At 6:50 this morning, I pulled into the hospital parking lot for my early morning date with Jean Luc (aka the dildo-cam, aka transvaginal ultrasound). (It just seemed wrong to continue our trysts without giving him a name.) While walking toward the entrance, I crossed paths with one of the hospital volunteers, a lovely retired woman who works at the coffee booth. She rather sternly asked, “Did you park over there?” while pointing to the parking lot behind me.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s for patients!”
“Yes, I know.”
“Don’t you work here? I see you here all the time.”
“I’m just a frequent patient.”
“Oh,” she said apologetically. “I hope it’s not serious.”
“No. I’m just infertile.”
She walked me to the elevator, all the while telling me about how she was never able to get pregnant. I could hear the sadness in her voice, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that would be me one day. I know it sounds depressing, but it was actually quite nice to have a conversation about the realities of infertility, without hearing cliches like You need to stop trying; that’s when it will happen! I tried for 10 years, and just when I had given up, I got pregnant! No, this was different. This was a women who knows that not every story ends the way we want it to end. She wished me well and promised to say an extra prayer for me. (Usually, that bothers me, the whole prayer thing, but from her it was sweet and comforting.)