Dies Irae

From my particular seat in the second-floor waiting room today, I could see through a large window into the hallway. Ding! the elevator doors open like stage curtains, revealing a new starring patient each time. Stage right or stage left? the patient-turned-thespian must wonder. You see, on the left is the door to where I am-- the infertility clinic. On the right is the door to an obstetrician's office. Non-pregnants to the left, pregnants to the right. Goats to the left, sheep to the right.

Sometimes our ingénue has a made-up face, well-groomed hair, fancy clothes, and a Blackberry stuck to her hand. Sometimes she looks as if she just rolled out of bed, scraggly hair and pajamas to boot. All races, all personalities, all styles, all appearances pay their dues on our pitiful little stage. And if I've learned one thing as an unwilling audience member, you can't guess if they are headed to the left or to the right. Infertility does not discriminate; you can't predict who will play the part of the goat.

End scene?