the fertility scan
by Leah Mele-Bazaz
Whenever I knew a doctor would be inside of me, I'd shower and shave as a courtesy like I was about to get laid, but not this time around. I had so much sex over the past year during my peak ovulation that I had no energy left. All I wanted to do was beg the fertility specialist, "What's wrong with me?"
I jogged over to the hospital since confined spaces like cabs weren't safe with the airborne pandemic. The early summer weather was humid and smoldering, and a translucent haze shimmered on the concrete. My legs cramped from the heat, and my clothes stuck to my skin. No one went to a hospital unless you were dying; they were at capacity with people from COVID-19. But I had to go, my husband and I had been trying to conceive for almost a year, and my negative pregnancy tests made me feel dead enough. As my OB-GYN said in a gentle voice the last time I had seen her, "No need to make you suffer any longer. Let's start the fertility process."
The suffering she was referring to was my bad luck. My first daughter, Laila, died late in utero, and I delivered her in a quiet room. Her pink skin was tinged purple, and her red lips I thought unique, were common in stillborn babies from lack of oxygen. My husband cried when he held her, and the doctors had explained this was all a one-percent chance. I was told I could have another baby, but I learned soon after that it would never replace her and that another pregnancy was never guaranteed.
First on that checklist was a hysterosalpingography scan, known as an "HSG" scan, to ensure my tubes weren't blocked. Until now, my infertility communications were conducted over the patient portal instead of in person. The practice prioritized monitoring pregnant women; the infertile ones were scheduled for telehealth.
When I arrived at the hospital's automatic doors, a burst of cold, stale air blew onto my face. As the nurse checked my temperature, a man behind me asked if this was where COVID-19 testing was done. I held my breath, fearing exposure.
"I'm here for an HSG scan," I said with the tight mask causing my glasses to fog up.
"That must not be right. We only do those on Thursdays," she replied. I saw her bloodshot eyes for a second before they focused back on the computer. It was Monday.
"But I have an appointment," I added.
"You must be looking for the fertility clinic. That's a few blocks down."
I didn’t want to push any further, knowing how overworked hospital workers have been, but I was annoyed that I walked into a hospital for no reason. I jogged the few blocks over to the fertility practice and for the first time, I was allowed inside. The receptionist looked surprised a person was inside the room; I was the only one there.
"I'm here for my HSG scan."
"We only do those at the hospital."
"The hospital said they only do them on Thursdays."
I walked back to the hospital. The same receptionist asked me to go back to the fertility clinic. I leaned over the desk closing in on the plastic barrier screen that protected the workers from particles.
"Can I have your direct line so you can talk to the front desk at fertility?"
Surprised by my directness, she wrote her number down on a yellow sticky note. At the fertility practice, I handed her the number and asked if she could call. She was also surprised. I took pride in my old-fashioned antics.
Finally, my appointment was confirmed. I returned to the hospital, soaking wet with sweat from my extra mile of running back and forth between the offices. Now that it was mid-morning, various patients entered the waiting room and were equally unnerved about being inside with a larger group. Another woman, like me, was scheduled for the wrong day. She was very irritated at the front desk, and when her appointment was confirmed, she sat near me with a designer bag on her lap. I wanted to ask her about this HSG procedure. I didn't know what to expect. But I refrained.
The nurse called me back. I stripped down into a gown, removed my sweat-soaked underwear, and stored these items in a locked cubby in a waiting room.
"When was the date of your last period?" the nurse asked as she entered the room to take my vitals.
"Two weeks ago," I mumbled under the mask.
"I need an exact date."
"One moment" I took out my phone and loaded the app that tracked my ovulation cycle. I gave her the exact date she was looking for. She had to confirm I wasn't pregnant since the procedure can be dangerous for a fetus; I had read that online.
"Good," the nurse said, looking pleased as she led me back into the room.
The room was a surgical room with sterile white walls and bright lights. I must not have read the paperwork sent over to me since I didn't realize the HSG scan was a procedure. I had imagined some X-Ray that would tell me about my inability to conceive.
A resident—younger, attractive, with an unrecognizable accent—joined in on the procedure.
The nurse returned before the male doctors began, keeping watch, so there was no funny business. You can never trust these men. The one time a nurse wasn't present when I was with a doctor was when I was in my early twenties. He opened up my patient gown and confirmed with his fingers, my Lymes disease bullseye rash on my breast. He then pried open my panties to make sure the rash didn't spread, although I told him it didn't, gently stroking me with his cold hands.
I laid on my back and spread my legs open as the old fertility doctor with white hair held a probe and apologized to me. "This will hurt. I'm sorry. You've been through enough pain," he said as he inserted the probe with a liquid contrast and moved it around inside of me to determine if there was any blockage in my fallopian tubes.
What an interesting time to apologize and recognize my pain, but I'd take any sympathetic doctor. I had a high pain tolerance, but I also tried to imagine a situation to make it less terrible as the cramps began. I wished it was the attractive resident doing this. My eyes shot over to him, seeing if he had any condolences to add to what the doctor said. He remained silent, and I couldn't make out an expression through his mask. The procedure still hurt.
Before I got changed, the nurse gave me a pad for the bleeding caused by the procedure. I had jogged to the appointment, but I sauntered the two miles home like an injured dog as I felt whatever liquid was inside me drain between my legs.
In the doctor's notes, there was no blockage in my fallopian tubes. Itsaid the patient had tolerated the procedure well. Some women even get pregnant after, as my mother did with me, but I didn't.
Leah Mele-Bazaz received her MFA from Drexel University, where she teaches rhetoric and composition. In 2020, she was selected as a finalist for the Southampton Review Nonfiction Prize, and has been published in Barren, Macro, and elsewhere. Her memoir Laila: Held for a Moment is forthcoming with Kat Biggie Press.