“Fight Club was the beginning, now it’s moved out of the basement, it’s called”…my life.
Douche Nurse (DN) bubbly yelling over my head in the lobby to the happy little couple as they were leaving the center proudly displaying their sonogram of their healthy 12 week in utero fetus: “Everything looks just perfect!! I hope you enjoy your first Happy Mother’s Day!”
DN (while holding the door open for me to head into the office): “Hi Brooke, How are you?”
Me: “That’s the single most inappropriate and compassion-less question to ask a woman who just witnessed yet another couple experiencing her dream when you know that she is currently miscarrying twins on her 4th failed pregnancy after 28 months of trying to conceive her first healthy take home baby.”
DN: awkward silence as we continue down the hall and she motions for me to take a seat in the chair. “Would you guys like to meet with our counselor, I can understand how hard this must be.”
Me: “Why, would taking another meeting with her get me pregnant with a healthy baby that my body won’t reject any faster?”
DN: “Well no, but you know sometimes this just doesn’t happen for everyone, no matter how hard they try, and you might have to accept that reality.”
Yes ladies and gentleman-the nurse actually said those words to my face. Verbatim.
Me: on the verge of punching her in her face so I say through clenched teeth while squeezing the shit out of my stress ball to prepare for the hack job she’s getting ready to do on my veins because she is THE WORST blood drawer I have ever encountered in my 35 years of life… “Sometimes I find that the this place has the most insensitive and inept nurses I have ever encountered and I tend to leave here wondering how its possible that they are actually capable of dressing themselves and driving to work, never mind drawing blood and reading notes from doctors with such little apparent mental functioning. Tell me, did you actually complete schooling for this degree in douche baggery or is it something that comes naturally to those with very low IQ’s?”
DN: “Of course I went to school.”
Me: “I don’t care to talk to you any longer. Just take my blood and try not to leave a bruise covering my entire forearm like you have every single other time you’ve taken it over the past 8 months.
DN: keeping her mouth shut because she at least has enough intelligence to realize I’m fucking bullshit and fed up, she proceeds to fumble around on both of my arms looking for the most promising vein to destroy…
Me: to fill in the awkward silence and because I am not done being really angry yet-“Also, let Marcia know that I will email her this week the battery of diagnostic tests for recurrent peri-implantation pregnancy loss, you know, the ones I asked to have run on us last October and that I was told “no, there is no reason to do those tests.” I would like those complete before I meet with the doctor on the 16th so that we are actually able to have a productive meeting opposed to the current deny what the patient wants and sit around on our asses and wait plan you have me on.”
DN: “Oh well, we’ll have to wait until your beta test comes back to see if you are negative yet, and then start the count down because those types of tests can’t be done on you until you have been testing negative for pregnancy for at least 6 weeks.”
Me: “First off, no need to wait, I can tell you without a blood test that my beta is 5 or less-which is clinically not pregnant-and it has been since yesterday. So go ahead and jot that date down, not todays. Also try to remember when my results come back later today proving that I know, YET AGAIN, exactly what my beta number is without having my blood drawn, with 100% accuracy. And I’m sorry, but I simply don’t believe you know what you are talking about as far as the tests I want run. And I will no longer accept “No” as an answer when I ask for any diagnostic test. Your track record so far has proved that when it comes to knowing what’s going on with me and anticipating how I will respond, you are wrong every time, and I am right. I clearly understand that I am the patient, not the doctor, but trust me when I tell you there isn’t a soul walking this planet that will do the necessary research and advocate for my reproductive care half as well as I will. Because I know that at the end of each cycle when my husband and I are left devastated as I am flushing another failed implantation, time, and LOTS of money literally down our toilet, that the staff here are blissfully going about their happy little lives at home with their children. My failed cycle just means more of my money in your pocket because I will have to come back here again. I suspect if it were you crying on the toilet while you were bleeding out of your vagina for the 11th straight day we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
DN: “Look I understand…”
Me: “Stop. I don’t care what you think you understand, I’m telling you, you don’t. You have treated me in a manner that lacks compassion for the last time and I am done with you. I will correspond with Marcia directly and she will discuss what I want with my doctor.”
This time I stormed out of there. Learning from my last freak out, I let the auto door close this time. Then I kicked it. Then I left.