So, today was the day. H to the S to the G.
Got up our usual time but instead of heading to the gym, hubby shoved my face full of waffles and Special K so I could take my antibiotic and 2 extra strength Tylenol. Then off the hospital we go.
Hubby waited and read his Gogol. I stripped from the waist down and went to chill out in one of those chilly rooms with big X-ray type equipment. Doctor arrives. Utensils and tools get prepared. They clean off my cervix. Which frankly, I didn’t know was untidy, insert a huge ass needle full of dye (when I say huge I mean longer than my forearm.) Injection begins. I scream and yell because it hurts like nothing I have ever felt and I am absolutely blown away by the pain.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
I passed the F out.
Oh yes girls. Lights out. No one home. Apparently the nurse had to use smelling salts (no response), started pinching me (still no response) then started yelling my name, which I responded to with an annoyed, “what?!?”
I had no idea.
Once I came to, both my doctor and the nurse start laughing in relief because they thought I had gone into anaphalactic shock which, obviously, would have been no laughing matter. My doc stopped mid-injection when she realized my legs had gone totally limp but got enough dye up in there to complete the test. How can 10 cc’s wreak that much havoc?
The screen shows us that my uterus looks fine but instead of the shadowy bits where fallopian tubes and egg sacs should be, the dye spread across my whole lower abdomen making all kinds of Rorschach-type shapes, causing even more concern to doctor and nurse. They call the radiologist to have a look. Not only am I dripping in sweat and still reeling from the pain but now the thought that we just might need to rethink the whole donor egg thing is creeping into my mind faster than that bleeping radioactive dye into my abdomen.
Radiologist comes in, looks at the tape and says, ain’t no thing. I’ve seen it before. Dye just got absorbed into my veins. No big whoop. His nonchalance makes me almost joyful.
We spend the next twenty minutes waiting for my dizziness and nausea to subside enough for me to walk to the dressing room and get dressed. I feel bad because clearly these two women have better things to do than watch my eyes dilate and my face turn colors and I tell them this.
“I’m fine. I’m not dizzy anymore. I can go”
“Are you sure.”
“Yes.”
“Are you lying to me??”
“Yes. I think I need to lay down again.”
Bless their hearts, at this point now that they (and I) know that I am not going to go into cardiac arrest, they think it’s all very funny. My doc does me the disservice of telling me she’s never seen anyone pass out from the procedure before. Nurse agrees. My pride now hurts more than my throbbing gut. I tell them my hubby is waiting outside so I have a ride home and help in the dressing room if I need it. They say, oh, he could have come in while we were doing the procedure. I say, is that some kind of joke? Just how many packs of smelling salts do you have?
So sweet hubby and I drive home and I actually have about an hour to lay down before I need to leave for my three-day meeting. He brings me water and more Tylenol, my favorite stuffed animal and lots of hugs. He also acknowledges that he will not be able to complain about his allergies or any other kind of minor aches and pains for quite a while now.
Damn straight.
