Beth suggested that Nurse GateKeeper might keep up her stunning streak of general jackassery by somehow letting something slip about the sexes of Fitz-Hume and/or Millbarge.
Upon reading that, Sam said "Pfft. That is never going to happen. The only way it could is if Nurse GateKeeper actually read your chart."
Man's got a point.
Sam: "Um, honey? You appear to have a stripe." (pokes abdomen speculatively)
Akeeyu: "Yes, yes, I have a stripe. I'm like a tiger in reverse."
Sam: "...like a tiger? Does this mean that you'll disappear if you go into tall grass?"
Akeeyu: "Yes."
The other day Sam and I were walking through the parking lot and noticed a car nearby that was identical to Sam's in every way but color. "Hey, look, that must be your car's evil twin. You know, like KARR."
How does that work, exactly? How is it that I can remember inconsequential details of television shows from twentythree years ago, but forget to pick up everything on my shopping list at least once a week?
I'm sure it's not just me. What's the most pointless piece information you wouldn't be able to get out of your brain with anything short of a rubber mallet?
"Holy crap, Akeeyu, you're huge."
"I know. Considering that my major coping mechanism for this pregnancy is denial about the whole thing, imagine how surprised I am every morning when I wake up like this."
"Is this your first pregnancy?"
"No, it's more like my my fourth and fifth, I guess, but none of the other ones made it this far."
"Oh. So...this will be your first child? Er, children?"
"Not really. I already have a wonderful stepdaughter."
"So, I hear you're...great with child?"
"Well, I don't know about great. Pretty good, maybe."
I was the recipient of an unsolicited belly rub today. I was pretty tired and didn't feel like trying to come up with anything barbed or witty, so I just opened my mouth and decided to see what came out. As it turned out, it was this:
"You realize that you're just rubbing poop, right? The baby is actually much lower."
Early onset round ligament pain that makes you double over every time you sneeze plus hayfever multiplied by that whole nasal congestion during pregnancy thing equals MOTHERFUCKER, that really hurt, cubed.
Women with children plus newly pregnant woman equals eightyfivethousand horror stories about pregnancy, birth, and childrearing.
Manic Depression plus pregnancy hormones equals gratuitous weeping and excessive irritability.
I think Sam might be building a top secret fort in the backyard just to have a good place to hide out for a while. Hell, I would if I could.
Is it morning sickness, or just the result of Googling twin statistics late at night?
If you guessed 'both', you win a cookie.
Upon hearing that not one, but two of the members of my non-fertility related medical team had cancelled or rescheduled due to issues related to fecundity in the same day("She's out on leave! Because she just had a BAYBEE!" "Oh." "She's out sick. She's bla months pregnant, so she's out a lot. You know how it is." "Oh."), I had two distinct reactions.
I was a little curious as to why a receptionist, a nurse and a doctor all felt the need to inform me that Dr. (ITakeItBackAboutHerBeing)SoFarSoGood was out on maternity leave, as if I wouldn't accept regular old leave as a good enough reason. You can't spell HIPAA or TMI without "I am unclear on why I need that much personal information about a relative stranger, but thank you."
I wondered if the universe was trying to tell me something, something that starts with F and ends with U. Something other than "Frankly, Akeeyu, I don't care how much you hate dealing with the PCOS, you still can't give up the waxing and grow an Earl Hickey-style Fu Manchu."
I called to make appointments for Sam's semen analysis (apparently his testicular freshness, like my uterine freshness, expires once a year) and whatnot.
I do this for him because my job affords me more privacy to make these sorts of calls, thus saving him from the indignity of having to holler 'SEMEN' in a crowded office, because I have more practice at wrangling a convenient time slot out of office staff, and because although he is a full participant in the IVF process, he is kind of crappy at the minutae and really good at procrastination.
Then again, I also do this for him because I think it's hilarious that by doing so, I can capriciously dictate exactly where and when my husband will masturbate.
There are times when I think that the entire purpose of modern medicine is the telling of elaborate jokes except that the people telling the jokes don't get them.
How else can you explain a complicated and tedious test to determine that large pills do indeed get stuck halfway down my throat being immediately followed by aftercare instructions that included the ingestion of large pills?
