The HSG

This morning I went to the clinic for a diagnostic test called a hysterosalpingogram (HSG).  This procedure involves putting a dye into my uterus and fallopian tubes so we can be sure my tubes are clear (a good thing to do before investing money in sperm/IUI).  I was told I might experience some discomfort, and in preparation, was asked to start a short course of antibiotics the day prior, and take pain relievers 30 minutes before the procedure.

The visit started with me submitting a urine sample for a pregnancy test, and then changing into a hospital gown and little yellow foam slippers in what was literally a small closet near the the building's fire stairwell (this being Manhattan, after all). 

"Okay, baby, this is for you," I whispered out loud. 

The doctor came to the closet and briefed me about what to expect, asked me to sign some paperwork, and sent his assistant in to accompany me to the procedure.  She brought me to the exam table and asked me to lay back and put my feet up in padded stirrups - which happened to be up above my head, way in the air on either side of the table.  She and the doctor strapped my feet in, covered me with a sheet, and moved the imaging machines close to my body.  The doctor inserted a speculum, cleaned the area with antiseptic, and put a catheter into my body.

What I was expecting was discomfort.  What I felt was pain.  Excruciating pain.  Within seconds, I was so uncomfortable and upset that no amount of yogic breathing, counting, mantras, or distracting myself could stop me from crying out and writhing around on the table.  I swore.  I apologized.  I groaned.

"If you're in that much pain, your tubes must be blocked," said the doctor, while directing me to place my pelvis back down on the exam table.  "I mean, I can't see either one.  They must be blocked."

He stepped away and asked his assistant for a different catheter.  My mind raced as I tried to process the pain, the information, and whether or not I would be able to get through it.  I tried to breathe.  I almost threw in the towel and begged him to stop. 

He went in again.  "Oookay.  There it is - one side... than the other... yep, I see them.  Your tubes are open.  There must have been a bump or something, but using a special manuver I was able to get through" he said.

And then it was over.  I was back in the closet with a customer satisfaction survey and a sanitary pad, clutching myself and willing the tears in my eyes not to pour down my face.  All I could think was, "I want to be in my home, in my bed, right now."  Starting to cry now would only delay the process.

I dashed to the B train and huddled in a corner seat by the window.  I felt like everyone could tell by the way I was sitting that I had something going on between my legs.  I was nauseated.  Headachey.  Wishing, wishing, wishing I was home.

An hour later I was there.  Home.  On the couch, cuddled up with the cats and watching episode after episode of Seinfeld on DVD.  I laid there until S came home at 6pm, not getting up except to get glasses of water and go to the bathroom.  I was crampy, achy, and incredibly emotionally fragile.  I cried on the phone with S, I cried when he came home, I cried when going to bed.  A deep sadness came over my entire body.  It not at all the experience I had been expecting.