Putting a face to the name

I hate infertility this much. :::insert arms open wide::: And I am such a juvenile imbecile that it helps me hate IF even more if I assign it an evil identity.

Like the Grim Reaper. Or Jason with his freaky hockey mask. Basically, someone’s ass I wouldn’t mind kicking.

But in my version of childish imagery IF doesn’t hide behind a cloak or a hockey mask.

In my mind, it looks something like the gigantic snot aiming to get people to purchase hoards of Muc.inex because they have gobs of snot and phlem running down their face.

You know who I mean. That sick SOB that wants to take up residence in your sinus cavity. Imagine him hunkering down for the long haul, duct taping his crap down, so that when you try to hock a lugey he will remain comfy and cozy.

Well, in my minds eye IF looks something like that, but instead of snot, it’s a shrively dried up ovary. She has hunkered down and downright refuses to blink first.

Yes, putting a face to it really helps my anger issues. Obviously.

A friend ever so gently, in a “dealing with a crazy person” kind of way, suggested I go back to my crazy doctor. I opted to go back to bikram yoga this weekend instead. Because I got on the scale on Saturday and it literally read, “FAT COW.” So. That always comes as a surprise.

Suffice it to say, the injection and progesterone supplements did not work. I had to wait 5… count them with me… 1.2.3.4.5. days for the blood test results. Because, really? Why isn’t that reasonable? To wait 5 days for results that take a maximum of 4 hours to obtain. Gah!

I actually called the Office Manager to complain. Little did I know the “Office Manager” is Dr. piece of cake’s husband.

You: You’re kidding me, right?

Me: I wouldn’t do it to ya.

Next round is TBD. That is, if I can get Mr. POC to call me back. Damn. Why do I get the feeling I will soon be shopping for a new dr.?