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Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?

October 17, 2010

Fancy shmancy fertility clinic has a waterfall in the lobby. It also has communications that are roughly equivalent in efficacy to a tin can and a string. One tin can.

If you elect to unload your cash at Posh Pregnancy, LLC (very L, as evidenced by the reams of liability waivers you will sign), you will know the surname of your doctor and the psychologist. And no one else. Not the nurses, not the lab techs, not the business office people, and certainly not your donor.  Otherwise, you might … what? Stalk them? In what other non-psychiatric realm of the medical establishment are women treated as if their default mode is crazy?

As a result, you will have little recourse when communication disappears on you. You’ll be treated as if juggling five different medicines on a daily changing schedule is old news. You’ll get that schedule via email. You’ll try to call the nurse for clarification. Or, rather, you’ll leave a message. It is easier to get a Verizon rep on the phone directly than a human at Fancy Shmancy. Rather, you’ll get to listen through a number of options — much like with your utility company, or the DMV — followed by the invitation to leave a voicemail. No matter the hour, you will leave a voicemail. Human contact only happens on someone else’s schedule.

The frustration culminated this week when the third unseen nurse I’ve dealt with left a 15-minute voicemail detailing five days’ worth of medication. When we finally connected live the next day, we went over the schedule for E-Day.

“How long will this take?” I asked.

“About 10 minutes.”

“Really? The doctor said I should have acupuncture before and after. How does that work?”

“I didn’t know she did that. Let me go get your chart.”

You call patients without having their charts?

The nurse returns.

“Well, we don’t have any acupuncture scheduled here, but we can go ahead and do that now.”

Great. You think maybe you’d want to talk to the world-renowned physician about that? Or are we just going to go on my hormone-addled memory? And what if I didn’t remember? Would I end up just getting the main hole poked on E-Day? Dammit, I came here to have holes poked in me, and I demand the poking of holes!

So yeah, Fancy Shmancy clinic offers you kick-ass pregnancy stats, and that’s what matters. Empathy, however, is in short supply.

How short? There’s a cappuccino bar in the lobby in addition to the waterfall. A cappuccino bar. In a facility where every woman entering has been ordered to quit caffeine.

Fuck you, too. But give me the baby before you leave, please.

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