The Clinic Within

So yesterday Mr. Lyrehca and I went to see an infertility specialist, or more specifically, a reproductive endocrinologist.

Though I'd known about this appointment for three months, and although I left my office in plenty of time, public transit made me perhaps five minutes late to the doc's office. Mr. Lyrehca called me as soon as my cell phone and I emerged from the underground train.

"It's 10:28 and I'm sitting here in the doctor's office," he said. "Where are you?"

"I'm five minutes away," I panted. "I'll be right there."

(I get more consistent exercise running to and from trains than anything else these days.)

Sweating and huffing, I bolted off the train and into the bowels of a medical building I've been to several times before.

(Weirdly, it's the same pace where I've visited two different gynecologists over the years, as well as a cosmetic skincare clinic. I went there once to have a high-end facial before I got married, and I've been there for my annual vaginal checkups and Pap smears. Now I'm seeing someone there to figure out if I can have a child. I haven't thought about this 'til now, but this building represents some major turning points in my life as a chick: being sexually active, getting married, and trying to have a kid. As far as I know, there's no funeral home inside, but maybe I'll be going back there once I start having hot flashes and complaining about the "change.")

The receptionist asks me for MY health insurance and MY name, even though the hubby is over there in the corner, waiting in the waiting room, and since we have separate insurance (it's cheaper for now, but this year is going to alter that thinking. We'll get to that in a moment.) I sit down and point out to the Mister that I have no intention of having my insurance cover any semen analysis, should we get to that point.

And then we wait and wait. Fifteen minutes later, as I'm getting up to ask the receptionist how much longer it'll be, a too-happy nurse chirps into the waiting room and yells out my first name and last initial. Again, I wonder why I am the patient, since right now, we're not sure where the problem lies, with the Mister or with me.

My weight is noted and my blood pressure is checked (I've given up on Weight Watchers. I can only deal with one major life issue at a time, and losing a few pounds is no longer my top concern). Both are reasonable enough. The Mister and I meet with a resident to go over some of our details, and I hand her a stack of papers explaining my health issues, along with forms the clinic has asked us to fill out about our health histories.

For the record, diabetes is not my only concern, although it covers a lot of ground: retinopathy, thyroid issues, kidney stuff. I take a lot of drugs and see a lot of docs to keep myself looking and feeling fine, but on paper, I'm a challenge.

(And in a story better told another day, I've also had major abdominal surgery to remove an avocado-sized oddball tumor that was actually deemed not-super-malignant-but-not-entirely-benign-either. Suffice it to say that I'm familiar with not one but two major health conditions. As I've said to many doctors, besides the diabetes and cancer stuff, I'm the healthiest person out there.)

The Mister talks about a few of his health issues, and we talk about our timing and our sex lives and how I have two months of waking basal temps all charted out. The resident wonders if our timing is off; i.e., we're not having enough sex at the right times of the month.

(Remember back in school where they told you that having sex without birth control would--dum, dum, DUM!--get you pregnant? This is no longer the case. Research now shows that the women most likely to get pregnant are those who fuck just before ovulation, usually mid-cycle. I wonder what they tell the horny teenagers back in health class? Then again, AIDS is far more prevalent today than it was back when I was in high school, when it was still considered a gay man's disease. But I digress...)

I am sure our sex schedules are well-timed, but the resident thinks otherwise. She points out that I appear to have regular cycles and I seem to be ovulating on time. Bloodwork I had done two months ago indicates my eggs are still in production. The Mister and I talk briefly when she leaves the room and I tell him we need to start having sex every day, no matter how tired we are.

Could it be just a matter of having more sex and I'd be pregnant?

And then the resident comes back to get us.

"The doctor will see you now," she says. "His office is at the other end of the hall."

And down that hall we go.