(I wrote this post on October 4.)
"Do I know you?"
I cringed and stared at my old fertility doctor. The first one. The one whose partner refused to do a laparoscopy because he didn't believe the endometriosis was causing me to be infertile. The one who would show up late to my appointments because he was getting coffee at Starbucks. The one who would look at my ultrasounds, shrug his shoulders, and say, "I guess trigger tonight?"
In my mind, I knew what I should say. "Do you know me? My vagina was in your face for about three months straight. Perhaps you'd like me to lay down and spread my legs? Maybe then you would recognize me.
Instead, I forced a smile and replied, "Yes, I'm a former patient. Unsuccessful patient."
He apologized and asked if we were pursuing IVF. When I told him no, we couldn't afford it at the moment, he took the opportunity to give me a sales pitch on his new clinic. To tell me about how he could offer me one cycle for $6,000. To tell me how he would work with my schedule - see me at 6:30 for monitoring appointments, if that's what I needed. To hand me a stack of his cards and yell as he walked away, "Tell your friends."
Later that day, I walked into a large conference room - lunch in hand - and sat down at a table. A table occupied by two ladies representing area adoption agencies and a couple pursuing domestic adoption. We chatted for a moment until the guest speaker took the podium. I sat there and listened as she spoke about her journey with infertility. Her words rang in my ear the rest of the afternoon: I started to think, do I want to be pregnant or do I want a baby? I want a baby, she said.
Do I want to be pregnant or do I want a baby?
If the universe sends signs, this entire day was as clear a sign as ever. The fertility doctor pushing and shoving cheap IVF onto my lap. The adoption agency reps hugging me and nodding sympathetically when I gave them the abbreviated version of our journey. Let's face it: this was the light bulb. Weeks earlier, lying in bed, I silently begged for an clear answer as to what was supposed to happen next. I needed something, anything, to let me know that it was okay not to do IVF.
And this was it.