how to be cared for
My mom came to town last week because I was scheduled to have a small but scary procedure called an HSG. My husband and I have been trying for a baby for two years without success, so my doctor wanted to ensure my tubes were unblocked. This requires a radiology department, a catheter, and dye for the “flushing.” I was told I could drive myself to and from the procedure. I wasn’t told about the pain meds I should ask for and take. They are not offered freely; one must learn the exact names of the prescriptions and call their doctor to ask for them. I discovered this on Reddit threads in the weeks leading up to the appointment, scribbling down notes at my desk, learning what other women had (or wished they’d had) taken to help with the pain.
I planned to return to my desk after it was over, maybe with a heating pad. I thought perhaps it would be a badge of honor to be strong and do this on my own. So many of my doctor’s appointments in the last two years have been alone because of work schedules, but also because I don’t like to ask. All these tests and tubes and needles, I’ve only ever been offered ibuprofen. You learn to callous yourself while navigating the medical system.
My sister, after she was diagnosed with a rare nervous system and immune disorder last summer, had to become her own advocate too. No doctor wanted to see her after she was discharged from weeks spent in the hospital. Her illness was “cured” except for the excruciating pain she took home as a souvenir. You become harder than you knew possible in these situations, raising your voice louder and louder until someone finally listens, becoming an expert on your own body, deciphering medical studies and alternative treatments. You also turn inward and become jaded. You learn to trust only yourself to pull you out of the mud.
*
In the days leading up to the appointment, a friend texted me: I’m happy to go with you, honestly anytime. It’s important you have support. I hearted the message, told her I’d keep her posted with no intention of actually asking her to drive across the city to be with me for such a short time. Later that afternoon, my mom said she’d travel from northern California to drive me to the appointment, to take care of me after. This way, I could take a prescription pain medication. A seven-hour drive. You’d do that? I asked. Of course.
*
My favorite part of being sick when I was a kid was having my mom make breakfast for me. It was always the same and she made it whether I had a cold or the flu. On a tray table that we also used for bringing her breakfast in bed on mother’s day, she’d set a plate with dippy eggs and wheat toast, slathered and glistening with butter, a glass of orange juice with pulp, sometimes fruit. She’d prop me up with pillows so I could eat, pressing her hand and lips to my head to feel for a temperature, then taking away the dirty dishes when I was done.
*
The procedure was on a Tuesday afternoon. We took an elevator to the third floor. The tech with a daisy cap wrapped me in a warm blanket, adjusted my socks, told me she would be by my side the entire time. I started to cry because I’m not used to being cared for at appointments. She cried, too, saying it took her years to have a baby as well. It’s helpful to say “when” not “if,” she said as the doctor walked in. When I almost passed out, she soothed me and told me it was almost over. Then, she brought me water and walked me back to my mom.
We drove to In N Out where I ordered a cheeseburger and chocolate milkshake. I didn’t think the pain medicine was working, but then I was ravenous from the endorphins. When we got home, all I could do was crawl into bed. The sky was a deep blue and the street lamps flickering when I finally woke. A friend brought me flowers. My phone had numerous texts and missed calls from my husband. My mom was still in my apartment, asleep on my couch.
*
We often don’t know what we need or how we need to be cared for. And we don’t know how to ask for help. Maybe we feel undeserving. Maybe we feel like we’re more empowered if we do the hard things by ourselves. I’ve been thinking about this when people say to me, “you’re so strong for being a firefighter wife,” or “you’re so brave for going to all these doctor appointments by yourself.”
Maybe those things are true, but I don’t want them to keep me isolated, afraid to ask for help because I fear my weakness will burden somebody. There is power in admitting our inabilities and relying on those around us to hold us up and care for us when we can’t do this for ourselves.
There is also something to be said about being capable and asking for help anyway. Knowing that we’re strong and brave and we can do it alone but choosing to allow others in—something opens up in us and our communities when this happens. We learn to be cared for. And we let that love wash over us so we can do the same for someone else.
Weekly Feels
I just started Her Body and Other Parties, and I think it’s already in my top ten favorite books of all time.
- is one of my favorite writers on Substack. Her words are raw and visceral and read a bit like the way honey tastes. I love this video of her reading her published essay.
This beautiful piece from
This song from The Last of Us:
I feel
Like this
Also
Thank you
I was prescribed a HSG last year, I didn't know what it was and I drove myself to the hospital with a profound sense of wrongness clinging between my ribs. I didn't think about the physical pain, that was ok for me. I cried so much knowing my tubes weren't working correctly, staring at the gray screen with almost no movement in it. I drove myself to work after, and spent the a few days almost struggling to understand, to take time to digest - or at least swallow - my new reality. My path is still rough and dark, coming out of a failed IVF cycle. And I'm so bad in asking for help. Reading about women going through similar situations at least take out the loneliness one can feel. I wish to find an online community where to feel normal again. I wish you all the best, to y'all and to me too.