It changes you, the day they diagnose you. The day they label you. The day you become a piranah to the health care system. It’s bewildering and strange. With any other condition it’s a good thing when all of your medical tests come out normal. With any other condition it indicates you are healthy, and you go home relieved.
You do everything they tell you to do. You take every test they ask for. You give so much blood for so many tests sometimes the phlebotomist has to call her supervisor to decode the request. You know they are bursting to ask why you need so many things tested. Cancer is easier to detect. “There must be something seriously wrong with you…” you feel them thinking.
You are cooperative and accommodating. You make up convoluted excuses to your boss about why you suddenly have to drop everything and rush to the doctor. “I, ah, he’s booked the rest of the week and is squeezing me in. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Um, just getting something checked out, it’s nothing.”
“I am on day 3 and if I don’t get an ultrasound done today I will not get my clomid this month so get out of my way!!!!” Is what you really want to scream.
But after more than a year the protocol is completed, the battery of tests are checked off, and all of the usual causes are ruled out the receptionist hands you a piece of paper and a sudden request for payment in full with the words:
“INFERTILE – UNEXPLAINED”
“How can that be?” you think. “Me?” You’re kind of stunned. The doctor didn’t prepare you for that. But then again, what could have possibly prepared you for this.
“What do you mean?” you ask. “Dr. said the tests came back normal. That doesn’t mean I’m infertile. And why can’t you take my insurance for today’s appointment?”
“And do you have any idea what you just said to me? You have just told me that I will never have children and no one can tell me why, and I actually have to argue about my health insurance while I absorb this ‘tidbit’?” I only have the 10 minute drive back to my office to process a complete meltdown, and when I get home tonight I have to tell my husband that he may never father a child, and you think I care about the friggin’ PPO exclusions?”
But you don’t say any of this. You say nothing. You just hand her your bank card and get out as fast as you can.
