Yesterday sucked. That may not be the most elegant statement I have ever made, but it sums up how my day went. It absolutely and utterly sucked.
Every month that Brett and I undergo fertility treatment I must get an ultrasound to determine if the medications worked and if and when we should try to procreate. (Sidenote: Brett and I have been trying to have kids for almost three years, but we have only had medical assistance since November 2017. See this post for more info about this journey this far.) These ultrasounds are internal, and if you are a lady, you know those type of tests, the ones inside of our lady parts, are the least comfortable.
I've had these tests done multiple times, but what they have noticed every since my surgery last January, where they removed my swollen left fallopian tube, is one of my ovaries is hard to visualize. My left ovary hides, and I have been asked more than once if I had it removed. No, I haven't. I have both my ovaries, just one tube. Already, I am irritated because the reminder that I have only part of my reproductive system fills me with anger and grief.
Anyways, my left ovary, I guess, is tucked up under my intestines, which makes it really hard to find. My ultrasound technician has found it more than once, but in order to locate it, she has to push on my stomach and stick the ultrasound wand up farther than it should go. It is painful to say the least.
So yesterday, I went down to the Mayo Clinic on my extra day off to go have my ultrasound. It is at 7:15 in the morning, so we woke up at 5:00 to go down to Rochester. And just like every other time, my one ovary is hard to find. Push, move, push and still she cannot find it. But, she has an idea. A logical and wonderful idea. Maybe she can visualize the ovary using an external ultrasound on my belly.
To paint you a picture, I am on my back with my sweater on and no pants on top of a table. My feet are in stir-ups, and a white sheet is the only thing covering the bottom half of my body while I hold a clipboard, where I write down numbers the technician tells me. This is how every ultrasound goes. To do the external ultrasound, she switches devices, lubes up the new wand that has a wide flat surface, and tells me to pull the sheet down and move my sweater up. She presses the new device under my belly that hangs down like an apron over the front of my body. The ultrasound digs into the crease underneath that fatty flap, and suddenly, my skin down there feels like it is burning. It really hurts, and I don't understand why. I wonder if the lubricant on the ultrasound wand was too hot. They warm that stuff up sometimes, don't they? Finally, in frustration, she says, "I guess we just aren't going to see that one today," and she hands me a washcloth to wipe the goo off my stomach.
But when I do, blood appears on the white cloth.
I head into the bathroom to clean myself up, wondering why I am bleeding, and as I look into the mirror, I now know why there is blood. The burning sensation was her ripping open the thin, sensitive skin underneath my stomach where now a straight line of about three inches is bleeding. There are little holes dotted along where the skin was stretched and ripped open. Think of stretching saran wrap or pastry dough until it begins to rip in the middle.
Not only do I feel sad and frustrated at this whole experience, I feel mortified that I am bleeding underneath my belly flap. I am standing there holding paper towel after paper towel, hoping to stop the bleeding. But it doesn't work, and now I need supplies to bandage up my new wound. I stuck my head around the door, hiding my pant-less bottom half and asked for a bandage. She grabs me two and asks if I had a sore down there because she noticed blood on the ultrasound wand. I did not, and I know this because I check that area frequently. It's an area that can get rashes or infections easily, so I am vigilant on keeping it clean. I'm a fat woman with a hormone problem; I know how to take care of myself.
I close the door and try to clean myself up. Will these bandages stick if I put them on fast enough? How long until this stops bleeding on its own? The tears roll down my face; I wipe them away quickly. The blood won't stop no matter how much paper towel I use, and finally, the technician asks me if I want to see a nurse.
A kind face comes around the corner and into the bathroom with me. Now, I must pull down my pants again and lift up my belly for this new stranger, while she kneels delicately on the floor and looks at my disgusting stomach. She is blonde, young and thin, and the contrast between herself and me is blinding. All I can do is stand there, hold up my fat while she bandages it with gauze, and try not to start sobbing.
I'm bandaged, clothed, and now I can leave. I walk down the sterile hallway and out into the lobby looking at the floor. My husband's concerned eyes stare at me, but I cannot meet his gaze. Later I tell him. I will explain everything later once we are out of the Eisenberg building, the underground subway tunnels, and the parking garage.
When we are completely alone, I finally speak and cry the rest of the way home.
My next ultrasound is at the end of this week.
Every month that Brett and I undergo fertility treatment I must get an ultrasound to determine if the medications worked and if and when we should try to procreate. (Sidenote: Brett and I have been trying to have kids for almost three years, but we have only had medical assistance since November 2017. See this post for more info about this journey this far.) These ultrasounds are internal, and if you are a lady, you know those type of tests, the ones inside of our lady parts, are the least comfortable.
I've had these tests done multiple times, but what they have noticed every since my surgery last January, where they removed my swollen left fallopian tube, is one of my ovaries is hard to visualize. My left ovary hides, and I have been asked more than once if I had it removed. No, I haven't. I have both my ovaries, just one tube. Already, I am irritated because the reminder that I have only part of my reproductive system fills me with anger and grief.
Anyways, my left ovary, I guess, is tucked up under my intestines, which makes it really hard to find. My ultrasound technician has found it more than once, but in order to locate it, she has to push on my stomach and stick the ultrasound wand up farther than it should go. It is painful to say the least.
So yesterday, I went down to the Mayo Clinic on my extra day off to go have my ultrasound. It is at 7:15 in the morning, so we woke up at 5:00 to go down to Rochester. And just like every other time, my one ovary is hard to find. Push, move, push and still she cannot find it. But, she has an idea. A logical and wonderful idea. Maybe she can visualize the ovary using an external ultrasound on my belly.
To paint you a picture, I am on my back with my sweater on and no pants on top of a table. My feet are in stir-ups, and a white sheet is the only thing covering the bottom half of my body while I hold a clipboard, where I write down numbers the technician tells me. This is how every ultrasound goes. To do the external ultrasound, she switches devices, lubes up the new wand that has a wide flat surface, and tells me to pull the sheet down and move my sweater up. She presses the new device under my belly that hangs down like an apron over the front of my body. The ultrasound digs into the crease underneath that fatty flap, and suddenly, my skin down there feels like it is burning. It really hurts, and I don't understand why. I wonder if the lubricant on the ultrasound wand was too hot. They warm that stuff up sometimes, don't they? Finally, in frustration, she says, "I guess we just aren't going to see that one today," and she hands me a washcloth to wipe the goo off my stomach.
But when I do, blood appears on the white cloth.
I head into the bathroom to clean myself up, wondering why I am bleeding, and as I look into the mirror, I now know why there is blood. The burning sensation was her ripping open the thin, sensitive skin underneath my stomach where now a straight line of about three inches is bleeding. There are little holes dotted along where the skin was stretched and ripped open. Think of stretching saran wrap or pastry dough until it begins to rip in the middle.
Not only do I feel sad and frustrated at this whole experience, I feel mortified that I am bleeding underneath my belly flap. I am standing there holding paper towel after paper towel, hoping to stop the bleeding. But it doesn't work, and now I need supplies to bandage up my new wound. I stuck my head around the door, hiding my pant-less bottom half and asked for a bandage. She grabs me two and asks if I had a sore down there because she noticed blood on the ultrasound wand. I did not, and I know this because I check that area frequently. It's an area that can get rashes or infections easily, so I am vigilant on keeping it clean. I'm a fat woman with a hormone problem; I know how to take care of myself.
I close the door and try to clean myself up. Will these bandages stick if I put them on fast enough? How long until this stops bleeding on its own? The tears roll down my face; I wipe them away quickly. The blood won't stop no matter how much paper towel I use, and finally, the technician asks me if I want to see a nurse.
A kind face comes around the corner and into the bathroom with me. Now, I must pull down my pants again and lift up my belly for this new stranger, while she kneels delicately on the floor and looks at my disgusting stomach. She is blonde, young and thin, and the contrast between herself and me is blinding. All I can do is stand there, hold up my fat while she bandages it with gauze, and try not to start sobbing.
I'm bandaged, clothed, and now I can leave. I walk down the sterile hallway and out into the lobby looking at the floor. My husband's concerned eyes stare at me, but I cannot meet his gaze. Later I tell him. I will explain everything later once we are out of the Eisenberg building, the underground subway tunnels, and the parking garage.
When we are completely alone, I finally speak and cry the rest of the way home.
My next ultrasound is at the end of this week.
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