March 19, 2013
The first thing I saw when entering the clinic alone were couples. In the waiting room lined up in a row of chairs along the wall, was this sight: man, woman, man, woman, man woman. Holding hands. Reviewing literature. Filing out forms with a joint pen. Waiting there together.
The first thing I saw when entering the clinic alone were couples. In the waiting room lined up in a row of chairs along the wall, was this sight: man, woman, man, woman, man woman. Holding hands. Reviewing literature. Filing out forms with a joint pen. Waiting there together.
Great. If I had
forgotten that I was without a babydaddy partner in this, that
reality was suddenly smack in my face. But the twinge of wistful
sadness came and went quickly. In fact, I felt empowered. Not
overwhelmingly, but enough to boost up my chin and propel me
confidently to the front desk. I reminded myself that I bought my
first house alone, and back then, single women in their 20s
buying houses alone was still a novelty. I liked being a novelty.
Yes, I told myself, I am a pioneer for the single ladies. Give me
those goddamn forms to fill out, nurse.
The receptionists
at the front desk were exceptionally nice. No grumpies allowed in
this office apparently. This is the place for positive vibes. A place
to keep hope alive. The sisterhood is strong here, and not just
because it's overrun by women jacked up on lady hormones.
The lovely
receptionist took my health insurance information just to make me
laugh. Some health plans cover a portion of fertility treatments, but
it's rare. And if the baby doesn't hang in there the first time, the
insurance men (you know they're men!) write you off and say, Pay for
it yourself next time, you infertile loser! My insurance plan won't
even bet on me for the first round. Children are not a medical
necessity. In my case, it might even be a symptom of mental illness.
I was handed a
clipboard with a thick set of forms. I found a chair to sit in – a
single chair off by itself, dammit! – and settled in. The fourth line on the
form began asking for my partner's info: name, address, DOB,
profession, etc. I left that blank. I'll admit I was a little
irritated by the presumptive nature of the questions about my
“partner.” But then I remembered it takes two humans, a man and a
woman, to create a baby. Oh, riiiiight.
So I went onward, leaving a
whole series of pages blank about my partner's medical history and
family sicknesses. It made the whole process go very fast. I gave
myself a gold star for being efficient.
My consult was to
be with Dr. P, the clinic's director whose professional bio says he
assisted a 63-year-old woman to become pregnant, the oldest mom on
record at the time in 1997. That made me feel young. I also liked the
idea that he works with a lot of women in their 40s. I figured he'd
have lots of experiential awareness of how to squeeze out the last
life from my rusting ovaries. He also happens to
be a professor at a top medical university.
I felt good that I
was about to meet one of the best at this extended fertility
business, and as I was soon to become acutely aware, it was an
extremely lucrative business. (Desperate, longing women, raging with
hormones, a bomb ticking in their ovaries. You get the picture.) I
wasn't sure yet what I would do. Today, I was here to learn my
options, only one of which was egg freezing.
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