Irony

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything about baby-making. So, I thought I’d share some thoughts. I won’t go into extreme detail about ‘the plan’ and all the little things that make up the current course of fertility treatment. Sounds weird, but seriously, hashing over details is a burden for me, not a comfort, and I’m sure no one wants the nitty gritty details. Instead, I choose to find humor in the situation as it pertains to the outside world, which has always been a pretty good coping mechanism for me. I’ll keep the scary emotional stuff to myself for now, you’re very welcome.

For instance, I’ve always been a big fan of irony. Irony ranks just below sarcasm for me as far as literary devices go. I’ve always hated going to the doctor… any kind of doctor. I will avoid it like the plague, sometimes to my detriment. In the last 10 months, I’ve had more doctors’ appointments than I’ve had the rest of my life combined, and I’m not even sick. My current schedule is a visit every three-four days.

On that same note, one of the reasons why I hate going to the doctor so much is that I have a much cherished bubble of personal space, and I can be pretty modest. Gym in school was torture for me, as it involved a communal changing room. NOW- Every single one of these doctor’s appointments include the words “waist-down”, “pink drape”, and “this might be cold”. Yes, I do understand that modesty goes out the window when you are pushing a baby out, but in that instance, the baby is kind of a motivator.

Moving on- another reason why I’ve always hated going to the doctor is that I’ve had for most of my life an irrational fear of needles. I don’t know why, although I can point to a couple of traumatic events in my childhood that may have something to do with it. Don’t judge… I make up for it by being extremely rational in other areas. Anyway, this is the most ironic of all, in that my life now consists of a red sharps container on my kitchen counter, a box of alcohol swabs, a pharmacy in my fridge, and so much lab work that I’m worried about being anemic. And on top of that, I am a really hard person to get blood from. Seriously… my last appointment ended with two nurses, two needles, three tubes, my right arm, and the words “can you come milk her”. Not fun. You know it’s bad when the nurse has to pull up a chair… BUT- I am extremely nonchalant about needles now. Fear conquered!

I will post a more serious post soon, as I have thoughts in my head that need to come out … but for now, I’ll laugh at the irony…