The UPS man knew what he was getting into when he put on that brown uniform
I am waiting for an update on my donor. I thought I'd get one Friday, the cycle day circled and highlighted in cheerful yellow in my instruction booklet: "You may call a donor coordinator for an update on your donor between 2 and 2:30 PM." Not wanting to seem, you know, easy, I combed my hair, carefully applied my lipstick, pinched my cheeks to get a little natural-looking color in them, and then waited until the advanced hour of 2:00:03 before I picked up the phone.
And...nothing. My donor wasn't actually in for a check on Friday, the coordinator told me. "She was in yesterday, but she wasn't ready for her hCG, so she'll be in on Saturday." To my strangled pleas for information, she answered only that on Thursday, "everything looked like it was supposed to." And promised that after the donor's Saturday visit, I'd get a call with an update. And patted me on the head and offered me a Milk Bone, because you're a good girl, aren't you? Who'sa good girl? You are! Yyyyou are! Gooood girrrrrrl.
And...nothing. No call, no message, no voice mail on my cell phone. I suppose it is possible that a uniformed delivery person knocked on the door with a telegram — BIG CLUTCH OF EGGS A BREWIN EXCLAM CONTINUE ESTRACE STOP WAIT DONT ACTUALLY STOP STOP CONTINUE STOP — during the brief ninety-second window that I was in the shower. But somehow I doubt it, as the clever snare I'd set to capture any such messenger was empty. It is too bad, as I do enjoy a friendly interrogation.
Ahem. So that brings us up to today, when I called the clinic, plowing through five different phone numbers in a desperate bid to reach someone, anyone who might be there early on a Sunday morning. The security guard was notably unhelpful, the parking lot attendant only marginally less so, but I finally spoke with someone who promised she'd pull my chart, collar a nurse, and have her call me soonest.
And...nothing. I am mildly anxious about this, not because I worry about the donor's status, since I am sure she is in excellent, hygienically gloved medical hands, but because I would like to begin making travel plans. I am irritated by my clinic's failure to communicate.
So why don't we cut out the middleman? If you live in the Minneapolis area, and you happen to know a woman between the ages of 18 and 34 with wavy brown hair and a fair complexion who would describe herself as an easy-going, friendly, energetic, kind, happy, intelligent, well-adjusted, optimistic, caring, and self-reliant perfectionist, give her a call, would you, and ask her what the hell is going on. Because I have to go take a shower, and although the Burmese tiger pit I dug worked a treat when I tested it with the pizza delivery guy, at this point I'm taking no chances.