Eight

When I had my appointment with the new fertility doctor, they gave me orders to have a bunch of blood work done. So much blood work that I couldn’t have it all done at once. I’ve been putting off going to the lab. I’m not sure why. I just kept coming up with seemingly valid reasons not to go. I always have plenty of work to use as an excuse. But at the same time, I fretted about what “my” nurse would think about me that I hadn’t run right out and gotten the tests done immediately. Because I’m neurotic like that, like that would make any difference. Anyway, John and I went and got the first set of blood drawn on Saturday, and because I am lucky, I got to go back and get more blood drawn today.

I went at 2:15, thinking that they wouldn’t be crowded. They weren’t when I got there, but there were only two people working, so we patients stacked up quickly. After an interminable wait in the waiting room of doom, I finally got to go in the back. My lab tech was great. He was British and had a London gangster-movie accent – “here’s the fing” “I’ll be roight wif you” – which was a nice distraction from the eight (eight!) tubes of blood he was taking out of my arm. By the time he was done, I was ready to demand cookies and juice.