In the weeks leading up to our infertility appointments, I am the poster child for organization. I’ve made the appointment, gone online to do some research about whatever stage we’re at or test we’re getting, checked our insurance policy to see if we’re covered for this visit, laid out any paperwork that needs to be completed or signed or mailed, ensured that my husband and I both know the date of the appointment so we can get off of work, map out our trip online so I know roughly where we’re going the day of, and then haul our growing folder of paperwork—ready for more forms, documents or receipts—to the appointment itself.
Then, only minutes into our appointment, I lose it. My mind becomes fuzzy; I have a hard time concentrating on what the doctor is saying; there are tears brought on by something the doctor has said. What happened? My normally levelheaded self, who keeps her cool in most situations, can’t keep it together for these appointments. Do I have any questions, the doctor asks, as he or she passes over the box of tissues. Do I? Didn’t I? Were they written down somewhere? I don’t remember. I just want out. I’ll follow my husband out of the doctor’s office, trying to hide my telltale blotchy face and red nose (damn them for giving me away so easily to everyone!). I get sympathetic looks from the nurses and doctors on the way out (I HATE that, can’t you see I’m in control of this?) and avoid eye contact with anyone still left in the waiting room.
What just happened in there? Wasn’t I prepared? My checklist was complete, but I hadn’t anticipated my own emotions. This is going to be harder than I planned.