Full Flow

There is perhaps no other phrase in the fertility related universe that I dislike more than “call us when you’re full flow.” Strike that, “unfortunately we don’t have good news, your results were negative,” is by far my least favorite phrase. But barring that trauma, full flow is top of the list.

Full flow. Just let that sit with you a moment. Don’t want to? Right. Exactly.

I mean, I’m not squeamish about my body. I’m a grown ass lady and a god damn feminist who’s been at this fertility bullshit for almost 2 years. And this is my second set of 2 years. I’ve been prodded and poked at and examined by I can’t even begin to tell you how many doctors and nurses. But something about full flow just gets me every time.

Perhaps it is the indignity of walking down the sidewalk on my way to the subway in the morning, or standing on the sidewalk in front of my office during my lunch hour, and telling the nurse or medical assistant or receptionist or whoever the fuck I’ve just gotten on the phone that I’m day 1 of my cycle (cycle? cycle! why do we use this word! is there not a better word?!?) and am now “full flow.” Yes, 24-year-old investment banker who’s now side-eyeing me as he tries to slip past me real quick, that’s right, blood is currently gushing out of my vagina and I am full on FLOW. Deal with it.


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