My HSG: Part 1

My first RE appointment was a whirlwind.  I happened to come in on cycle day three, so rather than a casual discussion of my medical history we jumped right into blood work and ultrasounds. By the end of the morning, my brain was so full that I could hardly remember the time and date of my HSG appointment; all other details were lost. There was something about a pregnancy test beforehand, and getting blood drawn for my genetic test that same day? It was a haze. 

A week later I am starting to worry about my memory lapses when the hospital calls to confirm my appointment. “Do you know where to go?” the voice on the other end asks. “Um, you might want to remind me,” I answer. He gives me directions that don’t sound familiar, but I take notes anyway.

The next day I’m standing in the hospital parking lot trying to decide where to go: to the hospital front desk, like the guy on the phone said, or to the fertility center, as I vaguely remember being told.  As I usually do in these situations, I think about my potential to look like an idiot: if I go to the fertility center and am wrong, I risk looking dumb in front of people who I am counting on to be invested in me reproducing.  Do I want them thinking I have stupid, can’t-follow-directions genes? If I go to the hospital front desk and am wrong, I’ll be wrong in front of people I’ll probably never see again.

“Am I in the right place?” I ask the woman at the front desk. “Yup!” she answers. Score!

I am handed off to a young male nurse who is more concerned with being cool than being clear as he leads me to the radiology dressing room. I am flattered - he seems to be trying to impress me with his nonchalance about what I am supposed to do with my street clothes once I've changed into the hospital gown (the answer, in case you’re wondering, is to put them in a yellow “patient belongings” bag and carry them to the exam room like a bag lady).  I do, however, appreciate his tip about wearing two hospital gowns, one forward, one backward.

Going over the consent forms, I think Mr. Cool suppresses a giggle when he asks me the first day of my last period. That reminds me – what about that pregnancy test? I’m not about to ask frat boy here, so I assume the questions about periods are sufficient and open the book I've brought along; inside I may be nervous, but I’m going to look calm and mature goddammit.

Thankfully, the shift changes and nurse dude is replaced by a competent-seeming middle-aged woman.  The doctor is running behind, so I take the opportunity to ask about my genetic screening.

“Do you know where I’m supposed to go to get blood for this drawn?” I ask, holding up my screening kit.

“Oh, they didn’t take it when you were signing your paperwork at the center?”

“Um, I didn’t go to the center.  The guy on the phone told me to come straight here.”

“I think you’re supposed to go to the center first. Let me check and see what you should do.”

Five minutes pass, during which I calm my nerves by contemplating whether my hospital gown is better complimented by bare feet or my multicolored TOMS.

“You’re going to have to go back to the center.  They have some paperwork for you to sign and you need to take a pregnancy test.”  Shit.  It’s now twenty minutes past my appointment time, and I can feel the Advil I took to prevent cramping wearing off.  I get dressed and practically run to the fertility center.

My stress disturbs the center’s tranquil atmosphere, and I get the side eye from the desk attendant when I admit my mistake.  I smile sheepishly; hopefully my contrite genes will make up for my can’t-follow-directions genes.  I quickly scribble my name on some paperwork and pee in a cup.

Once my hopes for a surprise positive have been dashed, I’m cleared to go back to radiology.  “And my genetic test?”  “Well, the FedEx guy is supposed to come at noon but he hasn’t come yet.  If he still hasn’t come when you’re done, we can take it today. Otherwise you’ll have to come back.” It’s now 3. Craaap. “Okay.”

I run back to the radiology dressing room and I’m changed in no time.  It’s only when I walk back into the empty hallway that I realize I have no idea where to go next.  I freeze.

I have on two hospital gowns, my TOMS look like something a mental patient would wear, there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead, and I’m holding a crumpled bag lady bag with my clothes stuffed inside. I don’t look like someone who should be allowed around children, much less have my own.

I am halfway between laughing and crying when an impeccably coiffed woman in a lab coat clicks down the hallway.  “Hi, um, I’m Chelsea... I, um, went to the wrong place, but I’m back,” I explain meekly.

“Oh yes, I’m Wendee.  I’ll be doing your HSG.  Come on back.”

Here we go.

Read part two here.