this took me ages to write so appreciate me, motherfuckers
Well then, yesterdays' exam sucked. Not because the ultrasound didn't show that my parts are ticking along nicely and on schedule, because they are, thank you very much. It sucked because the monosyllabic bitch perched at my feet treated me like a slab of meat and I felt dirty and violated and unclean, and for a moment, I even felt despair.
Fortunately I've done this before and understand I wasn't feeling that way because of the process, but the people involved, so I ditched the despair in favor of indignation. The dirty and violated and unclean? Meh, I washed that off in the shower as soon as I got home.
I don't care how much anyone gets paid to do this job, it's a fucking universal privilege to be so closely involved in the creation of life, so while I'd have preferred the disinterested bitch driving Bingo, the Magic Wand home had at least thrown me a glance as she waved her hand toward the exam table, instead of concentrating solely on the task at hand, which was lubing up and multipley condomming the business end of things, a task that she could have, fercrisake, attended to a leetle more discreetly because there's a time and a place, yannow? And the time is NOT now and the place is NOT right where I can see her doing it...where was I? Yes, so while I'd have preferred her to not be a bitch, is what I'm saying, I'm quite content knowing that it's that these indelible qualities about her are the same ones making her own life suck, karmic reward being what it is.
The main product any reproductive unit is selling is hope. The tests and procedures are invasive and embarrassing and are mostly performed while you're naked from the waist down, and you do all this despite there being more chance this won't work than it will. When you've been dehumanised that much, when your hopes have been dashed because of what life has already thrown your way to bring you to this point, you need help to create more hope because by that time, hope is all you have left. It offends my sense of social justice then, that so far this unit is populated with uninvolved, uninterested, and unlikeable staff who, while they do their job, do no more than that.
Fuckheads.
So anyway, the exam took four minutes and that was that. I go back next Thursday and things start rolling from there. If I'm put on the pill, this month may be the last in a long while that I ovulate naturally. It may be the last month then, that I can take up that billion to one chance to get knocked up the old fashioned way, which is kind of poignantly significant - and sad too, if I allowed myself that.
The lawyer came over last night -the relevance of which is forthcoming - and while I didn't go into the nitty gritty of my day because seriously, there's nothing sexier than talking about your uterine lining, I did tell him about Le Grande Plan. He thinks it's a great idea and bla di bla di bla. Then I asked him if he'd like to father our child, and told him he's got a week to decide.
For the record, I don't want his baby to cement a relationship between us. It's got nothing to do with a romantic "us" and everything to do with two sensible people who have, in theory at least, what it takes to achieve an amicable, workable parenting situation.
The good news is that he didn't push me aside as he bolted for the door. The bad news is...there really isn't any. We left it here, this thought hanging in the air, and then we moved on to talking about, probably his money or my ass, both being subjects closest and dearest to the respective, materialistic, and hedonistic lumps of coal we like to call our hearts. When he was leaving the told me he'd think about it, and that was that. He left, I put Grey's Anatomy in the dvd player and then passed out on the sofa.
And....there was a message on my phone when I woke up this morning.
It was from him, and it said "ok".
!
?
!?
Now, while I'm disbelieving on the one hand ("what on earth did he send me an 'ok' for?"), I'm quietly thrilled on the other that, if that billion to one chance comes around again, both my children will have tangible fathers.
Fortunately I've done this before and understand I wasn't feeling that way because of the process, but the people involved, so I ditched the despair in favor of indignation. The dirty and violated and unclean? Meh, I washed that off in the shower as soon as I got home.
I don't care how much anyone gets paid to do this job, it's a fucking universal privilege to be so closely involved in the creation of life, so while I'd have preferred the disinterested bitch driving Bingo, the Magic Wand home had at least thrown me a glance as she waved her hand toward the exam table, instead of concentrating solely on the task at hand, which was lubing up and multipley condomming the business end of things, a task that she could have, fercrisake, attended to a leetle more discreetly because there's a time and a place, yannow? And the time is NOT now and the place is NOT right where I can see her doing it...where was I? Yes, so while I'd have preferred her to not be a bitch, is what I'm saying, I'm quite content knowing that it's that these indelible qualities about her are the same ones making her own life suck, karmic reward being what it is.
The main product any reproductive unit is selling is hope. The tests and procedures are invasive and embarrassing and are mostly performed while you're naked from the waist down, and you do all this despite there being more chance this won't work than it will. When you've been dehumanised that much, when your hopes have been dashed because of what life has already thrown your way to bring you to this point, you need help to create more hope because by that time, hope is all you have left. It offends my sense of social justice then, that so far this unit is populated with uninvolved, uninterested, and unlikeable staff who, while they do their job, do no more than that.
Fuckheads.
So anyway, the exam took four minutes and that was that. I go back next Thursday and things start rolling from there. If I'm put on the pill, this month may be the last in a long while that I ovulate naturally. It may be the last month then, that I can take up that billion to one chance to get knocked up the old fashioned way, which is kind of poignantly significant - and sad too, if I allowed myself that.
The lawyer came over last night -the relevance of which is forthcoming - and while I didn't go into the nitty gritty of my day because seriously, there's nothing sexier than talking about your uterine lining, I did tell him about Le Grande Plan. He thinks it's a great idea and bla di bla di bla. Then I asked him if he'd like to father our child, and told him he's got a week to decide.
For the record, I don't want his baby to cement a relationship between us. It's got nothing to do with a romantic "us" and everything to do with two sensible people who have, in theory at least, what it takes to achieve an amicable, workable parenting situation.
The good news is that he didn't push me aside as he bolted for the door. The bad news is...there really isn't any. We left it here, this thought hanging in the air, and then we moved on to talking about, probably his money or my ass, both being subjects closest and dearest to the respective, materialistic, and hedonistic lumps of coal we like to call our hearts. When he was leaving the told me he'd think about it, and that was that. He left, I put Grey's Anatomy in the dvd player and then passed out on the sofa.
And....there was a message on my phone when I woke up this morning.
It was from him, and it said "ok".
!
?
!?
Now, while I'm disbelieving on the one hand ("what on earth did he send me an 'ok' for?"), I'm quietly thrilled on the other that, if that billion to one chance comes around again, both my children will have tangible fathers.
posted by aibee at 13:47
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