Why Egg-retrieval Day Is Like a Spa Day (Sort Of)
Spa Day: You arrive, check in with a very friendly woman at the front desk, and are given a little goody bag (a bottle of water, a pair of disposable flip flops, possibly a robe) and a plastic bracelet.
Egg-retrieval Day: You arrive, check in with a very friendly woman at the front desk, and are given a little goody bag (drawstring pajama bottoms, a gown, and a robe—all in coordinated cotton patterns—and a pair of disposable socks) and a hospital bracelet.
Spa Day: You get your own locker for the day. (The key is on the plastic bracelet.)
Egg-retrieval Day: You get your own dressing room. (But no key.)
Spa Day: You change into your robe and wait in a very pleasant waiting room with all of the other robe-clad women until your masseuse/facialist/reflexologist/wrap specialist calls your name.
Egg-retrieval Day: You change into your pajama bottoms, gown, and robe and wait in a very pleasant waiting room with all of the other pajama-bottom/gown/robe-clad women and all of their husbands/partners/sperm donors (until the husbands/partners/sperm donors are summoned to the Room of Porn).
Spa Day: The waiting room has excellent magazines, ice water with lemon slices, and various semi-healthy snacks.
Egg-retrieval Day: The waiting room has excellent magazines and vending machines not too far away for the husbands/partners/sperm donors who are allowed to eat and drink (you, of course, have been fasting since midnight).
Spa Day: Your masseuse/facialist/reflexologist/wrap specialist retrieves you from the waiting room and escorts you to a monochromatic room. At the center is a raised table with a pillow and a white sheet or blanket.
Egg-retrieval Day: Your nurse retrieves you from the waiting room and escorts you to a monochromatic room. At the center is a raised table with a pillow and a white sheet or blanket. (And, um, a pair of stirrups suspended overhead.)
Spa Day: Your masseuse/facialist/reflexologist/wrap specialist has you slip off your robe and slide under the sheet or blanket. You close your eyes, relax, and possibly fall asleep while she starts your treatment.
Egg-retrieval Day: Your nurse has you slip off your robe and pajama bottoms and slide under the sheet or blanket (and, yes, put your feet in the stirrups). You close your eyes and fall asleep while the anesthesiologist starts your IV.
Spa Day: You wake up after your massage/facial/reflexology/wrap, put your robe back on, and go back to the waiting room or locker room feeling, perhaps, a little zonked. You have a glass of ice water with lemon slices to perk yourself up.
Egg-retrieval Day: You wake up—eventually—in the recovery room, feeling incredibly zonked. You have several juice boxes and many packets of Ritz crackers to perk yourself up while your husband/partner/sperm donor waits patiently for you to regain lucidity.
Spa Day: On the way out, you experience a moment of sticker shock when presented with the bill, which includes the extra minutes/masque/scrub you agreed to in your massage/facial/reflexology/wrap-induced stupor.
Egg-retrieval Day: Several weeks later, you experience many moments of sticker shock when, after receiving your credit-card statements (including charges for the hospital visit and doctors' fees), you receive several lab bills totaling $1,337.20.
See? I'm not completely crazy.
(Incompletely crazy, perhaps.)
Egg-retrieval Day: You arrive, check in with a very friendly woman at the front desk, and are given a little goody bag (drawstring pajama bottoms, a gown, and a robe—all in coordinated cotton patterns—and a pair of disposable socks) and a hospital bracelet.
Spa Day: You get your own locker for the day. (The key is on the plastic bracelet.)
Egg-retrieval Day: You get your own dressing room. (But no key.)
Spa Day: You change into your robe and wait in a very pleasant waiting room with all of the other robe-clad women until your masseuse/facialist/reflexologist/wrap specialist calls your name.
Egg-retrieval Day: You change into your pajama bottoms, gown, and robe and wait in a very pleasant waiting room with all of the other pajama-bottom/gown/robe-clad women and all of their husbands/partners/sperm donors (until the husbands/partners/sperm donors are summoned to the Room of Porn).
Spa Day: The waiting room has excellent magazines, ice water with lemon slices, and various semi-healthy snacks.
Egg-retrieval Day: The waiting room has excellent magazines and vending machines not too far away for the husbands/partners/sperm donors who are allowed to eat and drink (you, of course, have been fasting since midnight).
Spa Day: Your masseuse/facialist/reflexologist/wrap specialist retrieves you from the waiting room and escorts you to a monochromatic room. At the center is a raised table with a pillow and a white sheet or blanket.
Egg-retrieval Day: Your nurse retrieves you from the waiting room and escorts you to a monochromatic room. At the center is a raised table with a pillow and a white sheet or blanket. (And, um, a pair of stirrups suspended overhead.)
Spa Day: Your masseuse/facialist/reflexologist/wrap specialist has you slip off your robe and slide under the sheet or blanket. You close your eyes, relax, and possibly fall asleep while she starts your treatment.
Egg-retrieval Day: Your nurse has you slip off your robe and pajama bottoms and slide under the sheet or blanket (and, yes, put your feet in the stirrups). You close your eyes and fall asleep while the anesthesiologist starts your IV.
Spa Day: You wake up after your massage/facial/reflexology/wrap, put your robe back on, and go back to the waiting room or locker room feeling, perhaps, a little zonked. You have a glass of ice water with lemon slices to perk yourself up.
Egg-retrieval Day: You wake up—eventually—in the recovery room, feeling incredibly zonked. You have several juice boxes and many packets of Ritz crackers to perk yourself up while your husband/partner/sperm donor waits patiently for you to regain lucidity.
Spa Day: On the way out, you experience a moment of sticker shock when presented with the bill, which includes the extra minutes/masque/scrub you agreed to in your massage/facial/reflexology/wrap-induced stupor.
Egg-retrieval Day: Several weeks later, you experience many moments of sticker shock when, after receiving your credit-card statements (including charges for the hospital visit and doctors' fees), you receive several lab bills totaling $1,337.20.
See? I'm not completely crazy.
(Incompletely crazy, perhaps.)
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 8:25 PM
2 Comments:
Jody,
I'm wondering if there is anything in the non-cancer world that can be an analogy to chemo? Hope that is not an insulting question--your comparisons of spa day to egg retrieval day were very interesting & informative for me as someone who has not been through it...
xxoo
Nice event! I’d like to recommend Body Restoration spa. They have a very well-structured and welcoming place where you can enjoy their vast variety of beauty and body services. On their website (http://www.bodyrest.com) you can learn more about their packages and promotions. The price is reasonable and their staff is simply the best to take care of you and give that relaxing, worriless and free of commitments day that we all look for once in a while.
Post a Comment
<< Home