Auld Lang Syne. Please and thank you.

The waiting room at Lexington’s Reproductive Science Center is ornamented with the glossy pages of magazines, professionally-framed and showcasing the latest good our doc has done by countless other Aspiring Progenitors. There is a full-scale coffee bar off to one side, ergonomically-pleasing computer work stations for patient use to the other… current editions of periodicals spanning a myriad of tastes and fancies: US News and World Report, Time, Men’s Health, Maxim and – a girl can dream! – Working Mother! Bing Crosby Christmas classics play softly in the background. Welcome niceties to help us get (and stay) comfortable here since, after all, there’s a better than pretty freaking fantastic chance that we’ll be spending much of our awake, out-of-work time in this office trying to do in a petri dish what we can’t in a bedroom.

The news is just so-so. Our repro endocrinologist thinks we’ll be able to get knocked up pretty easily with the medical equivalent of a turkey baster, but – because, of course, we don’t aspire to spend our Someday Spawn’s tuition money out the gate! – we have to consent to ongoing testing to determine whether IUI is, per the Big Insurance definition, truly the most effective treatment for this particular case of male factor infertility. Puh-lease. What does this super skilled dude in the lab coat with custody of our medical records have over the insurance rep in that East Indian call center? Precious little, that’s what. Which is why the insurance call center girl wins. Which is why, before all is said and done, the Projected Pops might be forced to undergo ball-duct enhancement surgery on the off chance this improves his product and because it’s still more conventional than turkey basting me full of the very best of my hubby’s swimmers. Big Insurance likes convention.

So, this week, he’ll have his testicles palpated by a urologist and I’ll undergo my third morning blood draw/ultrasound combo in an effort to monitor my natural cycle and the inner workings of a tilted uterus. “Jingle Bells” will give way to “Auld Lang Syne,” and questions will give way to answers. We hope.

Hope. New years are, very often, full of it. Contrived, perhaps…an annual excuse to assess where we’ve been and where we’re going, and I couldn’t possibly care less. I’ve never been more grateful to start fresh. Or start period. I’ve never been so happy to have come to this place that in my wildest dreams I never imagined I’d be until, say, I did. Why, yes, Virginia! I’m the poster nutbag who spent the last 12 months fantasizing about qualifying for fertility treatments, keeping up with gossip rags I don’t pay to read because I read ’em right here in this here waiting room – unless, of course, you count the hundreds of thousands of dollars I spend on co-pays in which case, I pay! Dearly.

Cheers. To whatever comes next.

My heart is ravisht with delight
when thee I think upon;
All Grief and Sorrow takes the flight
and speedily is gone.
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About Projected Progenitor

Projected (adj.) (prə-ˈjekt-ed): From the 15th Century Anglo-French 'projector,' from Latin 'projectus.' Devised in the mind, predicted. Progenitor (n.) (prō-ˈje-nə-tər): Middle English, from the 14th Century Anglo-French 'progenitour,' from Latin 'progenitor,' meaning 'to beget.' An ancestor in the direct line, foreparent.
This entry was posted in Humor, Infertility, Male-Factor Infertilty. Bookmark the permalink.

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