Salonul era mai mare decât sala paşilor pierduţi a unui palat de justiţie. Când te mişcai prin el, tocurile îţi pocneau pe dalele de marmură neagră, stârnind ecouri care se traduceri autorizate repetau la nesfârşit. Tavanul acoperit de casetoa-ne îşi înălţa bolta la zece metri de podea, conferind ansamblu-lui înfăţişarea unei catedrale. Era frig chiar şi în plină vară, căci soarele nu reuşea să treacă prin sticla colorată a vitraliilor care traduceri legalizate acopereau fiecare fereastră. O casă construită pentru un colos de doi metri şi zece, o eroare a naturii. Un... monstru?
Acest gând îl făcu pe Georges să-şi muşte buzele şi să arunce din nou o privire pe deasupra umărului stâng. Cărţile, ca nişte cărămizi groase îmbrăcate în piele, tapisau zidul din spatele lui. Rafturile se ridicau până la tavan, ca într-o venera-bilă bibliolecă universitară. Unele dintre ele erau foarte vechi şi valorau azi o adevărată avere. Toate se refereau la vânătoare sau la zoologie.
Erau grele, imposibil de transportat. Câteva, care datau din Evul Mediu, aveau chiar scoarţe din lemn ferecat, cu închiză-tori de oţel. îţi trebuia întreaga forţă pentru a le deplasa. Când încercai să le tragi de pe raftul lor, aveai senzaţia că smulgi o piatră din zid. Georges se rănise foarte grav în copilărie, pro-vocând prăbuşirea unui raft plin cu volume enorme. Tatăl său râsese de el şi îl rugase să se ducă să sângereze în altă parte, nu pe covoarele lui orientale.
O casă construită pentru un uriaş, plină de şifoniere uriaşe, ticsite de costume uriaşe. O casă în care erai condamnat să trăieşti în pielea unui pitic. Totuşi, Georges avea un metru optzeci, ceea ce nu era deloc neglijabil. Când i se întâmpla să traduceri legalizate se aventureze în afara casei, pe străzi şi prin magazine, constata cu o oarecare satisfacţie ca îi domina pe mulţi dintre semenii lui şi că era înalt... Din păcate, această iluzie înceta imediat ce se întorcea acasă, imediat ce era confruntat cu acele fotolii
Se afișează postările cu eticheta traduceri legalizate. Afișați toate postările
Se afișează postările cu eticheta traduceri legalizate. Afișați toate postările
miercuri, 4 mai 2011
Foraje puturi Bucuresti
Fuseseră aiese doar materiale nobile, lemn masiv, întărit cu ferecături. Unele fotolii erau atât de grele, încât aveai nevoie de trei oameni ca să le poţi deplasa. Georges auzise că în unele ţinuturi, devastate în mod regulat de taifunuri, mobilele sunt foraje puturi prinse cu şuruburi de podea pentru a nu fi luate de trombă. Nu ştia dacă e vorba de un fapt adevărat sau doar de o poveste, dar de un iucru era sigur: ciclonul ar fi putut să treacă peste casa Ior fără să deplaseze din loc nici măcar un fotoliu! Totul fusese aranjat aici o dată pentru totdeauna, după dorinţa lui Wemer Mareuil-Mondesco, în urmă cu treizeci de ani.
Georges privi, nervos, peste umăr. Regretă imediat că se lăsase pradă fricii. Stia că această casă se hrănea cu spaima lui şi că el trebuia să se prefacă nepăsător cât mai mult timp posibil. Totuşi, mirosul devenea din ce în ce mai stânjenitor. O duhoare de menajerie, un miros de urină. Probabil că plutea în toată casa, răspândindu-se în valuri greţoase pe culoare, rosto-golindu-se vijelios dintr-o încăpere în alta. Georges se strădui să rămână calm. în ciuda fricii, mâinile, lipite de birou, îi erau uscate şi reci. Nu se simţea deloc în largul lui în fotoliul prea mare.
Deşi împlinise patruzeci şi cinci de ani, avea impresia că e un copil care trebuie tot timpul să se salte în vâii'ul picioarelor pentru a ajunge la obiectele pe care adulţii le aşezaseră astfel încât el să nu poată pune mâna pe ele. Casa fusese construită de Werner, tatăl lui, şj numai pentru sine insuşi. Precum un costum de comandă, nu se putea potrivi nimănui foraje puturi apa altcuiva decât proprietarului ei. Georges se simţea acolo străin, nelalocul lui, ca un cerşetor îmbrăcat cu nişte haine vechi, căpătate. Prea slab, prea mic, parcă plutea în interiorul construcţiei. Şifonie-rele enorme îl dominau ca nişte faleze, ca nişte donjoane. Uşile cu două canaturi, prin care se intra în diferitele încăperi, erau destul de înalte pentru a lăsa să treacă un om călare. Dispropor-ţia penibilă a locuinţei alunga însăşi ideea de intimitate,
Georges privi, nervos, peste umăr. Regretă imediat că se lăsase pradă fricii. Stia că această casă se hrănea cu spaima lui şi că el trebuia să se prefacă nepăsător cât mai mult timp posibil. Totuşi, mirosul devenea din ce în ce mai stânjenitor. O duhoare de menajerie, un miros de urină. Probabil că plutea în toată casa, răspândindu-se în valuri greţoase pe culoare, rosto-golindu-se vijelios dintr-o încăpere în alta. Georges se strădui să rămână calm. în ciuda fricii, mâinile, lipite de birou, îi erau uscate şi reci. Nu se simţea deloc în largul lui în fotoliul prea mare.
Deşi împlinise patruzeci şi cinci de ani, avea impresia că e un copil care trebuie tot timpul să se salte în vâii'ul picioarelor pentru a ajunge la obiectele pe care adulţii le aşezaseră astfel încât el să nu poată pune mâna pe ele. Casa fusese construită de Werner, tatăl lui, şj numai pentru sine insuşi. Precum un costum de comandă, nu se putea potrivi nimănui foraje puturi apa altcuiva decât proprietarului ei. Georges se simţea acolo străin, nelalocul lui, ca un cerşetor îmbrăcat cu nişte haine vechi, căpătate. Prea slab, prea mic, parcă plutea în interiorul construcţiei. Şifonie-rele enorme îl dominau ca nişte faleze, ca nişte donjoane. Uşile cu două canaturi, prin care se intra în diferitele încăperi, erau destul de înalte pentru a lăsa să treacă un om călare. Dispropor-ţia penibilă a locuinţei alunga însăşi ideea de intimitate,
Traduceri romana araba
Poarta aceea de oţel întărea aspectul „ofi-cial" al clădirii. Era grea, ghintuită, fără broască la vedere. Respingătoare.
Sarah se opri la marginea traducator araba trotuarului, aşteptând culoarea verde a semaforului.
,,Doar douăzeci de metri", numără în gând. ,,Doar cinci-sprezece, doar..." Fiecare pas o apropia de zid şi de poartă. Se uită din nou la ceas. Mai erau încă şase ore până la miezul nopţii. Un răgaz lung şi scurt totodată, dar nu avea traduceri araba puterea să abată cursul evenimentelor. Ca orice dresoare, nu era deloc în deplină siguranţă în interiorul cuştii, aşa că totdeauna trebuia să fie cu ochii în patru, să se gândească la gheara care s-ar fi putut întoarce împotriva ei. In orice clipă.
Când apăsă pe butonul interfonului, se crispă de groază.
- Eu sunt, zise.
Se auzi un bâzâit, şi poarta enormă se deschise, traduceri autorizate araba acţionată de un sistem hidraulic. De fiecare dată când inlra, avea senzaţia că pătrunde într-un seif. De partea cealaltă era parcul, cufundat în întuneric, iar la capătul aleii - casa mare cu obloanele închise.
Tânăra se clătină pe tocurile traduceri legalizate araba înalte. Pachetele o stinghe-reau, îi venea să le arunce într-un tufiş şi să nu-i mai pese de ele.
După felul cum erau aprinse traduceri araba romana luminile, Sarah ghici că el se afla deja în bibliotecă, străduindu-se să-şi sporească frica.
Lui Georges nu-i plăcea că ea ieşea în oraş. Singur, deve-nea mult mai permeabil la fantasme. Nebunia lui îşi lua avânt. Sarah păşi încet pe alee, ghidându-se după luminile casei. Nu-i era frică de întuneric. Nu era ea marea organizatoare a miste-relor nopţii'?
Se poticni încă o dată pe treptele traduceri romana araba de marmură ale scării mari de la intrare, acoperite cu frunze uscate.
Sarah se opri la marginea traducator araba trotuarului, aşteptând culoarea verde a semaforului.
,,Doar douăzeci de metri", numără în gând. ,,Doar cinci-sprezece, doar..." Fiecare pas o apropia de zid şi de poartă. Se uită din nou la ceas. Mai erau încă şase ore până la miezul nopţii. Un răgaz lung şi scurt totodată, dar nu avea traduceri araba puterea să abată cursul evenimentelor. Ca orice dresoare, nu era deloc în deplină siguranţă în interiorul cuştii, aşa că totdeauna trebuia să fie cu ochii în patru, să se gândească la gheara care s-ar fi putut întoarce împotriva ei. In orice clipă.
Când apăsă pe butonul interfonului, se crispă de groază.
- Eu sunt, zise.
Se auzi un bâzâit, şi poarta enormă se deschise, traduceri autorizate araba acţionată de un sistem hidraulic. De fiecare dată când inlra, avea senzaţia că pătrunde într-un seif. De partea cealaltă era parcul, cufundat în întuneric, iar la capătul aleii - casa mare cu obloanele închise.
Tânăra se clătină pe tocurile traduceri legalizate araba înalte. Pachetele o stinghe-reau, îi venea să le arunce într-un tufiş şi să nu-i mai pese de ele.
După felul cum erau aprinse traduceri araba romana luminile, Sarah ghici că el se afla deja în bibliotecă, străduindu-se să-şi sporească frica.
Lui Georges nu-i plăcea că ea ieşea în oraş. Singur, deve-nea mult mai permeabil la fantasme. Nebunia lui îşi lua avânt. Sarah păşi încet pe alee, ghidându-se după luminile casei. Nu-i era frică de întuneric. Nu era ea marea organizatoare a miste-relor nopţii'?
Se poticni încă o dată pe treptele traduceri romana araba de marmură ale scării mari de la intrare, acoperite cu frunze uscate.
Piele neagra
îmbrăcată toată în pieie neagră, cu umerii obrajilor proemi-nenţi, ochii alungiţi şi parcă ceva dintr-o preoteasă egipteană obosită de rugăciuni nesfârşite. Rugâciuni sau sacrificii...
Ştia că toate celelalte femei se uită la ea. Le simţea privirile ca pe atingerea uşoară a unor aripi de fluture. Priviri geloase, vindicative. Zâmbi şi amestecăîn ceai cu linguriţa de argint. O ceremonie desuetă, care o liniştea mai bine decât ar fi făcut-o tranchilizantele cele mai eficiente.
işi petrecuse ziua umblând după cumpărături şi făcând o grămadâ dc alte activităţi inutile. Cumpărasc haine, lenjerie fină şi pierduse o oră întreagă căutând ciorapi de o anumită nuanţă cenuşie. Pentru cine? Pentru ce?
Se tot îmbrăcase şi dezbrăcase în spaţiui îngust al cabine-lor de probă, şi de fiecare dată surprinsese în privirea vânzătoa-relor aceeaşi scânteie de admiraţie. Intr-un magazin din cartie-rul Marais, chiar auzise o fată şoptind: ,,Are asta un look!..." Era plăcut să te joci de-a femeia normală. Putca să-şi spună că e soţia trândavă a unui cadru superioi si că i.şi petrece /ilelc frecventând magazinele şi librâriilc-saloanc de ceai unde se vorbeşte cu gura plină despre literatură.
„Marţi, la ora optsprezece, mă duc la cursul de bui fttărie chinezească". visa ea, „Vineri, şedinţa de gimnasticfl tibeta-nă..."
Eraun joc. Jocul de-a f,oamenii normali" ftde fnclată
ce ieşea pe poana vilci. străduindu se să uite totul
Ştia că toate celelalte femei se uită la ea. Le simţea privirile ca pe atingerea uşoară a unor aripi de fluture. Priviri geloase, vindicative. Zâmbi şi amestecăîn ceai cu linguriţa de argint. O ceremonie desuetă, care o liniştea mai bine decât ar fi făcut-o tranchilizantele cele mai eficiente.
işi petrecuse ziua umblând după cumpărături şi făcând o grămadâ dc alte activităţi inutile. Cumpărasc haine, lenjerie fină şi pierduse o oră întreagă căutând ciorapi de o anumită nuanţă cenuşie. Pentru cine? Pentru ce?
Se tot îmbrăcase şi dezbrăcase în spaţiui îngust al cabine-lor de probă, şi de fiecare dată surprinsese în privirea vânzătoa-relor aceeaşi scânteie de admiraţie. Intr-un magazin din cartie-rul Marais, chiar auzise o fată şoptind: ,,Are asta un look!..." Era plăcut să te joci de-a femeia normală. Putca să-şi spună că e soţia trândavă a unui cadru superioi si că i.şi petrece /ilelc frecventând magazinele şi librâriilc-saloanc de ceai unde se vorbeşte cu gura plină despre literatură.
„Marţi, la ora optsprezece, mă duc la cursul de bui fttărie chinezească". visa ea, „Vineri, şedinţa de gimnasticfl tibeta-nă..."
Eraun joc. Jocul de-a f,oamenii normali" ftde fnclată
ce ieşea pe poana vilci. străduindu se să uite totul
marți, 1 februarie 2011
Sunday, the day that fun takes off
God do I hate Sundays.
I hate them with a pissy, pithy, passion.
52 of them in a year, 53 if you're unlucky.
Either way, they're all doom-laden.
Some people love them, some people pray for them, other people pray on them, and every year more and more of us work during them. (enter "Dad").
I have never been a fan of Sundays. In fact I would go as far as to say I hate Sundays almost as much as I hate Mondays. Tuesdays do very little to me, Wednesdays are a little better since Thursdays are right around the corner followed rapidly by Fridays... the *best days* ever.
But Sundays.....
Sundays are perpetual downer days where you sleep in late without a care in the world and then struggle to get to sleep that night. TV schedules are all awry and there's all together wayyyyyyyyyy too much sports on cable. My friends are mostly all recovering from hangovers and not too many are gung-ho to sample exotic Sunday-esq cuisines such as Dim-Sum.
So, I lounge. I read your blogs, I surf the net, cook some food and I lounge some more. B-O-R-I-N-G
You would think that I would pick Mondays as my least favorite day of the week since I dislike having to go to work after a nice weekend, but no. I hate Sundays more, because they are filled with the impending doom of Mondays. Sundays inevitably always ends up being long "ok-well-it’s-almost-Monday-now" waits for the weekend to end.
And now that Sopranos is done, Sundays just got a little worse.
I hate them with a pissy, pithy, passion.
52 of them in a year, 53 if you're unlucky.
Either way, they're all doom-laden.
Some people love them, some people pray for them, other people pray on them, and every year more and more of us work during them. (enter "Dad").
I have never been a fan of Sundays. In fact I would go as far as to say I hate Sundays almost as much as I hate Mondays. Tuesdays do very little to me, Wednesdays are a little better since Thursdays are right around the corner followed rapidly by Fridays... the *best days* ever.
But Sundays.....
Sundays are perpetual downer days where you sleep in late without a care in the world and then struggle to get to sleep that night. TV schedules are all awry and there's all together wayyyyyyyyyy too much sports on cable. My friends are mostly all recovering from hangovers and not too many are gung-ho to sample exotic Sunday-esq cuisines such as Dim-Sum.
So, I lounge. I read your blogs, I surf the net, cook some food and I lounge some more. B-O-R-I-N-G
You would think that I would pick Mondays as my least favorite day of the week since I dislike having to go to work after a nice weekend, but no. I hate Sundays more, because they are filled with the impending doom of Mondays. Sundays inevitably always ends up being long "ok-well-it’s-almost-Monday-now" waits for the weekend to end.
And now that Sopranos is done, Sundays just got a little worse.
Party of 3...wait no, 4
I feel like I've abandoned my blog recently which is a surprisingly horrible feeling now that I've been religiously banging away at my keyboard for 6 months... wow, has it really been that long! It's funny how upset I get now when I don't have the time to come pour my thoughts out into cyberspace. This whole journal thing really has become an bizarre form of therapy for me in more than just my reproductive / un-reproductive life. I literally dream of writing when I can't. So I'm sure you understand that my recent sojourn hasn't been for a lack of wanting to speak... au contraire, speak is what I want and want I do best, but my life recently has become all about entertaining those I would rather not have to entertain.
Let me explain....
Now that the summer months are here "Dad's" business (construction) has literally blown up on itself to the point that he can barely find qualified workmen fast enough to keep up with the volume of work that keeps streaming in his door. For obvious reasons this is a great thing but the problem herein lies that in order to keep pace, "Dad's" had to bring a friend of his in from DC to live with us and supervise overflow of projects. To make sure that I am expressing myself clearly I feel the need to emphasize that by "live with us" I mean "crash on our couch". Come on, this IS still NYC and lest we all forget that I got duped out of our promised 2 bedroom apartment last week so we're still bunking up in our one'r.
So for the last week and a half my lovely little life of me and "Dad" has now turned into "Dad", me and Dupree... the guy on the couch.
I must admit that I've been quite proud of myself and my alarming patience with this situation since those who know me know I don't "room" well with others. I realize that this is important for "Dad's" business and for that reason and that reason alone I have yet to throw a full on hissy fit. But as time ticks by and the clutter of a crowded apartment starts keeling in on me, I'm starting to notice that my patience is running thin.
You see, this weekend Dupree's girlfriend turned up.
So now, it's "Dad," me, Dupree, and Dupree's Russian girlfriend -- who has decided she'd like to stay another 5 days but who refuses to help wash a dish or contribute in any way whatsoever to the upkeep of a tiny apartment with 4 people and 2 dogs.
Added to all of this, Dupree and (let's call her Nas-tashia -- pronounce with thickest, most drawled out Russian accent possible) also expect that we entertain them which means dinners, drinks, shopping, site seeing, the works. So needless to say that on this Monday morning I am full-on E.X.H.A.U.S.T.ED right about now.
But because I love my man and I know that this boom in his business is seasonal I keep my mouth shut. I have asked him to send Dupree back to DC this weekend with Nas-tashia since I have a friend coming in from out of town who I'd prefer to not have to force to sleep with the dogs, so luckily we'll have a weekend off from those two but it really feels like the constant influx of house guests just isn't ending. Though don't get me wrong... my house guest this weekend is "Dr. Far-Away-But-Fabulous" who I am thrilled to be having come visit me.
I'll take any of my girls over Dupree + Nas-tashia any day of the week!
Let me explain....
Now that the summer months are here "Dad's" business (construction) has literally blown up on itself to the point that he can barely find qualified workmen fast enough to keep up with the volume of work that keeps streaming in his door. For obvious reasons this is a great thing but the problem herein lies that in order to keep pace, "Dad's" had to bring a friend of his in from DC to live with us and supervise overflow of projects. To make sure that I am expressing myself clearly I feel the need to emphasize that by "live with us" I mean "crash on our couch". Come on, this IS still NYC and lest we all forget that I got duped out of our promised 2 bedroom apartment last week so we're still bunking up in our one'r.
So for the last week and a half my lovely little life of me and "Dad" has now turned into "Dad", me and Dupree... the guy on the couch.
I must admit that I've been quite proud of myself and my alarming patience with this situation since those who know me know I don't "room" well with others. I realize that this is important for "Dad's" business and for that reason and that reason alone I have yet to throw a full on hissy fit. But as time ticks by and the clutter of a crowded apartment starts keeling in on me, I'm starting to notice that my patience is running thin.
You see, this weekend Dupree's girlfriend turned up.
So now, it's "Dad," me, Dupree, and Dupree's Russian girlfriend -- who has decided she'd like to stay another 5 days but who refuses to help wash a dish or contribute in any way whatsoever to the upkeep of a tiny apartment with 4 people and 2 dogs.
Added to all of this, Dupree and (let's call her Nas-tashia -- pronounce with thickest, most drawled out Russian accent possible) also expect that we entertain them which means dinners, drinks, shopping, site seeing, the works. So needless to say that on this Monday morning I am full-on E.X.H.A.U.S.T.ED right about now.
But because I love my man and I know that this boom in his business is seasonal I keep my mouth shut. I have asked him to send Dupree back to DC this weekend with Nas-tashia since I have a friend coming in from out of town who I'd prefer to not have to force to sleep with the dogs, so luckily we'll have a weekend off from those two but it really feels like the constant influx of house guests just isn't ending. Though don't get me wrong... my house guest this weekend is "Dr. Far-Away-But-Fabulous" who I am thrilled to be having come visit me.
I'll take any of my girls over Dupree + Nas-tashia any day of the week!
That'll be $10 thanks
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Being a woman infertile woman means that I will, from time to time spend many degrading hours, legs spread-eagled while Dr. So-and-So, and Dr. This-and-That poke, prod, ooh and ahh at the workings and malfunctions of my busted bits.
Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.
My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.
After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.
So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......
After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.
Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.
After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.
So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.
Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.
But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.
When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.
Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.
Don't ya think?
Being a
Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.
My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.
After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.
So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......
After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.
Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.
After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.
So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.
Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.
But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.
When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.
Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.
Don't ya think?
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