My Hysterosalpingogram

There are four expectations that are imbued onto each of us at birth. We are all expected to go to school, get a job, get married and have children. When any of those expectations are not achieved, you can bet you will hear about it from the loved ones in your life.

When my husband and I got married we expected we would be parents within a year. However, month after month passed and I was still not pregnant. This was devastating because there was nothing more I wanted in the world than to have my own family. My biological clock was ticking away with every beat of my heart and I worried all my good eggs were going. Every 28 days I approached the toilet with trepidation. Were the symptoms I was experiencing part of my regular cycle, or were they signs I was pregnant? I'd have my answer in a moment when I would wipe away the menstrual blood from my crotch. "Maybe next month," I'd think with false optimism, but with each passing month that possibility dimmed a little more. I grew increasingly frustrated and this was fueled by the advice offered to me by my family and friends.

"Count to 14 days after your period starts, and mark it on the calendar. That's when women tend to ovulate. You and Matt can have sex then."

"Check your vaginal discharge. When it's heavy and sticky that's a sign you're ovulating."

"After Matt ejaculates either elevate your pelvic region or lay upside-down for 20 minutes to help keep the sperm flowing upward to the egg."

I didn't want people talking to me about my or my husband's body fluids. I didn't need them to offer sex positions; what we do in our bedroom was between us. If we weren't smart enough to figure out the proper way to have sex then we wouldn't be smart enough to raise children. After all, conception is not rocket science; you just need to fuck and get pregnant.

Our insurance company was willing to pay for any and all fertility testing after a year of trying. They would pay only for the testing, however, not the treatment should something awry be discovered. When the year was up we were anxious to be tested. What was wrong with us? Could it be fixed? Would I ever feel a little life growing inside my belly? Would I ever experience the glory of motherhood? Matt and I were also tired of receiving the continuous flow of suggestions from out dear family and friends. Advice which was given to us with the certainty it was the miracle solution. As the year progressed, the suggestions got a little more ridiculous.

"Make sure Matt only wears boxers."

"Stop thinking about it. It will happen when you least expect it."

"Eat less dairy, Alyson."

"Wear a fertility pendant."

"Put a pink elephant under your bed or a pearl under your pillow."

Perhaps I should slaughter a chicken and drink its blood, too? This mumbo-jumbo voodoo wasn't going to impregnate me.

I got tested first, and underwent a hysterosalpingogram. It was with excited optimism that I arrived at the doctor's office, because I knew he would tell me what was going wrong. Once we knew what was wrong, we could correct the problem. I was actually in high spirits because this would bring about the positive change we needed. After this, I knew Matt and I would be on the road to conception.

A nurse brought me into a changing room and handed me a jonnie. She instructed me to dress in that and place my clothes in the locker. I removed my clothes and slipped the dressing gown over my body, tying the stubby strings together as tightly as possible so my backside wouldn't flap open and expose my ass to everyone in the hospital.

I was told to bring my purse with me so my valuables wouldn't be stolen.

"Seeing as how I'm not wearing any pants," I said, "my definition of 'valuable' certainly has a different meaning."

The nurse didn't enjoy this joke as much as I did. Instead, she somberly gestured me down the hall. I walked toward my destination in slip-resistant socks, my purse hanging from my shoulder, and my right hand desperately trying to clutch shut my half-open dressing gown. The room to where I was led was dark, as though I had entered a theater just before the movie began to play. The room had pale yellow-tiled walls and an examination table sat cold in the center of the room.  It was draped with a single crisp white sheet, hiding the levers and gears underneath.  A computer monitor shined in sleep mode with bright darkness. Colorful wiring and tubes spiraled out from beside and underneath and climbed web-like up to the ceiling. I was a little fly, ready to be caught within the delicate design of this machine.  In the right hand corner of the room was another little room fitted with an enormous window. Through the window I could see panels of keyboards and lit buttons. Clearly, that room was mission control. I was asked to lie on the bed, put my feet in the stirrups, scoot down and relax.

Yeah, relax.

Three nurses and one doctor were present during the procedure. Two nurses sat at mission control, the other stood by my side and the doctor stood facing my womanhood ready to dive in and perform the test. She inserted a devise that, without any exaggeration, resembled a dipstick with a balloon fastened to the end. The dipstick was inserted into me. It passed through my cervix and continued into my uterus where the balloon inflated and iodine poured out from the tube.

I suppose, next to actually giving birth, this was probably the most painful experience I would ever have to go through. When the balloon expanded a vicious pain, so sharp I thought I would vomit, shot through every inch of my body unlike anything I ever felt before. I negotiated with God at that moment. I promised I'd stop messing with his divinity if he would please, please, make the pain go away. 'I take it all back,' I thought, 'I don't want children anymore.' I felt a tap on my shoulder. The nurse at my side was telling me I needed to breathe. I nodded and exhaled, then realized my face was streaked with tears. I wondered what other tasks my body had performed, or failed to perform, unbeknownst to me. That's when the specialist burst in.

"Hello," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Let's take a look at what we've got here." The computer monitor was flicked on. After a brief glimpse he announced to the room that my fallopian tubes looked fine. "No blockage. You should have no trouble getting pregnant."

'Obviously, dickhead, I am having trouble,' I thought.

The specialist looked down at me as I lay splayed on the Frankenstein bed and saw my tear-streaked face, which must have shown a conglomeration of anger, anguish, embarrassment and despondence. No blockage? Then why wasn't I getting pregnant? What happens now? He patted my shoulder in a feeble attempt to soften my despair. No words could encapsulate what I was feeling, and no words could make me feel better. His gesture, unlike the false optimism give by family and friends, was at least real. He left the room as quickly as he had arrived. The woman doctor slipped the dipstick out from my vagina and laid it unceremoniously on a wheeled metal table. She left the room along with two of the nurses. The nurse who stood by my side reminding me to breathe walked me back to the changing room. She handed me a maxi pad as thick as a mattress, pulled closed the vinyl curtain and asked if there was anything I needed.

"No," I choked out as strongly as I could. She walked away and I waited until the sounds of her footsteps were no longer audible before I started to cry.