Anybody remember that bucket list I made up in August, to get myself all happy and calm before starting injections for the IVF-cycle-that-wasn’t? Somewhere on that list was to get a nose stud. I didn’t, because at that time there wasn’t enough time before the proposed retrieval.

As soon as we did the IUI on Saturday the 8th, we drove straight from the clinic to the tattoo and piercing parlor.

I had picked out a place with a good reputation and a clean interior. We talked to the guy and he took us back to the room. (Are we sensing any parallels yet?) He had me sit on a table that was basically a medical exam table – even had those little pull-out drawers to help you climb up – except it was black.

Terra cognita, baby.

He talks through what he’s going to do, and then he’s ready to get started. “Scoot down to the edge,” he said, patting the corner of the bizarro-black exam table.

I want to emphasize that I did not do the following. I only considered putting my legs up so he could access the goods.

You can’t blame me; at this point, it’s downright Pavlovian. And the piercing artist was in a way kind of like Reverso Doctor: he was every bit as polite and professional as our RE, just younger, darker, and with tattoos and glittery bits of metal poking out of places I wasn’t aware could be pierced. In all, a nice antithesis to a week of Crap News on the Medical Front.

So I got the stud. It’s awesome, it’s cute, it’s subtle enough to get me through airport security without a pat-down.

Moreover? This one, unlike infertility or my magically diminished ovarian reserve*, was completely and entirely my choice. That’s good.

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* Did I mention that part? How my FSH levels were normal and my AMH levels were within the acceptable range? Yeah. I surprised everybody. It’s great.

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