Lights flicked on automatically, revealing a space exactly as the nurse had described it. Sterile and functional with a rolling bed and miscellaneous medical equipment, but a vibe that was much more chic than what you’d find at a hospital.
The nurse waved to the folded cloth gown at the end of the bed. “We’re going to need you to get completely undressed. Youcan put your clothes in this plastic bag.” She patted the bag beside the gown. “Okay?”
Maybe I should have been grateful that she’d framed it as a question, but since I had no choice, it irritated me, and my response was curt. “Yeah.”
If the nurse noticed my annoyance, she didn’t react before saying, “Good. We’ll step out while you do that, then I can get you set up with an IV.”
“We’ll be right outside,” Hilary reiterated, possibly trying to reassure me but instead infuriating me even more.
Once they left, I did as I was told, undressing and stuffing my things into the bag before tossing it on a nearby chair. Then I climbed into the bed to wait. The room was chilly, making me wish for a blanket when goose bumps popped up on my bare legs. I looked around, and not seeing one, pulled the gown down as low as it would go. It didn’t cover enough, and even if it had, my arms would still be exposed. My teeth were chattering in seconds.
I was rubbing my arms when a low knock sounded and the nurse asked, “You ready for me?”
“Yes,” I said just loud enough that she would be able to hear me through the closed door.
It opened and, seeing me shivering, the nurse gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’s always so cold here.”
Hilary stepped in as the nurse hurried across the room. She retrieved a blanket from a metal cabinet, which I realized once she’d spread it across me was a warmer. The fabric was stiff and not all that thick but felt like it had just come out of the dryer. I instantly felt better.
After that, the nurse was all business. She checked my blood pressure and temperature, asked if I needed to use the bathroom – I did not – then started my IV, all the while telling me what to expect while Hilary hung out by the door.
“I know this is last minute,” the nurse said as she clipped a pulse ox monitor on the index finger of my right hand, “but you shouldn’t be scared. This is a routine surgery, and the recovery time will be fast.”
“How fast?” I asked.
“One to two weeks total.” The nurse made a notation in her tablet before continuing. “But if you don’t overexert yourself, it could be much shorter. You can use your best judgement about what you can and can’t handle.”
“Within reason,” Hilary, who was busily scribbling on a paper I assumed I’d have to sign, broke in as she came over to join us. “You need to remember the ultimate goal here.”
The nurse ground her teeth, but I wasn’t sure if she was annoyed by the interruption or the implication that the Department of Fertility’s agenda was more important than my health. Either way, it made me like her. And feel like I had an ally against Hilary.
“As I was saying,” the nurse went on, not glancing toward Hilary, “it’s minor surgery, but you will have some cramping as your uterus returns to its normal size, as well as some bleeding and discharge for a week or possibly two. In two weeks, you should come back so the doctor can check everything is okay, and we’ll continue to monitor your hCG levels with bloodwork. If everything goes as planned, we can restart you in the program in six weeks. Questions?”
Since I didn’t have any, I said, “No.”
“Good.”
Hilary had been making notes as the nurse spoke, but once she was done, my fertility counselor held the stack of papers out and said, “You know the drill.”
I did.
I had to extract my arms from the confines of the blanket to take them, and once I had, I skimmed the words printed on the pages as well as the notations Hilary had made. As usual, she’d missed nothing. When I was satisfied I’d gotten the gist of what the forms said, I initialed and signed where necessary, then handed them back to Hilary.
Once my fertility counselor had them, the nurse said, “I’ll see if the doctor is ready.”
The rest of the process went by in a blur. My bed being wheeled into the operating room, and the doctor and anesthesiologist going over the same things the nurse and I hadalready discussed, each of them making sure I had no questions. Then the anesthesiologist hooked me up to an IV via the port the nurse had inserted into my hand.
“We’ll start the anesthesia in a second,” he said.
Unable to find my voice, I focused on the ceiling – where there was thankfully no cheesy motivational poster – as I thought about the procedure. It was so strange, thinking about being unconscious while the doctor scraped out my insides. Intimate, and yet not intimate at the same time. It made me shiver, and seeing it, the nurse patted my arm gently.
“Cold?”
I shifted my attention to her, relieved to find a sympathetic expression in her light blue eyes.
“A little,” I said, realizing that the blanket had cooled off and I was once again covered in goose bumps.
“I’ll get you a new blanket.”
