My HSG: Part 2

I’ve been meaning to finish up the story of my HSG, and while I’m waiting to learn the implications of it seems like a good time to do so.

The HSG exam table. Comforting, right?

If you’ve read the first part of my story, you know that my day was not off to an auspicious start. By the time I got to the exam room I was feeling flustered, disheveled, and embarrassed. Thankfully, my next step was to climb up onto the cold metal exam table, “scootch” to the edge, and spread my legs. A foolproof way to regain lost dignity!

The doctor inserts the catheter while making small talk (“Oh, you live in the city, that’s great – Can you cough for me so I can figure out how your cervix is tilted – we ate at a great restaurant down there a couple weeks ago”), and it’s not painful, just extremely uncomfortable; my body wants this intruder out, and isn’t afraid to say so.  I am not squeamish about medical procedures (I once had a nurse tell me “You don’t look like the fainting type,” which made me inordinately proud) but I can tell this is going to be rough.

A moment later, the x-ray turns on and I can see the dye start pouring into my uterus.  Cool! “You uterus looks good…” the doctor says as things start taking shape on screen. Then she gets quiet. The dye isn’t advancing in my left tube. But my right tube is ok, right?

Just as the doctor asks “And you’ve never had any abdominal surgery?” the discomfort turns to real pain.  It’s like having terrible gas on the worst day of my period. Maybe it’s because my Advil has worn off or maybe it’s because it’s becoming clear that things aren’t going well, but I have to get off this freaking table. NOW.  I resist the urge to squirm and shoot the nurse pleading glances. 

Finally it’s over. “You left tube appears to be blocked.  Your right tube is dilated – see how it looks like a sausage here? – but the dye is spilling.  It's possible that you could get pregnant through your right tube...” Her tone and body language add: but not likely.

I barely hear her. The moment the catheter is out of me I jump off the table like a cat out of a bathtub and run into the bathroom.  When I come out, I’m near tears from the pain, and from what I’m realizing the HSG showed. I don’t think to ask questions; I’m supposed to meet with my regular doctor to go over everything anyway. I just want to get out of this damn room.

I don’t get far; I have to go back to the clinic to take care of my genetic test.  I walk through the hospital, hoping the blood draw will be over fast so that I can go cry and call Henry from the privacy of my car.  Thankfully, they immediately take me back and remove the blood collection tube from my genetic test kit.  They stick the needle in my arm, there’s a little splatter in the tubing, then… nothing.  My vein isn’t cooperating.

Normally, this isn’t a huge deal – they’d just start over with new equipment.  However, my genetic test kit only came with one collection tube, which is now useless.  The nurse has no idea what to do; this kit is specific to me, and we can’t just use a new one.  She decides to call the test company for instructions, and sends me to sit in the hallway and wait.  While I wait, three things happen:

1. I do some Googling on my phone and begin to get a sense of how screwed I am.
2. The doctor who did my HSG returns to the office and gives me a sympathetic smile, confirming how screwed I am. 
3. My mom calls (she has no idea where I am), and I don’t tell her how screwed I am. So begins my career of lying about fertility treatments.

FINALLY after ten more minutes of waiting, the nurse calls me back to get my blood drawn.  It works, and I’m on my way.  I fight tears the whole way back to the car, get inside… and then remember I have to pay the attendant for parking on my way out.  Don’tcryyetdon’tcryyetdon’tcryyetdon’tcryyet.

I’m exhausted by the time I get home. I pull up an episode of Law and Order on Netflix and collapse on the couch; I’m out before the quip.  Henry coming through the door an hour and a half later wakes me up, but I’ve slept so deeply that I’m disoriented. Why is he bringing me flowers? Oh yeah…

Because we’re screwed.