I am a Walking, Talking, Blog-Writing, Eye-Rolling Science Experiment

Sunday was Awesome Hubby and my 2 year marriage anniversary. Our gift to each other was a group of old ladies to take over our sex life. I will explain.

As I mentioned, in Jerusalem it takes 6 weeks to get your first appointment with the fertility clinic. If you are an overly emotional, tragedy-prone Russian/American/Israeli whose favorite tango partner is Drama, as we know the author of this here diary to be, then you will accidentally miss the appointment, having written it down incorrectly in your planner, then you will call the clinic about a half hour after your scheduled time slot to double check that your appointment is indeed next Friday (because it just occurred to you that boy that's strange – who in this socialized country works on a Friday?) Then the mean Russian secretary named Olga will tell you that it is entirely your own fault and you need to wait another month.

Remember that infertility infused hissy fit I have been throwing for a year? Well, imagine the whole year of tears all condensed into a fiery, sharp little seizure of an event, which for an almost-28 year-old- mother-wannabe, is the psychological equivalent to stomping feet and pounding the ground with angry little fists while tears shoot out of clenched eyes at 90 degree angles (and I am ashamed to admit there was, literally, some of that).

Enter Awesome Hubby on a white horse. Watch him gallantly battle the Evil Olga with his elegant sword (well, ok Argentinian-accented Hebrew) until she surrenders saying “Please Kind Knight, have mercy upon me!” or... “Fine, you Nudnik, come in today at 6:30” (in Russian-accented Hebrew).

And so My Hero and I arrived for our first appointment at the fertility clinic, “Merkaz Poriyut”. Poriyut, which means fertility, comes from the same root as Perot, or fruit (I assume, watch I could be totally wrong about that). But if I'm not wrong, isn't it poetic?

We met Evil Olga in person then, she gave me a look that made me shake in my stretchy pants and flip flops. Then we sat and waited for the doctor. The whole time as we were sitting there waiting, I was obsessing about whether or not the doctor would be nice to me. Honestly this whole infertility thing is making me regress to about the age of 5.

5 Year Old AnKa: what if he's angry that we are making him stay later and he doesn't give me the proper treatment?
Hero Awesome Hubby: Baby, you need to relax
5 Year Old AnKa: But what if Olga told on me to him!? What if he's angry with me?
Hero Awesome Hubby: Baby, you need to relax.
5 Year Old AnKa:But what if he's mean to me?


Honestly if I was Hero Awesome Hubby (or my parents), I would have grounded me and sent me to my room until I got control of myself. But Awesome Hubby indulges me and my strange needy ways.

So we did see the doctor, and he was perfectly courteous, but what I quickly learned was that just like in every good Jewish family, the doctor is not the one in charge of what happens in the household. In charge of the fertility clinic are a group of clucking, fluttering, nurturing old nurses. And THEY are really, really nice. And I love them! They are so nice and nurturing that I did not even get upset when they told me the very scary routine I was about to come into.
Every day, I have to get a blood test and an ultrasound (not the cute belly kind, the intimate kind that requires a condom and lubricant and a very close relationship with the administrating technician). This of course requires going to several different places and waiting in a whole bunch of lines and managing a whole lot of bureaucracy on a daily basis... but it's not the needles, condoms or ice cold health clinic bureaucrats that terrify me. It's that it all needs to be done by 8:30 in the morning.

When I got the first ultrasound, the Russian technician lady told me not to be afraid, that it would be uncomfortable, but not painful. I gave her an amused look and said, “This does not scare me, don't worry.” She then said, very seriously (as if we were discussing KGB torture techniques) “OUR people are never afraid of anything.”

Well.... this Our Person is afraid of one thing: Mornings. Those of you who know me well, know how dangerous I am before 10:30 and my coffee. Certainly my little brother has childhood trauma from close encounters with the Anka morning monster in his early years. Awesome Hubby became known as the Morning Nazi when he tried to get me up for Hebrew class upon my arrival in Israel (clearly he didn't know who he was dealing with). But now, the disheveled puffy eyed, frizzy Morning Monster boards the 18 bus (as even Mafia Babushkas cower in fear) by 7:30 in the morning and stumbles half asleep into the Fertility Center for her morning prodding and poking.

Later, the nurses call me and tell me whether or not to “be together” with my husband that day. And so, we received our mutual 2 year anniversary gift: the clucking old nurses, who control our sex life.