My friend Rebecca doesn't like me to say that I'm infertile. She prefers the term pre-pregnant. So naturally, she didn't approve of me calling the open house at the fertility clinic an "infertility mixer," calling it instead, the "prelude to pregnancy."
With such a pleasant name as that, of course I had to do my hair and wear a nice outfit. I wasn't going to be some sad sack at this thing, no way.
I arrived 10 minutes early to find there was catering by Chick-fil-a. I thought to myself how much Nina Planck wouldn't approve of such a pairing (chicken nuggets + brownies + fertility clinic ≠ babies), then helped myself to a generous serving.
I tried to sneak peaks at my fellow attendees. Into my head popped the theme from the SNL skit, Bein' Quirky with Zooey Deschanel: "There are short girls! And tall girls! Big girls! And small girls." Yes, we come in all shapes and sizes; the one characteristic we share is our invisible scarlet-letter "I."
Philip arrived. I was silently triumphant. We may be infertile -- er, pre-pregnant -- but damn, we look good! And we're both here! Look how supportive and handsome and tall and important-looking my husband is in his dress pants and button-down shirt!
The presentation began. Philip leaned over and whispered to me, "Why are all the office girls here dressed like hookers?" That is a good question for which I don't have the answer. Perhaps it helps with collecting semen samples?
One of the doctors entered and gave her spiel. She looked a little manic and offered next-to-no real information before putting the ball in our court. "Well? Does anyone have any questions or anything specific they want me to talk about?"
Crickets chirped. Eyes turned toward the floor. Well, I had questions. So I started asking them. Questions about diagnostic tests and treatments. Questions about ovulation medication. Questions about individualized care. I got the ball rolling, and others began chiming in. The doctor kept repeating that the majority of their patients end up pregnant, though once, she did slip in that "majority" means "more than 50 percent."
Then it was time for the tour. They split us into two groups, and we awkwardly made our way around what is essentially a typical doctors office. Our group made a stop in the laboratory, where our guide explained the various goings-on of the clinic. She went to great lengths to describe how they don't mix up semen samples, and I blurted out, "God, I hadn't even thought of that!"
When she was through, she asked if we had any more questions. Philip pointed to a wiggly white wax form hanging above a steel countertop. "What is that?"
"That?" she replied. "That's a sperm candle."
Philip and I continued to yuck it up. Yes, yes, we do use humor to diffuse awkward and difficult situations. I think that's a pretty healthy way to deal. But our cohort did not seem amused, even when I was the first to volunteer to peek into the cryogenic storage room: "I want to see where they keep the babies in the refrigerator!"
In the end, we made an appointment for a consultation. It's in a few weeks, and after months of dragging my feet, praying we wouldn't need the services of a fertility clinic, I'm anxious to finally get this ball rolling. And I'm determined that of all the patients, we're going to be the staff's favorite.