at outpatient admitting. Blood didn’t leave my veins until 9am. I got the call from the clinic with my beta of 38 at 11:15.
Having gone much earlier this time around, I was hopeful for an earlier call. I waited. A computer went down at work and I couldn’t fix the connectivity issue. I cried like a baby. (If our IT doesn’t stop fucking around with network I swear they will receive the full brunt of my next Lupron crazy attack.) Then, after submitting ticket that basically said, “Stop fucking with our network!” I resumed my waiting.
One nice thing about working at the same university as Mr. But IF is that we generally have lunch together. Today was no different. When noon rolled around, we met at our usual spot, and I had my phone and list of WTF questions for the nurse on the table and at the ready. I was sure she would call just as I took that first juicy bite of my apple. But, I’m no n00b. Even after the father and his prospective student daughter sat down right the fuck next to us I knew I’d still gladly shout over the din in the cafe to ask questions about my progesterone levels, inquire about cycle package costs, ask when to start my birth control, and demand a consult to discuss future protocols rather than just continuing to do them on the fly. It’s then when I realized something. Something that was about to turn Mr. But IF into a stammering pile of bright red German anger.
It’s Thursday. The clinic closes early on Thursday. In fact, the clinic closed 10 minutes ago.
Guess I’m not getting my beta results after all. Given the one line pee stick I got this morning, I decided to celebrate being royally fucked over yet again with a giant cup of coffee. I might follow it up tonight with a giant pint (pints?) of beer. I have no hope, I’m just sad that Mr. But IF did. And, just upset that he’s upset. I lost all faith in humanity and the kindness of infertility clinics long ago. Against better judgement, he seems to have retained some. I hate being right all the time.