I had my hsg this a.m.
First off the radiology department. Let me just say. I have had a better time in the lost and found department at the MTA. AT LEAST IT WAS WELL-LIT THERE-- and you got the sense that someone had been there in the last decade with a bottle of 409 and a paper towel. This place was so dingy, grimy, and underlit it really felt like a truck stop bathroom, or the bowels of Penn Station, behind the "Personnel ONLY" doors.
I registered in a room with a hand-lettered sign where sat a man with a foot-long combover and the posture of a life-long bus-driver for a special-ed school (maybe agraduate drop-out of said school himself.) Combover Crisis grunted at me in monosyllables, made me wait for 20 minutes, then handed me a dot-matrix printout and waved in the general direction of the elevator.
Then, upstairs I had to pee in a cup in the filthiest bathroom I have seen since my cross-country trip in college when a digestive emergency forced me to use one of those highway "rest stops". I swore up and down there was no way I could be pregnant, but they wanted the pee to prove it. Then I waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, when I met the Dr., he was a gym-rat gay boy who could not have been more than 27. (I have dubbed him Fag, M.D.) I think mine was seriously the second HSG Fag, M.D. had ever done-- I say second only because I know he did the one before me because when I went down to ask why I was waiting so long, they said "the patient before you is taking a little longer than expected." By which they meant the totally untrained doctor doesn't know where the f*ck he's doing so it's taking forever.
And by untrained I mean he literally didn't know my a** from my hoo-ha. Fag, M.D. seriously tried to put the speculum in my a!us. While I know mine was probably the second hoo-ha he'd seen in his adult life, don't they teach you the difference in med school? When he finally managed to locate the moneyspot he ratcheted me open with all the finesse of a mechanic jacking up a car to change the tire.
It should have been no surprise then that he couldn't get the catheter into my cervix. I'm not even sure he knew what he was aiming for. He kept having the very nice nurse adjust the light. Maybe he was trying to find the helpful little captions with arrows like they have in the diagrams.
I swear the nurse was apologizing to me with her eyes the whole time. After ten minutes of Fag, M.D. trying to bludgeon his way into my cervix (all the while manhandling the speculum) he gave up and used some medieval-looking contraption to shoot the dye through the cervix into my uterus without the aid of a catheter.
Maybe I should say uteruses. Or uteri. Apparently I have two. Or maybe one that's folded over itself. Or a ridge. Or something. He didn't really know, and was so obviously trying to get away from me that I just let him run. He literally dashed out of the room.
So now I guess I have to make another appt with Dr. B. to find out what all this means.... TBC
First off the radiology department. Let me just say. I have had a better time in the lost and found department at the MTA. AT LEAST IT WAS WELL-LIT THERE-- and you got the sense that someone had been there in the last decade with a bottle of 409 and a paper towel. This place was so dingy, grimy, and underlit it really felt like a truck stop bathroom, or the bowels of Penn Station, behind the "Personnel ONLY" doors.
I registered in a room with a hand-lettered sign where sat a man with a foot-long combover and the posture of a life-long bus-driver for a special-ed school (maybe a
Then, upstairs I had to pee in a cup in the filthiest bathroom I have seen since my cross-country trip in college when a digestive emergency forced me to use one of those highway "rest stops". I swore up and down there was no way I could be pregnant, but they wanted the pee to prove it. Then I waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, when I met the Dr., he was a gym-rat gay boy who could not have been more than 27. (I have dubbed him Fag, M.D.) I think mine was seriously the second HSG Fag, M.D. had ever done-- I say second only because I know he did the one before me because when I went down to ask why I was waiting so long, they said "the patient before you is taking a little longer than expected." By which they meant the totally untrained doctor doesn't know where the f*ck he's doing so it's taking forever.
And by untrained I mean he literally didn't know my a** from my hoo-ha. Fag, M.D. seriously tried to put the speculum in my a!us. While I know mine was probably the second hoo-ha he'd seen in his adult life, don't they teach you the difference in med school? When he finally managed to locate the moneyspot he ratcheted me open with all the finesse of a mechanic jacking up a car to change the tire.
It should have been no surprise then that he couldn't get the catheter into my cervix. I'm not even sure he knew what he was aiming for. He kept having the very nice nurse adjust the light. Maybe he was trying to find the helpful little captions with arrows like they have in the diagrams.
I swear the nurse was apologizing to me with her eyes the whole time. After ten minutes of Fag, M.D. trying to bludgeon his way into my cervix (all the while manhandling the speculum) he gave up and used some medieval-looking contraption to shoot the dye through the cervix into my uterus without the aid of a catheter.
Maybe I should say uteruses. Or uteri. Apparently I have two. Or maybe one that's folded over itself. Or a ridge. Or something. He didn't really know, and was so obviously trying to get away from me that I just let him run. He literally dashed out of the room.
So now I guess I have to make another appt with Dr. B. to find out what all this means.... TBC
Above, my babies in their favorite pose.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Welcome to Troll Control. Your genuine thoughts are welcome. Please be patient if your comment doesn't appear immediately. I may be otherwise occupied.