Apparently My Lady Business Is None of My Business

Alison Rosen
Mon, 14 Jul 2014 21:00:00 -0700
Lifestyle

An annoying and frustrating thing just happened — the kind of annoying and frustrating thing that as a kid I didn't think would still be happening well into my adulthood: I allowed myself to be pushed around by an authority figure.

I'm a 39-year-old professional woman who should be able to hold her own. And yet there I was, on the phone with a doctor, and instead of asking the questions that have been collecting in my head for the past many days, the questions that were the reason for the early morning call, I instead turned into an agreeable 6 year old. I nodded and said thank you and agreed to come in for a consultation as soon as he can see me, which, if I recall, is in early 2017. Then I hung up the phone and wanted to throw it across the room given the burning questions that I didn't ask because he seemed rushed.

Allow me to explain. My husband and I are trying to get pregnant. Or I am. I didn't marry a seahorse.
Updated: Tue Jul 15, 2014

An annoying and frustrating thing just happened — the kind of annoying and frustrating thing that as a kid I didn't think would still be happening well into my adulthood: I allowed myself to be pushed around by an authority figure.

I'm a 39-year-old professional woman who should be able to hold her own. And yet there I was, on the phone with a doctor, and instead of asking the questions that have been collecting in my head for the past many days, the questions that were the reason for the early morning call, I instead turned into an agreeable 6 year old. I nodded and said thank you and agreed to come in for a consultation as soon as he can see me, which, if I recall, is in early 2017. Then I hung up the phone and wanted to throw it across the room given the burning questions that I didn't ask because he seemed rushed.

Allow me to explain. My husband and I are trying to get pregnant. Or I am. I didn't marry a seahorse.

Because I'm 39 and we've spent six months trying naturally — the recommended amount of time women over 35 are told to try before calling in the experts — and because I have endometriosis, which can cause infertility, we've taken it upon ourselves to get checked out at a fertility clinic.

I don't like doctors and I don't like clinics and I don't like hospitals and I don't like needles and I really don't like having blood drawn, which you have to have a lot of if you want to have a baby. It's as if you pay in blood. But this clinic was really nice and non-patronizing about my fear of having a needle in my vein — ugh, just typing the words makes me woozy — and even said reassuring stuff like, "Well, who likes having their blood drawn!" and gave me Starbursts and apple juice. All things considered, it was the best of the awful experiences I had. However, I then found out they forgot to do one of the tests so I had come back to have more blood drawn, and oops, they sent my files to the wrong person twice and were vaguely bitchy about it when I called to say it was weird that I hadn't received my files.

Then I had to have an HSG test, where they shoot dye up into your uterus so it'll show on an X-ray. This tests if your tubes are open and whether your uterus has been replaced with sneering jack-in-the-box. I was told some women find this test painful, which didn't delight me, but since there wasn't a needle involved, I was strangely calm.

"Hi, I'm Dr. C," said a doctor with a handshake that could crush a brick. She detailed all the things she was going to do. My brain did latch onto "feel a sharp pinch," but once the test was underway and I learned my tubes were in fact open but my uterus had a "filling defect," I was more focused more on what it all meant than the pain or discomfort, which was actually quite minor compared to what I was expecting.

Then I received a call late Friday — it went to voicemail before I had a chance to dive on it — from the doctor — not the doctor with the brick-crushing handshake but my doctor who is overseeing all this — listing a bunch of results and saying "your tubes and uterus don't look normal." I listened it to approximately 448 times, including playing it for other people to make sure I was hearing it right.

He suggested we make an appointment to talk about the results and he could show us the X-rays. I called to make an appointment. He's on vacation and the earliest he can see me is in two weeks.

I was fairly stuck on the fact that I thought my tubes were normal but he was saying they weren't normal and what does that mean and what's going on and huh?

Am I deformed? This is all my parents' fault. I was sure of it.

I called them to let them know they'd made a deformed daughter and my mom pointed out that if I were deformed and had one tube in the right place and another connected to my ear — or what have you — this would have been picked up by myriad of doctors before now.

The doctor finally called me this morning — he's on vacation and it was an awful connection — and I explained how I thought my tubes were normal but did he say they weren't? He said they were open, the dye went through them, but if he remembers correctly I had surgery on my ovary (this is true) so that had to be considered and my uterus cavity shape was abnormal and he recommends we come in for a consultation and he can show us the X-rays, OK?

"OK, thanks. Bye" I heard myself saying to my horror. If I wanted that kind of confusing information I could have just listened to the voicemail for the 449th time.

Things I wish I'd said: Wait, does this mean my tubes are or aren't normal? Do I have to have surgery? What do you recommend? Will I still be able to have a baby?

I had him on the phone! I could have asked! But he seemed rushed, so I just let him get off the phone and acted like this answered my question even though I have no way to reach him and won't see him for an eternity.

I haven't had this lack of closure since I was dating.