Well. I can now add “vasovagal response” to my list of vocabulary words I never want to hear again.
Let me start from the beginning. First of all, the lady who rescheduled my HSG could actually do simple math, so my timing was perfect this month. I had my pregnancy test the day before, it was negative (nah, really?!?!), and so my appointment was confirmed at 4pm Friday, Sept. 18th.
My husband picked me up at 3:30, I took the 4 Motrin my doctor suggested (because the procedure is “uncomfortable,” mind you), and went to the appointment. I get there, they have me undress completely from the waist down, put on a hospital gown, and lay down on their x-ray slab. They prop a pillow under my head and under my butt and cover me with one of those super-sterile tissue paper “blankets”. So far, everything was well within the parameters of what I considered a “normal” medical procedure.
Then the fun started.
I’ve told you my concerns about male doctors and such messing around with female parts and pieces. Turns out, my concerns were justified.
The guy comes in, and he’s nice enough. He’s an older gentleman; he looks like he could be someone’s grandfather. He actually reminded me of Ducky from NCIS, which actually made me feel better. I mean, if you’re a 30-year-old male digging around in parts unknown, that’s one thing. But if you’re over the age of, say, 55…clearly you have a decade or two of experience with this sort of thing, right?
So I relax. Also, he’s chatting with me to get me more comfortable with what’s about to happen (just like Ducky!!!). I’m feeling better about everything. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
Famous last words.
He preps everything, which involves me scootching down the slab with my knees up. Then Mr. Radiologist Dude inserts the speculum – not comfortable, but we’ve all been there…just a little pressure. He then uses a gigantic cotton swab, like maybe something Shrek would use on his ears, to prep my cervix with iodine. Or bactine, or Lord only knows what. I’m not a medical professional. It was something orange that prevents infections. It could have been Tang for all I know.
Then he says something that will forever change the course of this appointment.
“Hrmm. It looks like your cervix is closed. Usually we’d send you back to your doctor to get you dilated…but let’s just see if we can work around that.”
Um, sure. Yeah. That sounds like a great idea.
I take a deep breath. How bad can it be, right?
I gotta quit it with the famous last words.
He proceeds to shove the medical equivalent of a garden hose through my closed cervix. Maybe it wasn’t that big, but Holy Mother of GOD the pain.
Imagine stomping on a lego. Then stubbing your toe on a pissed-off rattlesnake. Then falling headfirst into a bed of hot coals while being chomped on by an army of bullet ants.
This was worse.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. He asks, I kid you not, “you okay up there?” and I couldn’t even answer him because MY ENTIRE BODY WAS PARALYZED FROM PAIN AND I COULDN’T SPEAK.
Everything flashed hot, then cold, I broke out in a sweat, and when he asked again, “um, should I stop?” I was finally able to croak out a pathetic little “no!”
BECAUSE NO WAY IN HELL WAS I GOING THROUGH THIS AGAIN.
Finally it’s over, and he removes the garden hose and everything else he’s crammed up there. Then he tells me I can go change.
The next thing I remember, I’m lying on the floor in the changing room/bathroom. I don’t remember getting there, and I don’t remember getting my pants back on. I’m sweating, I literally can’t see – all I can see is a little tiny sliver of too-bright fluorescence surrounded by a field of black. When I manage to get up and stumble back to the x-ray slab, I barely make it. His assistant catches me, lays me on the slab while yelling for Mr. Radiologist Dude.
Then she grabs a blood pressure monitor.
Then they decide they need to call Quincy in there. Someone exclaims I’m white as a ghost and sweating. Now they’re talking about calling paramedics. Oh, joy.
Quincy looks at me and doesn’t even crack a joke, so I know I must look like hell. Mr. Radiologist Dude, in his ever-jovial demeanor, exclaims, “looks like you’re having a vasovagal response. It’ll pass in a bit. Here, have some pedialyte.” Not joking. They gave me baby diarrhea water.
For those non-medical types like me out there, let me explain something to you about vasovagal responses: they occur when your entire freaking body shuts down as a result of intense trauma. Ya know, like when some dingbat shoves a tail pipe up your hoohoo and squirts radioactive dye into your girlie parts.
So. Word of advice. If your doctor ever refers to an HSG procedure as “uncomfortable,” you have my permission to bitch-slap her. She’s a dirty liar.
Secondly, if you have concerns about someone without a vagina poking around in yours…follow your gut. Wait for someone who knows what the hell it feels like down there.
Third, if your technician ever says “hrmm…” while looking inside your hoohoo, close your knees, girl, and run like hell.
Next time we’ll talk about the extra-long twin mattresses they have you wear out of there cause you’re seeping all kinds of strangeness. I had to duck-walk to our car. Ya know, once my blood pressure rose above “Dracula” and I drank my baby diarrhea water.
My Stork Got Lost 