So
today I woke up to rain pattering on my window, while the question lingered in
my head, “Why the hell am I up so early?” Slowly the horrific realization sank
into my head that today is V-day-- the day that my vagina goes to battle with
the gynecologist. This is the one day a year that I dread more than spring cleaning
my disaster house with a hangover.
When I
finally pull up to the office, I look at the ominous windows trying to figure
out why anyone would choose to have this job.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad there are doctors that specialize in my “Vag-health,”
but it is definitely not a job that I would want to have. I can’t imagine the
horrors they have seen, which is probably the reason why most of the
gynecologists I have come across seem to have no sense of humor.
After walking
through the dreary rain, I step into a bright office and walk up to the woman behind
the counter. She seemed awfully happy to be working the front desk and quickly
asked me if I had my insurance card and my ID on me. I quickly pulled it out of
my dinosaur green purse and as I was doing so, was asked if I had an emergency
contact. For some reason I find this to be a nerve racking thought as I wonder
to myself, “why I would need an emergency contact? Is there the possibility
that I might go into shock during this yearly pap-smear?”
As soon
as I hand her the cards, I rush into the bathroom to pee because for some reason
the random fear of accidentally pissing myself when prongs are shoved in me, came
into my mind. What I didn’t realize is that #1 the lady was asking me though
the door for me to pee in a cup and #2 apparently I am really good at locking
myself in bathrooms but not very good at getting back out.
Five
minutes and two nurses later I am finally freed from solitary confinement. As I
stumble out of the bathroom while trying to maintain some sort of dignity, the
nurse then asks me in front of a room full of waiting women, “Did you happen to
pee in a cup?”
“No,
but I promise I’m not pregnant!” I said as cheerfully as possible with the
realization that I just released the specimen they needed in the porcelain
throne. “Is that what you’re checking for?”
The
nurse’s face became flat as she said, “no.” She then quickly turned around and
walked away, going back to whatever vaginal duty she had.
“I might
be able to make some more,” I wearily called after her while patting my stomach.
She didn’t respond and instead disappeared behind the wooden door.
I am
finally called to the back by a petite woman with a thick Ukrainian accent. She
takes me to a room and tells me to go stand on the scale. With hesitation I
look at the scale, knowing that I won’t like whatever number they throw out to
me-- which is why I refuse to have a scale in my bathroom. I prefer just eyeing
my weight. Do I look healthy? Yes. No number needed.
“Do I
have to?” I ask the tiny woman standing in front of me.
“Yes it
is needed,” she responds with a look of annoyance.
I immediately begin to take off
every piece of crystal I had on my body, including multiple rings and bracelets
because there is no way that I am getting on this satanic machine with anything
unnecessary that might add onto the number. I then tell her, “My underwear and
my bra weigh too much, please take off an additional ten pounds in consideration
for that.” Yes, I do admit that I was sporting a good old pair of granny
panties because cute panties are only worn when someone other than my dog can
see them.
Once I step on the machine and she
measures my numbers, I ask her if this is even accurate. She tells me it is, so
I then insist that I go to another one because, “This one is lying to us.” She
agrees to do this and takes me to another scale which I’m pretty sure lied to
me also. Once this is done, I step into the gynecology interrogation room where
I am sat in front of a grumpy lady with a scowl on her face, the gynecologist.
She then begins to ask me numerous questions, some of which I am still not sure
why she asked. For example, “Have you ever had an eating disorder?” In all my
years of doctors spelunking in my cave, I have never had someone feel the need
to ask me about what I do or do not put in my mouth. I admitted that I had in
the past had an eating disorder and she asked me if I still had an eating
disorder and if I saw a therapist. I told her that yes I used to see a therapist
for it and no I currently am not barfing up my food. She then asked me why I am there to see her
and I told her that I was there for my yearly and some good old birth control. She
asked me if I was sexually active, on which note I laughed and I said, “No you
would be the most action I’ve seen in months! I need the birth control because
I want to rip my uterus out if I don’t, because my period cramps feels like I’m
exorcising a demon.”
After that, she takes me into
another room where she tells me to get naked and put on a paper sheet which was
folded on the table. She then stepped out of the room. I never understood why gynecologists
do that. This woman is about to be all up in my junk and see me butt naked but
has to step out of the room to give me privacy so that I can get naked.
I shrug my shoulders and take off
my clothes before beginning to attempt to unfold the paper sheet. As I am
unfolding the sheet, I realize that this paper has sections that are glued
together and I can’t figure out what goes where. Three rips later, I try to
stick my head through what I believe is the hole where my head goes through.
That rips the sheet so badly that two sections drop to the ground. So I give up
and sit naked on the table until she comes back.
A few seconds later I hear a knock
on the door and the woman steps in the explosion of confetti that I accidentally
created. Rolling her eyes she takes another sheet out and points to the holes
saying, “These are for your arms and it’s open in the front.”
“What is the point in wearing a
paper sheet dress that is entirely open in the front? How does this make any
sense?” I wonder to myself as I lean back and put my legs in the stirrups. As soon as the doctor comes around, I immediate
say, “I did a courtesy shave. Let me know if there are any problems down there.”
Although quick, I still hated the
procedure that she did. I always do. Every time I get a pap smear done, I
always wonder if this is what it feels like to get probed by an alien and then
I begin to wonder if all of those alien abduction stories are based off of what
happens in the gynecology appointments.
Well as you see, I have survived
the appointment and the final message that I was told by the doctor was that
everything looked normal down there and by that I’m assuming that she meant my
junk did not mutate into some other organ over the span that I was there. I
guess I won’t be using my emergency contact.
