The medical professional building where Dr. DeadFish's office is located is also the home of several other doctors of various branches: cardiologists, obstetricians, oncologists, psychologists, and so on. The other three people who boarded the elevator with me could have been going to any of the many practitioners there.
"What floor?" I asked the other three, as I pressed the button for the third floor. "Third," said one woman, and "Us too," said the masculine half of the other two passengers as he gripped the hand of who I assumed to be his wife.
After the short vertical ascension, the elevator doors opened with a bing and we filed out one after the other. We could have been ducks in a row, as all of us made the left turn down the hall and into Dr. DeadFish's office. We lined up at the window to sign in, all of us at once coming to the realization that we were cut from the same infertile cloth.
The receptionist (who is as kind and bright as Dr. DeadFish is…well, fishy), sat up with a start behind her glass window and exclaimed, "Oh, my! You all just came in at once! You all don't have to worry about signing in! I know all of you by name and can get your files!"
We all sat down at triangular points from each other and pretended to do other things while casting furtive glances at each other. The couple seemed mismatched, not because they were interracial, but because she appeared ready to pluck tomatoes or pull weeds and he seemed moments away from catching a plane to New York to shake down a multi-million dollar business deal. The woman who came alone was Maybellined to sunkissed, caked perfection, her French manicured nails tapping away feverishly at the screen on her Blackberry.
"Moxie?" the receptionist called. "Here's your lab slip. I'm going to send you down to have your blood work drawn first so that we can stagger you guys out a little bit, since you all came it at once."
Downstairs in the lab, three of the four nurses present shouted (yes, they literally shouted) various greetings along the lines of, "Hey, Mrs. SmartOne!…You're back again, huh?…It's good to see you again! Hopefully everything will work out this time!"
As I sat there having the first blood of this cycle drawn, I couldn't help but wonder — is it a good thing or a bad thing when your fertility clinic becomes a place where everybody knows your name?