Here we are. November 2016. I’ve never felt worse than I currently did on Metformin. In addition to the other symptoms I mentioned, I also couldn’t eat. I was in a constant state of nausea and “fuck this shit” because I felt so terrible. It’s like walking into your favorite restaurant absolutely STARVING, ordering your usual, taking two bites, and feeling full. Or in medical speak, early satiety.
And to top things off, it was time for the next SHG (sonohysterogram for refresher).
I had been to other clinics, and by far the set up for this clinic was not my favorite. On procedure days, you arrive, check in, and sit in a waiting room with other couples waiting for their names to be called. The women are the only ones allowed downstairs. For simple tests like an SHG, it’s not a big deal. Other times, it is.
When your name is called, you give your significant other a kiss, and head down The Elevator. The procedural area is in the basement, and it is 100% always freezing. First stop is the locker room on the right. You’re given a key, and the rest is already in the locker. The routine is:
- No jewelry
- No undergarments
- No socks
- No contacts
- No perfume
- No makeup
In the locker is a hair net, little paper booties for your feet, and a hospital grade gown. The little paper booties always pissed me off. The last clinic I had been to at least gave out the typical socks you get in a medical setting that had the grippers on the bottom. These booties did nothing. My feet froze constantly. I sat there numerous times thinking “You’re about to do things to my body that I would rather not think about, and the least you could do is keep my feet warm.”
I digress. (Point being, I don’t like my feet being cold. You’ll be hard pressed to catch my feet bare unless it’s warm out.)
Once you change, you’re set in a chair among other women waiting to go back to the operating room. The nurses station is in the middle of the room, which is set up in a U-shape. The left side is patients waiting to be seen, with rows of recovery chairs along the front wall, and recovery beds on the right side. The set-up is very systematic, but I’m anxious. Even for a simple test I wish my husband was with me. Time passes, and I’m called back. For something this simple, I get to walk back to the operating room.
I mentioned before that this test involves saline in the uterus to check for abnormalities. What I left out, was that usually you are spread eagle in a hospital gown, in front of a group of people. While – yes, it’s the staff’s job to smile kindly at you, it doesn’t change the fact that you are completely vulnerable. Exposed. But for an infertile, it’s common – though the embarrassment never goes away.
Ridiculous things became routine to me. Shaving my legs and lady bits, because I’m self conscious. Carrying deodorant in my purse, because I can’t wear it to the clinic. We usually had a pillow and blanket in the car because I either had to be up at the crack of dawn to get to the clinic on time for a test, or I needed moral support for the beating my downstairs just took from a surgery. Usually, it was the latter. We knew where every restaurant was within minutes of the clinic so I could eat. The clinic was an hour (and usually a half, with traffic) from home, and if I had surgery, I had to arrive in a fasting state. And most people near me know – I’m NOT a pleasant person when I’m hungry. Even less so when I’m now fresh out of surgery, in pain, violated, and hormotional. (Hormonal + Emotional).
Stay tuned for the next part.