As part of our adventures in trying to get knocked up, I had dye shot through my ladyparts yesterday. You know, to make sure everything is there where it’s supposed to be and that my innards contain actual ladybits and not that monster from “Alien.”
This little beaute of a medical adventure is called an HSG. I’m not totally sure what that stands for, so I’m going to say it’s short for holyshitgirl. As in, “Holyshitgirl, that was the most horrendous thing ever in the history of horrendous things.”
I wasn’t exactly sure I wanted to be doing this in the first place. And the hospital didn’t have a record of my appointment, so I had to talk to a bunch of different people, and it gave me hope that just maybe they wouldn’t be able to fit me in – so I’d escape!
Except that they did fit me in. And they shot me full of air and iodine and it hurt so badly that I shuddered in shock and started crying. And then I couldn’t stop crying, and my ears got soggy. Then, the doctor informed me that he was trying to be gentle, but didn’t get enough oomph or whatever, so he had to start over.
It was about this time that I began focusing on the bolt in the ceiling. That bolt was my best friend in the whole world. No one understood me like the bolt. We’d get through this, Bolty and me!
I did some yoga breathing. I kept crying. I realized that I was white-knuckling the neckline of my hospital gown with both hands, just because I needed something to hold on to, to brace myself. Finally, the nightmare was done. I got dressed, was shocked at how little the 4 preventative ibuprofen I’d taken had helped, and hightailed it outta there.
To add insult to injury, I had to pay to park in the hospital garage. By the time I made it to the garage attendent, I was full-on crying. But I somehow managed to have exact change, and I figured that I wasn’t the only person who left the hospital garage crying – either from sad hospital stuff or the $2.75 hourly rate in a town of free garages.
I’ve been in pain since yesterday, despite the ibuprofen, wine, and stash of Thin Mints. And mostly? Mostly, I’m wondering what the fuck we’re doing.
I’ve never been the woman who thinks she has to experience pregnancy and childbirth in order to be fulfilled as a woman or person or whatever. I don’t think I’m any genetic prize, and I’m not some thoroughbred horse, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. And there are kids who need homes.
And really? I don’t want to get poked and proded like yet another dehumanized, upper-middle-class, waited-too-long science experiment just so we can have biological kids. I realize my current outlook is colored by my experience yesterday, but really? This whole infertility escapade seems like total bullshit.
So, yeah. I’m processing.