I am at the lab waiting to be called for my CD3 blood work. I know this lab well; it’s the very waiting room where I sat so many times after my ectopic, hoping that my hCG had finally dropped to zero. I know this lab well, though I’m used to viewing it through a curtain of tears and this morning my eyes are tired and sad, but dry.
Of course they’ve snazzed it up a bit since I was last here. Now you have to press a touch screen to get your number and a flat screen TV shows–in symphony with electronic voices repeating the numbers ad nausea–who is being called at which stations. I will admit this is a big improvement over the tired nurse who used to stand in the corner screeching our numbers with increasing frustration.
And here I am again, wondering desperately if I’ll have another child, bewildered that I’ve fallen on the unfortunate side of the statistics, totally uncertain of my future.
Of course things have changed for me as well. When I fished around in my wallet for my Kaiser card I had to make sure I wasn’t pulling my daughter’s almost identical card. That small detail alone makes all the difference.
My number was just called and my blood work only cost $10. An obvious error, as I was assured none of this would be covered, but I’ll take it. Hopefully they can’t demand the money later when they realize their mistake.
And now I’m out of there, free of the desperate memories of that place, scratchy gauze and tape making it uncomfortable to bend my arm, wondering when I’ll get my results and what fate they will portend.
Just as I did not that many years ago.
That ended up okay, I try to remind myself. Even though, at the time, a happy ending seemed almost impossible.