I left the new clinic on rather a nice high. Not only is it entirely subway accessible, but it seems like you get what you pay for (and it is pricey). A well-organized, polished baby mill complete with full waiting room of women studiously examining months old tabloids in order not to make eye contact, on time appointments, nurses who use e-mail (hooray!!!!), a follow-up with the exact costs of everything involved, the works. And I really liked the doctor. She was young, sympathetic and reasonably thorough. More than that she asked me whether my preference was for old-fashioned clomid or jumping right into injectables. Honestly it hadn't even crossed my mind that we might just get sent home with a prescription for clomid (see: entire blog, if only it was quite that easy) but I like that she asked. And when she casually wondered if I remember my dosing on injectables from 2007-2008 and I whipped out the shot schedule she was duly impressed that perhaps despite my age my body is not quite as healthy as one could hope for and we really ought to jump right in with some follistim.
Since our insurance coverage has not yet cleared (working on that since June), our plan of action for the time being is ... drumroll please ... work on some rapid weight loss, a la the egg diet of 2008 or the great gas baby of 2010 (long-time readers may recall that I have only gotten pregnant after rather absurdly sudden weight loss (the great gas baby was a case of gi.ar.dia left untreated for 30 days which both made me look 6 months pregnant and helped me to lose 30 lbs)) and hope the insurance clears in the next 30 days. And then she referred me to her favorite PCOs weight-loss specialist. And I spent the afternoon on the phone only to discover that there is no way my insurance will pay a single penny for it because they have "nutritionists on staff to help with lifestyle changes." Lifestyle changes.
And when I finally got off the phone with the depressing news that all I needed was some lifestyle change to cure my insulin resistance (diagnosed when I was 11 and weighed all of 90 lbs), the fusspot walked through the door with a 102 fever. Wednesday is the one day of the week that I don't have to make the hour plus trek across the city to pick her up so there's nothing better than having your child walk through the door with a high fever and knowing that not a single adult who interacted with her thought to ask if she was feeling okay. Not the teacher, not the gym teacher, not the neighbor's au pair who drives her home on Wednesdays. And then I got one of those awful guilt-inducing e-mails from another mom that the fusspot had been sitting on the ground crying at pick up. Because she had a 102 fever and no one noticed. Awesome.
And since the day was fairly well-ruined by a miserable lump of preschooler on the couch moaning in agony (she suffers illness far more like her father than me), I decided to make it a day and run out and have a final blood draw done once the kids were asleep. The 24 hour lab is one of those enticing tidbits that can lure you in to the trap of awful insurance, but my experience is that late night techs are even less competent than daytime ones. Thankfully I've already twice had blood draws for the wrong tests so I thought to ask how many scripts she had, etc. and what do you know, despite printed e-mail in hand saying that the labwork I needed was in the system the burly late night tech was about to draw my blood for a blood type reading ... needless to say looking forward to another late night run to hell next week.
Also up next week: a meeting about lifestyle change, a meeting with the PCOs specialist, and a dear-lord-let-me-stay-polite meeting with my OB/Gyn about what exactly is holding up our referral.
Whoops, and back to the title post. As I was leaving Sh.ady Grove, the receptionist explained that I would get a "new patient appointment evaluation" in the mail. Just as she was emphasizing the importance of my feedback to the clinic, a cute young couple came through to say their goodbyes to the staff. It was clear from the discussion that they'd been around for quite a while and there were some sweet, fond farewells including the exchange of a thank you card with the receptionists. And then the woman turned to me and wished me good luck. I know she was not being patronizing, that she was just trying to acknowledge the awkwardness of graduating from the infertility clinic while some poor sod was just handing over her Amex to reception for her intake appointment. But rather than feeling sad or jealous at her teeny tiny belly I just wanted to shout I have 2 babies at home! I am running back to pick my 2 year old up from babysitting coop. But you can't. So I just said thanks and bolted for an up elevator to avoid any more conversation. But I think it will be different this time. I no longer associate fertility treatments with snuggly newborns. It's just an unfortunate obstacle I have to get through, followed by months of total denial that anything good is going to come of it (if if if), followed by a sudden dive into washing newborn diapers and folding clothes (if if if). I was in fact genuinely excited to get in to the clinic; one more hurdle down.
Since our insurance coverage has not yet cleared (working on that since June), our plan of action for the time being is ... drumroll please ... work on some rapid weight loss, a la the egg diet of 2008 or the great gas baby of 2010 (long-time readers may recall that I have only gotten pregnant after rather absurdly sudden weight loss (the great gas baby was a case of gi.ar.dia left untreated for 30 days which both made me look 6 months pregnant and helped me to lose 30 lbs)) and hope the insurance clears in the next 30 days. And then she referred me to her favorite PCOs weight-loss specialist. And I spent the afternoon on the phone only to discover that there is no way my insurance will pay a single penny for it because they have "nutritionists on staff to help with lifestyle changes." Lifestyle changes.
And when I finally got off the phone with the depressing news that all I needed was some lifestyle change to cure my insulin resistance (diagnosed when I was 11 and weighed all of 90 lbs), the fusspot walked through the door with a 102 fever. Wednesday is the one day of the week that I don't have to make the hour plus trek across the city to pick her up so there's nothing better than having your child walk through the door with a high fever and knowing that not a single adult who interacted with her thought to ask if she was feeling okay. Not the teacher, not the gym teacher, not the neighbor's au pair who drives her home on Wednesdays. And then I got one of those awful guilt-inducing e-mails from another mom that the fusspot had been sitting on the ground crying at pick up. Because she had a 102 fever and no one noticed. Awesome.
And since the day was fairly well-ruined by a miserable lump of preschooler on the couch moaning in agony (she suffers illness far more like her father than me), I decided to make it a day and run out and have a final blood draw done once the kids were asleep. The 24 hour lab is one of those enticing tidbits that can lure you in to the trap of awful insurance, but my experience is that late night techs are even less competent than daytime ones. Thankfully I've already twice had blood draws for the wrong tests so I thought to ask how many scripts she had, etc. and what do you know, despite printed e-mail in hand saying that the labwork I needed was in the system the burly late night tech was about to draw my blood for a blood type reading ... needless to say looking forward to another late night run to hell next week.
Also up next week: a meeting about lifestyle change, a meeting with the PCOs specialist, and a dear-lord-let-me-stay-polite meeting with my OB/Gyn about what exactly is holding up our referral.
Whoops, and back to the title post. As I was leaving Sh.ady Grove, the receptionist explained that I would get a "new patient appointment evaluation" in the mail. Just as she was emphasizing the importance of my feedback to the clinic, a cute young couple came through to say their goodbyes to the staff. It was clear from the discussion that they'd been around for quite a while and there were some sweet, fond farewells including the exchange of a thank you card with the receptionists. And then the woman turned to me and wished me good luck. I know she was not being patronizing, that she was just trying to acknowledge the awkwardness of graduating from the infertility clinic while some poor sod was just handing over her Amex to reception for her intake appointment. But rather than feeling sad or jealous at her teeny tiny belly I just wanted to shout I have 2 babies at home! I am running back to pick my 2 year old up from babysitting coop. But you can't. So I just said thanks and bolted for an up elevator to avoid any more conversation. But I think it will be different this time. I no longer associate fertility treatments with snuggly newborns. It's just an unfortunate obstacle I have to get through, followed by months of total denial that anything good is going to come of it (if if if), followed by a sudden dive into washing newborn diapers and folding clothes (if if if). I was in fact genuinely excited to get in to the clinic; one more hurdle down.
1 comment:
Good luck with the PCOs specialist. Hopefully it won't be too expensive and this will be easy this time.
Glad you like the clinic. They sound efficient and together, which is so important!
Hope this is a short journey and very glad to be hearing from you again!
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