It started most innocuously. Being ever-aware of the gross over-use of diagnostic imaging by healthcare practitioners forced to cover their asses, or (perhaps more cynically) who have a financial partnership with an imaging center, I first shrugged off Dr. M's suggestion to get an MRI of the 'ute to rule out an endometriosis-like condition of the uterine muscle. But a few days later, the hubs and I had decided we'd dealt with the unknown long enough, and that we at least wanted to rule out this possibility. I scheduled myself an MRI.
On an ordinary Tuesday, I went NPO after lunch, saw a busy afternoon of patients, fought beltway traffic, and arrived early for my appointment. I turned in the detailed patient questionnaire--it even asked for the date of my last period, or if I could be pregnant. I scribbled "highly unlikely" beside that question. I suppose it was possible, just as winning the multi-state PowerBall Lotto drawing was possible. However, the past three years of unsuccessful attempts to have a baby with the latest technology and thousands of out-of-pocket dollars of medication had resulted in the conclusion that I couldn't get pregnant using my own eggs. Period.
A moment later, a young assistant informed me they couldn't do the MRI based on the date of my last period, as there was a chance I could be pregnant. I smiled and laughed off her silliness. I'm infertile, I explained. Let me talk to your superior. I was shuffled to a back room to speak with a radiology tech. Surely someone with some sort of medical experience would agree with me, and we'd laugh it off together as healthcare practitioners. She arrived with a fake tan, bleach blonde hair, and a reflective nude lipstick reminiscent of something I had in my Esprit purse circa 1988. She explained to me that I would need a pregnancy test before I had the MRI. I said I was happy to take one. Unfortunately, their office didn't do them on-site. I offered to get an HPT at CVS and come back. No-go. The test had to be a blood test, and it had to be ordered by the referring physician. "Why wasn't I told this!" (I was sounding frantic now.) She said I should have been told when I scheduled the appointment. Which, of course, I wasn't.
Not that Fake Tan could have predicted a situation like mine, but I feel at some point along the way, there has to be a point where the clinician reaches out to the patient. A hand on the shoulder. An "I know you must be so frustrated." A simple but appropriate "I'm sorry." I got nothing from Fake Tan. Could I have paused time at that moment, I would have gently--and firmly--suggested to Fake Tan the following: Do not turn away an infertile woman from an MRI to find the cause of her infertility because she "might be pregnant." It's going to to over as well as a physical assault.
Clearly she didn't understand what I was saying. A panicky feeling rose in my throat. I explained to her the ridiculousness of the situation, that my ovaries no longer produced eggs with a chance of viability, that we'd thrown away tens of thousands of dollars in the past few years to find that out. (Oh, no, quiver in voice.) That I'd recently had a surgery cancelled at the last second--I said this while gesturing frantically towards the bruise on back of my hand, proclaiming "they cancelled it after I'd had the IV in for over an hour!" (Eyes welling up, starting to loose whatever semblance of being a rational adult was left.)
Once the tears had started in earnest, I blurted "I want to talk to whoever's in charge here." To which Fake Tan responded "I am in charge." I asked her to contact the radiologist on call, which she did reluctantly out of my earshot (I wonder if she even called, or if she prefaced the call with "I have a crazy lady here..."), and returned shaking her head again.
At this point the rejection of being infertile and the failures of the past three years culminated into what seemed the unbearable, and my crying elevated into sobbing. I could only stand there, alone, with Fake Tan staring blankly at me. There was no one with me, no hubs to quietly take Fake Tan by the arm and explain to her that this one straw had, in fact, broken the camel's back. Fake Tan assured me she would get me scheduled again as soon as possible. But the damage was done. I was a mess, miles away from home, alone, and felt utterly defeated.
And then she said the words "if you'll just calm down, I can help you get rescheduled." If I could have paused time again, I would have screamed this time: "Do not tell an infertile lady (the one who just got rejected again, this time the by radiology department) to calm down, YOU BLAME FOOL!" But I was too emotionally beat-down at that point to respond to her comment in any way.
She led me, still sobbing, to the front desk to reschedule. I went through half a box of Kleenex trying to contain my tears to the facial area while re-scheduling my visit. All the while an elderly woman watched from the waiting room, looking rather alarmed. The receptionist looked like a deer in the headlights. She wore the same expression when she looked up from her desk a few days later, when I stepped back into the office (with a piece of paper proclaiming that I was, in fact, a non-pregnant female) and met her eye. I had to smile a little. I had become THAT patient. The crazy one.
In my years as a clinician, I've seen "crazies." But mostly, I've seen regular folks who had a bad day, had suffered for too long, or were just plain overwhelmed. And for those days, I hold hands, I hug, I pass Kleenex, I listen. I'm glad I'm that kind of clinician. Maybe my fake-tanned radiology technician just had a bad day herself. Thankfully, she wasn't there when I returned. The MRI showed no signs of adenomyosis. It seemed an unnecessarily difficult hurdle, but we could move forward.
