Sometimes I feel, just a little bit, like a novelty. I reassure myself that people like me, couples like ours, are a dime a dozen. Probably. Right? At least at a fertility clinic. But there’s still that sense.
D and I handle this by being happy, friendly, and funny. For the most part, it’s just who we are. Yesterday, we joked with the lab workers about our donor He likes pizza, I said. He says he plays the guitar. I smiled into the silence and they burst into laughter. Those tiny anonymous vials don’t play guitar and like pizza. And they don’t look like RR, a picture of whom D was dangling over my shoulder. All three technicians grinned and laughed with us.
In the clinic, I popped my head up to remind the doctor that the less I saw of him the better. He paused and half chuckled. The nurse sputtered into a smile (being a surly sort) and we shot that sperm past my cervix with a smile on our faces. Our regular receptionist emphatically wished us well.
Let’s hope all that laughter and good karma results in something. Something good. Egg, ahoy.