"So how did it go?" my husband asked, pushing himself out of his seat as I approached. There was a slight ache in my abdomen, but I tried to walk with a steady, even stride as my shoes squeaked along the slick hospital floor.
I'd just gotten an HSG—a hysterosalpingogram—an x-ray procedure performed to determine whether the fallopian tubes are open, and to see if the shape of the uterine cavity is normal. Lying back on a table, my feet in stirrups and an oversized paper towel covering my torso and upper body, iodine had been squirted up through my cervix. The doctor had then rocked me back and forth, so as to spread the liquid evenly throughout my lady-organs.
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I had been told I might experience mild cramping. In reality, it had been more painful than that, and I'd focused desperately on my breath for five, endless minutes, wishing for it to be over. Now I was wearing a maxi pad in my underpants, placed there to catch the ink that would spill out of me for the next several hours, much like menstrual blood.
At least it was over. Still, I sighed. "Everything looks good," I said. We wound our way toward the exit. I stared at the tiled floor as we walked, squinting my eyes as we finally pushed through the revolving doors and out into the sunlight.
"Well, that's good," he said. "Right?"
I was quiet for a few moments as we made our way to the car. I wasn't sure how to answer. "Is it?" I finally asked.
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Our first trip to the fertility center had occurred only several months before. After one-and-a-half years of fruitless (and awkward) babymaking sex, we had decided it was time to move forward with Plan B and seek out fertility testing. It was a big step. After all, not so long ago, we had been on the brink of separation, in part because of our frustrated efforts at procreation. Keep reading...
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