Thursday, July 23, 2009

A Woman in her Thirties Has No Time for Modesty

Warning: This entry is not suitable for boys or people who can't say the word 'vagina' with a straight face.

The series of events leading up to the miscarriage last month revealed a friendly fibroid tumor that has been living in my uterus. Apparently he'd been there for awhile thinking he'd found a great place to settle down, and when I got pregnant he was like, 'Oh, what? I thought this place was mine...' So not only am I in the miscarriage club, I'm also in the non-cancerous tumor club. There's a bouncer and everything.

The wonderfully thorough doctors I have suggested I do a procedure called an HSG, which is short for Hysterosalpingogram, and yes, I had to look up how to spell that. An HSG is usually done when women have trouble getting pregnant, to make sure there is no blockage in the fallopian tubes, but in my case it was done to analyze my intruder and make sure he didn't need to be kicked out of my uterus before his lease was up. I was to follow that up with another ultrasound, which would bring me to a total of five in the last four months. If my uterus could talk, it would demand some privacy from what it must see as some annoying paparazzi.

Today was my day for both procedures. The HSG was done in a small room like what you see on 'A Baby Story', and as I lay there three pairs of eyes glared at my nether parts and barked orders.

'Bring your feet closer to your hips. Now let your knees fall outward. And relax!'

How do you not laugh when your MALE doctor says that? If I wasn't in such a compromising position, one that made me appreciate all the yoga I've been doing lately, I might have done just that.

I thought about explaining the procedures in this entry, and then realized that would be incredibly boring. Instead, I would like to make a list of all the foreign objects that have been inserted into my vagina today:

One clamp
One catheder
Lots of purple dye
A small blue balloon
Something that looked like a string
Something that looked like a mini turkey baster
A large white probe
Enough lube to keep a car engine running for weeks

Look, I know this isn't the pretty woman in her thirties picture I thought I'd be painting when I began this blog. I always thought a woman in her thirties should avoid talking about such things. But I'm too busy with the mountain of craziness going on around me to worry about such embarassement. A woman in her thirties figures out that discomfort, like love, is better when shared.

4 comments:

  1. Life, in general, is better when shared. So thank you for sharing!

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  2. Purple dye? A blue balloon??? Your poor, poor V! :) Glad it's all over and you can move on.

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  3. Modesty, shmodesty. Do you have the results, yet? What's the next step?

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  4. Monologue away! That's a story for the ages.

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