The sun will come out tomorrow people...smile

Dr. Stonehenge was in a foul mood this morning. He did my scan not saying much of anything, just sort of grunting while I made small talk. When I asked him what my lining was he mumbled "on est la" (we're there). I took from his tone that I wasn't supposed to know what that number was, or maybe that my pretty little head wouldn't know what to do with that information so it was better not to waste the breath in telling me.

After the scan as we sat in his office he scribbled off some paperwork sighing the whole time, continuing his snarky doctor zen mode while I mulled around the question I had in my head.

"uh should we at least try to have sex because there's a perfectly good egg there ready to release and why waste a ..." He interrupted me "it's lost...you can have sex after release but nothing will happen" "Well I just thought you know, why waste a perfectly..." "It's not worth your time" he said dryly.

Uh okay.

In the lab the phlebotomist-in-training was in no better mood. When he called my name to go back for the draw Little S trailed behind me slowly. Suddenly he spied the coffee machine and started whining. "Meemee! meeeee!" He wanted water to come out like in the grocery store water machine. He pushed the oversized button. He showed me the cup. The cups were the same as in the grocery store machine. He always gets water while I shop the vegetable aisle. "It's just for coffee sweetheart. It doesn't have water." It took me an extra thirty seconds to get back to the clinic room because getting a two year old away from a water/coffee machine that does not produce water is not an easy task. "He thinks we're at Cora where they have a water machine." Silence. "It looks almost the same. " Silence. Arms crossed and scowling, Phlebo-boy was clearly not amused by confused toddlers and their water machine hang ups.

As we sat down to do the bloodwork I made myself comfortable while Phlebo studied the paperwork. I'd be doing the annual bloodwork too, HIV, chlamydia the works and also my estradiol levels. It was a lot of vials. Phlebo laid out all his supplies on the right even though I had already lifted the sleeve of my left arm indicating my distinct preference for the arm where you have a small chance of seeing some veins. I tried to be polite rather than pushy. "They always tell me this arm is easier." Silence. He went about searching for the vein in my right arm anyway. He wasn't going to change. He started digging and searching. "Ouch!" He dug in deep and pushed and pushed. "Putain!" he cursed. "It's not a vein."

Putain! should have been MY remark. Putain* indeed as I rubbed my sore arm.

He changed arms, digging around on the left now, a rookie. I'd have two lovely band aids and two lovely bruises, lovely. "Merci" I chirped as I left. Grunt. He didn't even say goodbye.

So there we are. The hospital will call me to tell me what my next step is this afternoon. I certainly don't expect any royal treatment but hopefully I'll get some reasonably cheery person calling me who isn't trapped under fluorescent lights for eight hours a day and taking it out on me!

*Putain in French is literally translated as prostitute but translates roughly to son-of-a-bitch. While cursing is a little more accepted/freely used in French than in most languages I think it's considered lowbrow to use it in a work setting and usually a sign of bad education/upbringing.