My Journey to the Mommy Club: Horrible Tests & Steadfast Trust
”Hi this is the hospital calling to pre-register you for your appointment tomorrow.”
Awesome I casually think, because, pshht, I got this. I’ve done the research, Dr. Google answered all my questions in full. Phrases like “mild cramping” and “slight discomfort” we’re passed around. Nothing a strong dose of ibuprofen can’t fix.
“Do you have any other questions?” the lady registering me asks.
My gut prompts me… “Well, I guess since I have you on the phone, could I speak with someone just to run through the procedure?”
I’m connected to the tech and she runs through the procedure. She’s so sweet I kinda wanna see if she wants to be besties… Then she says the word… The word I have been happy dancing that I haven’t heard… Balloon. My brain comes to a screeching halt and I feel the skin pricks of sweat on my neck… “What do you mean balloon” I manage to stammer out.
She explains in depth…
OH.
EM.
GEE.
I begin to process the words coming out of this ladies pie-hole that just two minutes ago I wanted to hug through the phone because she was so sweet and helpful…
Now she’s talking about inflating a balloon inside my WHERE?!
Maybe this chick (who I no longer want to be besties with) didn’t get the memo that balloons are meant for birthday parties and graduations. They are meant to celebrate happy festive things… How do I tell this lady that my lady parts are happy and festive enough and I don’t need a balloon anywhere near my cervix?! And while we are on the topic, I am confident balloon and cervix should never be said in the same sentence… Like in the history of ever.
Fast Forward to Thursday afternoon.
We check into the hospital and I get a fancy wristband. Officially admitted. I am starting to feel anxious… Even the Ativan isn’t quelling this feeling.
They lead me to the changing room to get into procedure attire. Nothing screams sexy like hospital gowns and grippy socks. I count my blessings because at least this gown is cloth and won’t rip in the butt when I sit down. It’s the little things in life.
I pace the little waiting room as I wait for the nurse to take me in.
Hubbz is waiting in the hall for me. My breath starts to quicken, he sees this, grabs my already sweaty hand and squeezes it. We are led into the room. Hubbz is given a purple paisley smock- My husband is the sexiest man I’ve ever met who can rock purple paisley… #truestory, I digress.
The room is dark, the table is cold and hard. What follows is the most painful experience I have had in my entire life. It was more painful than any of my surgeries. The pain literally took my breath away. I conjured up my most zen yoga breaths and I prayed as the pain washed through my most precious parts. Hubbz wiped the tears as they fell and when I let out a noise that was a cross between a moan and a yell he let me grip his arm so tight that I left a mark. Soon after it began, it was over. I was shaking, sweating and had tear stains down my face. The nurse said I looked pale and told me to just sit for a moment and catch my breath.
The doctor showed us the real-time results- everything looked perfect. (Praise you, Jesus, a million times over!!!) I was ushered to the bathroom with legs that were still shaky to clean up and then the nurse brought me back to the changing room.
It was alone in the changing room that I was able to finally sit and collect myself. It was in this confusion and uncertainty that I sat in silence focusing on my breaths and letting my thoughts come.
God, I don’t know why this is happening. I’m not questioning you- I trust you. I just don’t know why this is my story. God I know you will make this good. I just don’t know why I have to go through this.
In a moment of clarity I got my answer.
It’s your story because it will make a difference.
It’s your story because there are people who need to hear it.
It’s your story because I know you will tell it.
And just like that, my heart was steadied and the worst physical pain I have ever endured had a purpose- And in that purpose I can rest my weary heart.
