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Posts Tagged ‘D & C’

Roar!

Another cheer for my insurance company.

Which is just about the weirdest thing in the world to type, but there it is.  

I got a check in the mail today for the out-of-network services provided by my RE during the D&C.  I paid his fees in cash before the procedure, because I didn’t want anyone messing around in there who didn’t know how abysmally difficult this whole pregnancy-thing was.  If anyone was going to err in my innards, I wanted someone to err on the side of caution, damnit.  So I was happy to pay his fees and just chalk it up to another IVF expense.

His insurance goddess gave me all the forms to fill out, and even helped me fill out a couple of the more esoteric fields.  Dutifully, I sent them in, but really wasn’t expecting much.  But here it is, not even a month later, and there’s a check in my possession for what they’ll cover of it.  About half of the out-of-pocket costs, which really isn’t bad at all.

I’m impressed.  

Hip hip hoorah.

Oh, on the cheerleading front, I started exercising tonight.  With a DVD taskmistress for company/encouragement.  I like the program, it’s fast & simple and knocks me on my ass even at level 1 (oh, but I am slothful and sluggish these days!)  I hope to get stronger.  

I told the boy that I was exercising when he called from the convention, and he waxed poetic about how weird women are that they’d rather exercise to a DVD class than just do it on their own.  

Am not weird.  Take it back.  

It seems perfectly normal to me that it’s easier to keep interested enough to keep going if there’s someone making pseudo-eye-contact and reminding me visually why I’m doing this – namely because I know I don’t look anything like her.  And I’d rather like to.  

Anyway, I have high hopes, and a week from now, when I’m still doing these exercises once a day despite his cynical predictions, I expect to serve my husband a heaping helping of crow.  Right before I crush him with my mighty thighs and rock-hard abs.  Not to mention my ripped upper arms.  

Roar.

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And I’m still trying to figure out how to transfer the old LJ posts.

There.  Got it, I think.

So I wasted my morning on a “physical” that consisted of my doctor basically checking my reflexes, and me teaching his new nurse how to use the scale & the height-measuring thingy.

Seriously.

She recorded my weight as 112#, and while I was flattered, (I mean, hell, I haven’t weighed that since middle school) I felt that since they were using this number to anesthetize me on Thursday, I should maybe tell her that she was wrong.  Then she got my height wrong.  Seriously.  I felt like taking her aside and asking if she wanted me to do her job for her, since she was so seriously incompetent.

But I didn’t.  Points for me.

And surgery for me on Thursday.  Expensive surgery, which, since the stock market is tanking, is coming out of my (and not fiance’s) pocket.

And oh yeah, we’re getting married next week.  In between surgery and a convention, because really, this is my life on fertility drugs.

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