Leave It Cleaner Than You Found It

Wade and I have a terrible habit of eating out and are not exactly timely in making our food choice decisions. By the time we make up our apathetic minds, it’s usually eight o’clock or later, which leaves us with Boston Pizza (BP) as our main late evening choice. Thrown into this mixture is our three-year-old daughter, who is going through the rite of passage of potty training.

            On an unseasonably warm February evening, with our daughter’s insistence of “sgetti,” we made the decision to go to BP. I could have easily cooked spaghetti carbonara, which would have admittedly been significantly faster, but we lacked two of the main ingredients in my recipe; mozzarella cheese and eggs. I cursed my lack of desire to go to Costco earlier in the day and we readied ourselves to go out for dinner.

            I should also note that upon rising from her afternoon siesta, my daughter had what appeared to be a nasty case of diarrhea. The kind of diaper that one peels off and then delicately places the fruit of their loins into the shower, to aggressively hose off. Since many hours had passed and she hadn’t had further signs, nor symptoms, I chalked her bowel habits up to a one-off. Being that she is at the point of insistence on wearing panties instead of diapers, I obliged.

            We made it out of the house and were sitting in the car when my husband declared that he forgot the diaper bag. “Should I go back and get it?” His question gave me pause. What if the diarrhea came back? In public? No. That wouldn’t do.

            “Go get it,” I replied. “I don’t think we’ll need it, but better safe than,” he was out of the car and the garage door was opening before I finished verbalizing my thought. He came back and placed the well used black diaper bag, which vaguely resembles an old school doctor’s bag, in the back seat of the car. I breathed a sigh of relief and we proceeded to our destination, secure in knowing we had wipes and more clothes and perhaps a diaper or two.

            We arrived without incident and made our way into the restaurant. Our favourite server, Louise, helped us to our table. Food and drinks ordered, we engaged in conversation mingled with texts from friends or a funny article or meme on Facebook. Our daughter was happily colouring for a while and then decided that standing up on the seat in the booth, like a gopher, peering through the glass at the front entrance was more entertaining.

            My husband’s starter Caesar salad arrived, green and fresh, doused with dressing and topped with bacon, parmesan and croutons. I reached over “I’m just going to borrow some bacon,” my husband rolled his eyes, laughing. He looked over at our daughter standing there, crayon in hand smiling.

            “Uh oh,” he said.

            “Wha-oh?” I asked, heart sinking. He gently turned our daughter’s posterior in his direction and pulled the back of her pants toward him. He paled and looked at me. His eyes gave away what he had just observed.

            “Did she just do what I think she did?” I asked, hopeful that maybe he had seen something that was manageable. Like maybe her first period.

            “Poop.” The word hit me like a tonne of bricks. I started to pass the diaper bag over to him, since I have always been a proponent of equality and believed that since I had dealt with the post nap diaper incident, it was his turn. He shook his head and eyed his salad. Damn. I couldn’t ask him to leave me unsupervised with his bacon. Although, I would have happily sat alone for however long it would have taken for him to deal with the deposit our daughter had just made in her very cloth underwear.

            I slid gracefully out of the booth, pulling the diaper bag along. He hoisted our daughter over his salad and on to the floor. “Hold hands,” I insisted. She curled her little fingers around mine and we weaved our way to the bathroom. I had my head high, staring the world in the face. I was not going to let a little poop get in the way of enjoying a night out of the house. I opened the door of the lady’s room into the face of a moderately alarmed, yet spatially obtuse woman. She mumbled her apologies and I mumbled my okays.

            There were two stalls; a regular and a wide-body. My preference was the stall with the largest square footage. My daughter loves the assistance bars in the handicapped stall, to steady her tiny tot bottom, which ensures that she will remain topside and not plummet into the depths of the cold toilet water below. I was looking forward to facing whatever was awaiting me inside of her pants in the luxuriously sized and appointed handicapped stall.

            To my horror and dismay, it was taken. By a single, apparently able bodied and childless person. No wheels or cane were visible. No whining or whinging was emitting forth from the stall of my desire. I clinched my teeth, grudgingly giving the toilet bound person the benefit of the doubt, and assumed that the other stall had been occupied during their moment of waste elimination need. I steered my daughter towards the narrow, cavernous stall.

            We were greeted by a small square shit lying in the drain hole of the toilet. “POOP!” Exclaimed my little poo princess.

            “Yes Sweetie, that’s a poop. Come on, let’s close the door and go potty.” I didn’t bother to flush. There was no time.

            I finally had the opportunity to privately peer into the back of her jeans. What greeted me was not unlike what I had seen in her diaper earlier in the day. The one that I had hosed off in the brightly lit and comfortable bathroom at home. “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, low enough for my daughter not to hear. This was going to be a clothing change for the ages. I unzipped the diaper bag, muttering hail Mary’s, which not being Catholic, I’m not entirely sure where they originated from. I was praying for one of two wet bags, or both, from the cloth diaper days of our past. Failing that, a plastic grocery bag. Anything to contain the mess that I would have to remove eventually. Maybe I was stalling. Maybe I was contemplating my strategy. Whatever it was that I was doing, her clothes were not magically changing themselves. I was relieved to find that one of my wet bags was in place, full of butt cleaning paraphernalia. I enthusiastically dumped all of it into the big black diaper bag.

            While holding the yellow, water and leak proof, bag by the zipper, I started thinking ahead to how I would get the vessel of my child’s shit off of her without too much collateral damage. So, I took off her boots. She was wearing a dress over her shirt and jeans. I did not remove this. I really should have, in hindsight. Next I carefully undid her pants and started to slide her pants down her hips, while holding her shirts up out of the trail of biological effluence. I hefted her onto the toilet, her pants mid-thigh, shirt and dress slipping from my grasp. I looked down, the back view of the jean situation had not told the full story. A wave of diarrhea was sloshing back towards the posterior of her panties. I panicked. I crouched down and quickly started to remove her jeans, keeping her panties and socks in place. I stopped. 

            “Don’t touch anything!” I whisper shouted into her pretty little face as she started to closely point at the ocean of crap just above her knees. We were in a pickle, and we were in it together. “I have to save your socks, since I don’t see any in the bag,” I said half to her, but mostly to myself. Sometimes, I have to hear the sound of my own voice to know that I am, in fact, alone in this and have to remain calm. I pulled her pant legs up to expose her fluorescent yellow and grey socks. I removed them quickly and put them in the diaper bag.

            Next I took off her jeans, shit variegating its way down her little legs, and put them into the wet bag. Her panties were resting up against the lip of the toilet in the gap left by the incompleteness of the commercial toilet seat. I felt something wet touch the back of my hand. It came from her dress. I stood up to look at the back of her shirt. More shit. This was a five alarm blow out. I carefully rolled up the dress to ensure containment of the contaminate and preventing it spreading to her hair.  She let out a cry of annoyance of removing her pretty dress.

            “There’s poop on it Sweetie. I can’t save it. I has to be washed,” I soothed her, as I stuffed both articles of clothing into the wet bag.

            A flush came from the next stall. Excellent timing, madam.

            I soldiered on with my battle. I came up with a slick plan to dunk the knickers in the toilet bowl since I couldn’t very well carry them out to the very public sink to rinse them. I pulled the mess off and noticed that there was shit not only on the surface of the toilet, but also running, Niagara Falls style down the front of the commode into a puddle in the grey grout-line on the floor. Oh well, one more thing to clean, I thought to myself as I carefully reached around my now entirely naked child to plunge the underpants into the toilet. The water muddied and I could no longer see the stranger’s digestive left-overs my daughter had noted earlier.

            Dignity was gone. It had deserted me with the first dunk and failed to return. My daughter kept saying “poop mommy, poop.” I kept responding with grunts and noises of acknowledgement. I carefully placed the newly “rinsed” underwear into the wet bag with the rest of her clothes. I closed it with a satisfying zip and placed it on the floor. I wouldn’t have to deal with those until later. I pulled the thicker of the two wipe holders out of the diaper bag.

            The first one was destroyed on the first swipe. I dropped it into the ruin of the toilet. Plumbing be damned. I was not concerned about the flush-ability of the wipes. Half ply toilet tissue would be no match for this mess, and my hand was no place for someone else’s poo (even if that someone was my offspring). I finished squeegeeing her off with wipes and moved to cleaning off the front of the toilet and floor. The phrase “leave it cleaner than you found it” from my days in Brownies erupted from the depths of my memory. I dug through the diaper bag and came up triumphantly with a disposable under garment. The only disposable under garment in the bag. Sigh.

            I quickly redressed her in clean garb and put her boots back on. I flushed the toilet with much satisfaction. There was slight trepidation as the wipes clung stubbornly to the side of the toilet, and then the enthusiastic fountain of water washed them neatly away. No plunger or amateur plumbing skills would be in my future, nor would there be an awkward discussion about how I clogged up their toilet in the tiny stall. We exited as though nothing horrific had just occurred in absurdly tiny water cave.

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I washed my hands for a full minute and contemplated a hot shower with bleach body wash. I looked at my reflection. I was still me. Yet somehow I was changed. I looked for my daughter who had taken up residence in her clean clothes directly behind the closed bathroom door. “Get away from there, you’re going to catch the door with your face.” I growled at her. She complied and took my hand. We walked back to the table, shit besmirched clothing neatly stowed in the diaper bag, and continued with our evening as though nothing monumentally traumatic had just stained my young parental life.  

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Grohl vs Swift et al: Cage Match

“Everlong” by David Grohl vs “Wildest Dreams” by Taylor Swift, Max Martin and Shellback

Introduction

A battle has erupted in the current era within the music industry between art and entertainment. On one side, a man who stayed true to the artistic process and on the other a group of men and women who create art for the sake of making money and the next number one hit. Through the exploration of criteria for both art and entertainment as well as contrasting and comparing two songs, it will be proven that “Everlong” is art and “Wildest Dreams” is entertainment. Art, in a couple of its forms, has been discussed at length by both Igor Stravinsky and Scott McCloud and will aid in the definition of the criteria of what constitutes art.

Criteria: What is Art?

According to Igor Stravinsky an artist must have gone through an apprenticeship phase, learn to creatively invent and then master the craft. The creative process is done with intention. To him, people are not just born artists. Artists, are made through hard work under the tutelage of someone who has walked the creative path to mastery.

Further, he says that in the composition of lyrics are not part of the artistic process of making music and are not necessary to the rest of the song. They are just poetry set to music. The instruments are what gives the music its substance. Dissonance creates the drama that is needed to spark change within the creative process of music. Each of these components are the lesser parts to music and need to come together in a specific order for a composition to be truly complete. His beliefs are further augmented by Scott McCloud.

Scott McCloud’s “Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art”, explains that there are six steps to the creation of art. Skipping even one of the steps will not lead to someone becoming an artist. As McCloud says, ““Pure” art is essentially tied to the question of PURPOSE – of deciding what you want out of art.” He goes on to say “the creation of ANY work in ANY medium will follow a certain PATH.” McCloud’s observations may be specific to comic books, but can be applied to any form of art, including music composition.

Between Stravinsky and McCloud, a clear methodology and process of how to create art, have been defined. Art is created by someone who has learned the craft and has completed the process with creative intent and pure purpose.

Criteria: What is Entertainment?

Any piece of music which was not organically created, but was manufactured in a musical sausage factory is to be considered entertainment. There are usually many people involved throughout the creative process, but no one person was inspired out of the blue to sit down and plunk out a few cords here and write a few words there. It is conceived on a boardroom table and wrapped around a pretty frame.

That is not to say that there is no art in the non-organic creative process, there is. There has to be. However, the purest form of art comes from one person or band who are inspired, rather than those who are working within the confines of a corporate image and under a deadline.

Much of today’s music has been manufactured in a cookie cutter process. The melody has to be catchy. The beat needs to be good, but not too fast or slow. The harmony needs to be pleasant and keep the listener from hitting next on their music player or changing channels on the radio. But, above all, it must sell.

The Battle of the Songs

David Grohl composed “Everlong” with creative intent; without regard for monetary gain or notoriety. In an interview in 2006 he explains the song came from a riff he had been playing with, which he thought was from a song by Sonic Youth. He goes on to say that the song is about “a girl that I had fallen in love with and it was basically about being connected to someone so much, that not only do you love them physically and spiritually, but when you sing along with them you harmonize perfectly.” The fundamental process of music creation was at work from the conception of this song.

Grohl composed a fundamentally natural song; it was not digitally synthesized. Swift’s production entourage have so heavily synthesized the instruments; they are no longer discernable in their individual components. While a synthesizer may be an art form to some, it is not a musical instrument from a classical perspective. It can be run through computer software and the learning process is not the same as learning to play music on an actual musical instrument.

“Wildest Dreams” looks to have been created with the intent to sell a number one hit. The ultimate message that it is conveying is appealing to a broad audience. “The guy is bad and this relationship is doomed from the get go”; the usual message in a Taylor Swift song. “Everlong” is also similar in that it is about a relationship, but with raw lyrics and message that has to be explored on a deeper level, rather than being spoon fed to the listener. “Everlong” is about someone, “Wildest Dreams” is about an easy to follow fantasy that the masses like to chase.

There is no auditory dissonance in “Wildest Dreams”. Instead, it is a compilation of pleasant noise. “Everlong” with the pounding beat of the drums in combination with electric guitars and bass form a level of dissonance that is less pleasant to listen to than its counterpart, but still enjoyable to the listener. The lack of dissonance in “Wildest Dreams” gives a broad appeal, but lacks a rich substance that is required in good musical composition.

The lyrics of each song put their message across in ways which are common in poetry and are linguistically dissimilar in their respective messages. The poetry in “Wildest Dreams” has a complex rhyming scheme. “Everlong” is purely free verse with no rhyming. The title of “Wildest Dreams” is repeated over and over to ensure that the point of the song comes across to an audience of fans who need to be reminded of what they are listening to. The word everlong is used once; the purpose of the title is not the substance of the entire song.

Conclusion

“Everlong” is art in a pure form, from a compositional perspective as well as the sound achieved through the use of actual instruments, played by actual people. It came from the imagination of one person with an unadulterated intention, not a collaboration of people looking for their next paycheque. “Wildest Dreams” is pure entertainment. From the opening synthesized strains of the instruments which have been distorted into an unnatural sound, to its weak poetry, it cannot be considered art. “Everlong” fits into the messy package of creativity described by Stravinsky and McCloud. “Wildest Dreams” fits into a neat box with a pretty bow, but lacks the substance of a traditional art piece.

Dave Grohl 1, Taylor Swift, et al 0.

Citation

Grohl, David. “Everlong”. The Colour and the Shape. Capitol Records. 1997. iTunes.

McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. Web. 4 Dec. 2015. 

Swift, Taylor. Martin, Max. Shellback. “Wildest Dreams”. 1989. Big Machine Records. 2015. iTunes.

Stravinsky, Igor. Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons. Cambridge. Harvard University Press, 2003. Print.

“How Dave Grohl Will Light Up Your Summer – How to Write a Rock Anthem”. FooArchive. June 2006. Web. 7 Dec. 2015. 

No! Don't Touch That! That's Dirty!

A gentle reminder that this is a satirical blog. Please don't freak out at me if you feel targeted. You aren't. Move along.

OK. I'll admit it. I'm a mom. I say things that I really shouldn't have to on a daily basis. Some of my favorite gems are: "Did you poo?" "Don't put that in your mouth." "That's the dog's dishes, not yours", etc. While I strongly discourage filth being in and around the Ninja's mouth, she still manages to get it in there, sometimes with gusto. We have been really lucky (knock on wood) and she hasn't been sick that often.

But what makes me laugh really hard, is when I'm at the mall (this was back in the breastfeeding days in the breastfeeding room) and another mom pleads with her child not to touch the floor. But two seconds later, she is encouraging the child to play with the bead roller coaster on the table just above the dinky car mat on the floor (that he was just playing with). So, the thing that the other germ bombs have been merrily wiping who knows what on is OK. But the floor mat which is clean (because it's totally off limits) and there for the expressed purpose of playing with is not OK. I'm not sure I follow.

Dear Tiger Helicopter Dolphin Mom, I get that you want your kid to remain moderately clean when you are out of the house (sometimes playing a game of clothing/diaper roulette and leaving the house sans diaper bag. Newsflash, he/she isn't there yet) and don't want the misery and hassle of the little darling being wet and possibly soiled. But know your surfaces before you go spewing off what is dirty. Do you want the fruit of your perfectly coiffed loins to develop a full blown case of mysophobia? Oh my no! Not another thing to worry about in addition to the 20,000 other things you fret over daily, like how your ass looks in those yoga pants.

Here's my thinking. Wipe the table before her mouth goes on it with a spare wipe. Then I know it's my level of clean. Don't discourage exploration by shouting slanderous remarks about germs. They're natural and make up most of us. Do I encourage gentle play around the toilet? No. But then I have a secret superpower called "common sense." I am not one for walking up to a complete stranger and letting my beliefs, of exposing the children to anything and everything, loose all about her head and ear regions. I'm all about the vaccinations. But I'm also about not worrying every 30 seconds when my kid is about to touch something that is dirty. I do worry about her button pushing habit on the TV box. Not cool Ninja, not cool.

So, if you happen to be one of these parents (and don't need to be because your child is perfectly healthy) then stop. Stop worrying about germs and start worrying about something more pressing. Like the economy. Or how much his tuition is going to cost in 16 years. Or keep it up and continue giving me something to judge and then write about.

Vasa Previa: One Year Later

This week marks the one year anniversary of the official diagnosis of things going awry in my uterus. Looking back I wouldn't have reacted any differently. I am still very much of the mindset that doctors are paid to worry. I was just there to grow a Ninja and make my before weight shoot up. It was for the baby...honest (mows down more cupcakes).

One year.

So much has changed.

"Well, duh, you totally had a baby!" You reply.

But it's not having the baby that changed things so much as finding that things needed to change. We are on time more often now. Leaving the house is something that requires more planning, which, as it turns out, we needed. Before, we would leave in a hurry and I would inevitably forget my wallet (much to Wade's chagrin). Now I have to schedule feedings around our habit of eating out a few times a week. No one wants my fussy kid interrupting their meal or my baby fuel tanks out on display in the middle of the Keg. I can hear the breast feeding feminists gnashing their teeth. I don't care. I'm more comfortable being modest (I know, shocker) and she's OK being under the cover. Deal with it. Having a diaper bag, which I treat like an EMS jump kit, helps with remembering my important things [Read: Wallet]. Wade doesn't see the big cow eyes and hear "I'm a kept woman?" Blink. Blink.

I can solidly say that I am parenting the way that I had envisioned. I know what makes my baby fussy (hunger, moistness and fatigue). I mitigate that but don't keep a rigid schedule. She sleeps like a champ. Sometimes she isn't happy that I am abandoning her in her crib for naps or the night. Sometimes I have to give her an extra cuddle or two. I haven't seen the terrible behaviours that those who have gone before me have warned me about. Being 6 weeks behind has its advantages. We haven't gone through teething yet. No mischief with getting into things due to her slow progress at mobility. She has started clapping and pointing. The pointing was creepy for the first time since I had never seen her do it. I was in the kitchen (she was in her chair) and turned around expecting someone behind me. No one was there. Just me. Creepy.

I didn't think I would savour my time with her. But I am. I may let her fall asleep on me just to watch her breathing. Even before she was born I was savouring that time. Not working since last May has slowed life to a delicious crawl. The lack of guilt of returning to a job that I would despise for interrupting that time, has been refreshing. Instead, I am looking forward to re-entering the hallowed halls of learning. I know now that my true passion is, and always has been, healthcare. What that will look like in 5-10 years, is unclear. But I know that being a stay at home mom is not what is going to keep me completely happy. It's not that I don't want to continue savouring this time alone with her. It's that I know that in order to be a good mom, I have to be happy. I have learned that the time I will have with her, when my new career is in full swing, is sacred.

There has been nothing totally shocking about the past year. You just do what you have to do. Even if it means dealing with bodily fluids that aren't mine. Being able to take a step back or a time out when the old patience are running thin, is a gift. Everyone should try it. And the naps! Oh how I love my naps.

But best of all, I have seen my Ninja go from an endangered fetus to a healthy baby in due course. The struggles seemed insurmountable to those on the outside looking in. But we made it look easy because that's how we roll.

Breast Feeding: Fun Bags to Feed Bags

Boys, this is about boobs and the other job they are supposed to do. Apparently they don't just hold shooters, sell beer and help me get out of speeding tickets.

Breast feeding is not a picnic. Sure it helps to bond you to the baby and you get to slow down (read: ignore) your daily tasks. But it is a minefield of engorgement, leakage, wet shirts and saying things like "I need something to increase my milk production" to complete strangers.

My life as a dairy had a bumpy start. From not being told what kind of pump gets things going to being threatened with medication (which made a huge difference) to having my baby pulled off of donor milk because "it's too expensive". The LPNs were on and on about getting the trickle turned into a raging river. Have you seen your doctor about the drugs? Have you tried the tea? Have you hung upside down like a bat? Have you incorporated the services of an old priest and a young priest? Then there was the lactation consultant.

To my lady friends who have a less than ample bosom, lactation consultant is the job for you. All you need is a nipple apparently. I met with a particularly poorly endowed one at the PLC after I had a slow start to the expected raging twin milk eruptions. She stood there and showed me the common sense things I already knew. Thanks YouTube. She daintily pinched at her nipple region to demonstrate how to shoot milk across the room. She moved on to man handling and warm cloths and more man handling. Has your husband got in there and helped? And is the pump attachment the correct size, is she latching properly, blah and blah and more blah. By the time she was finished fiddling with her nipple, I was done. I went to my doctor and got the drugs. Within days I was producing more. Not a huge quantity since my body is wiser than the medical professionals about how much the Ninja needs. I started to feel better about all things milk related.

Once we were away from the heap of inconsistent messages that is the hospital, things got better. Feeding has been easy. Growing was slow to start but has been better over time. Thanks butter! Our timing has gotten better with social interactions. I try to avoid feeding her in public lest someone should notice and say something. Thankfully the hooter hider I employ looks like a giant bib. Eating for the Ninja at a moderately high end restaurant is a snap. No one has said anything so far. I'm not sure if it's because they are too shocked or just don't care. But if you wait on us without speaking out, you will get a larger tip. Sass me and I'll drop that to 10%.

So here's what I have learned in six months of being a Boobie Bistro:

1. After a cold c section, things don't just start up. Those sweater cows may feel engorged but they're just kidding.
2. Colostrum is liquid gold. Don't spill it or drop it or fail to capture it. You have been warned. Ring your shirt out if need be.
3. You can't breast feed a baby with a feeding tube in her mouth.
4. Nurses have their opinions, LPNs have opinions and lactation consultants have their opinions. None are consistent. Take what is useful and discard the rest.
5. As soon as you sit down to eat, if the child has not yet been fed, you will not be eating first. Baby eats first.
6. If the above happens and you're stubborn like I am when it comes to eating, cover the baby so there are no food stains on the clothes.
7. Eating happens everywhere. Embrace it.
8. Bébé Au Lait makes a good cover. Get two.
9. There is no need to be an asshole about feeding your baby.
10. Be patient. The dairy will open eventually.

The Making of the Ninja

No, not THAT kind of making of her. Perv.

We started trying to make a baby in June of 2010. It was pretty casual the whole time since Wade was attending Royal Roads for his masters. We didn't want to aggressively add to the financial fun that was tuition payments, residency and travel. But once he was finished his last residency we were a bit more serious, albeit not like rabid rabbits. If it happened, it happened.

After year 2 passed and I was still not pregnant, we decided to seek out medical advice. Our regular doctor referred us to the local fertility clinic. It took three months to get in. He said we would probably get pregnant before the appointment. Not so.

We went in for our appointment. We were probably the only couple in there who weren't passionately pursuing parenthood. There were quite a few couples in for various reasons. IVF or that procedure where they rinse off the sperm and inject them right by the Fallopian tube (since apparently sperm don't ask for directions) or fertility drugs. We just wanted to make sure the plumbing was up to code. No heroics were going to be pursued. Our doctor was a quaint little man. He had a bit of a sense of humour, which is more than welcome when we are talking about the delicacies of our respective undercarriages. He wrote out the requisitions for the tests. There was to be a barrage.

OK, barrage is hardly what it was. For Wade. There are 5 tests that are completed. Four for me and one for him. The four for me were two blood tests, an ultrasound (transvag, whoo hoo!) and an Hysterosalpingogram (HSG). For Wade; an orgasm. In a clinical setting. Hardly a blip on his day.

The blood tests were fine. The ultrasound was performed by an angry lesbian who clearly had sworn off women. OK, I'm not actually sure about her sexual orientation. I just assume anyone that angry with a probe clearly hates vaginas. She was also not very nice. I limped out of there thinking the worst was over. HA!

I reported to the 4th floor X-ray at the Foothills Hospital for my HSG. The pamphlet had described the procedure as "simple" with "slight discomfort". My friend had also assured me that it was no biggie and I would be fine. They prescribed Naproxen for any discomfort.

We were called in four at a time. Remove the cloths from the waist down, put on this here gown. Leave your bra on, take your valuables, put on another gown backwards to prevent drafts and have a seat.  Yep. Four of us, in a hall, sans pants. It was weird, knowing that there may have been a bare ass or two previously perched on the chair that I was currently occupying. We were called in one at a time (obviously) clutching our valuables, oblivious to what we were going to go through. The girls that went ahead of me went in without incident and came out on the other side, seemingly unscathed. My turn came.

I walked in and was directed to a steel table with an x-ray hanging overhead. An HSG is an x-ray of the uterus and surrounding structures. It allows the doctor to see whether the Fallopian tubes are open or not. They do this by injecting iodine into the uterus and watch for it to flow out through the tubes. Simple, right? Pfffft.

I assumed the position. Slid down. Slid down some more. And relaxed. Warning: The next bit is graphic.

After having the usual tools of the gynaecological trade inserted uneventfully, my cervix was shucked open. OK, this must be the discomfort they were talking about in the pamphlet. The pipette was inserted through my freshly shucked cervix. More intense discomfort. The iodine was then injected. I may have been a bit loud with my expletives. I immediately began Lamaze breathing (who needs a course?) and hoped my uterus wouldn't explode. I also thought if this was what contractions (never mind pushing the baby out) would feel like, then I would be tapping out rather quickly. The x-ray was taken.

"Oh look there," said the Spanish Inquisition style doctor.

I looked. The iodine was coming out one side. I was still breathing rather hard and swearing (under my breath now).

"If you want, I can inject more dye to open up that left side."

"NO!" I was ok with half off my fertility.

"Are you sure, I have quite a bit that I can inject to try to get that open." This guy was slowly morphing into a Nazi doctor at a death camp.

"No, no, I'm quite fine with this," I said, as I started moving to get off the table with everything still in. Leaving with his instruments seemed like a good plan. I could deal with them later.

He was quick to encourage me to relax as he removed everything. I sat up slowly since I started feeling nauseous and a bit faint. The nurse gave me a wash cloth for when gravity caught hold of any residual iodine. He mentioned that he would send his findings to my doctor and sent me on my way.

Moderately traumatized, I got dressed and left. I spent the rest of the day curled up in a ball with the cramping. The naproxen did nothing. If it did, I don't want to think of what kind of pain I would have had.

A few weeks later we went back to discuss the findings with the fertility doctor. Wade's results were normal. My blood tests were normal. My ovaries had some follicles. Then he came to the HSG results.

"I'd like to repeat the HSG," he said while turning the monitor so we could see it,

Fuck that, I thought to myself. I calmly explained the false advertising in the pamphlet and how much it had hurt.

Then he said, "you may have just had a little cramp."

A little cramp?

I wondered how he would feel with one of his nuts squished into his eye. "This may pinch a little," I would say.

"A repeat on the HSG would show us for sure if this Fallopian tube is blocked."

"Fine." He gave me the requisition and I booked it.

The second one didn't hurt even remotely as bad. Shortly before I was set to have it, I managed to injure my shoulder and rediscovered that I am allergic to the naproxen. So I took a Tylenol instead.

December 17, 2012 we went back and he confirmed that it was blocked, it was good information to have. He gave me a prescription for fertility drugs, which I eventually shredded.

At the same time that all of this fun had been going on, I had been taking my temperature and recording it an app called My Fertility Friend. I was curious to see if I was having all the signs of ovulation. I was.

Shortly after I was diagnosed with "unspecified infertility", two of my friends had babies. The day the second one was born, we conceived Adriana. It took a couple weeks to get a positive pregnancy test. The first one was negative. The second one was positive. I showed  it to Wade and his response was "what am I looking at?" I explained and pointed and he said "I'll need three tests and they'll have to be peer reviewed." Typical scientist. A couple days later I give him 2 more tests. One was a bright pink plus sign, the other said Pregnant 1-2 weeks.

Then the fun began.