“He’s going to take this -- wand,” I warn her, “And put it up your hooch.” Dashiell makes a terrible face. “It’s like he’s playing a video game. He’s going to get it up there and clear a screen of Ms. Pac-Man.”
It only takes a three-minute phone call outside my preferred, sweet queer bubble to come up against an attack of fierce self-protective hate and anger at being provoked to feel low-self-esteem at the hands of a fertility clinic receptionist.
Within two weeks, my bloated lower abdomen could easily be mistaken for a real second trimester pregnancy and I felt as though my ovaries were suspended like a puppet by a thin string, bobbing up and down painfully when I sat or stood too quickly.
I call Planned Parenthood and they refer me to the local teaching hospital. A review calls the hospital ‘almost a non-profit’, and I’m sold. I make a call and their financial person calls me right back. I get off the phone feeling like it’s less expensive than I thought – maybe not even expensive after all! This is a phenomenon already known to me as the Barneys Effect.