A Full Shot Next to an Empty Cocktail

The last week has been nothing but cleaning and packing, so I feared that my post this week would be about all the stuff I found under my bed. It was disgusting. I considered just skipping writing anything at all, hoping that my mom and the other seven readers would understand, but then I went to the gynecologist and it was a god damn schmorgesborg of silliness. You now have very good reason to assume that this entry is going to get weird, but I promise it doesn't. Well, I guess that depends on your definition of weird. I'm going to get reported to the Overlord of Blog, aren't I? Does that only happen if I use the word vagina? I won't say vagina, don't worry. [Feel free to add your own assumptions about my feelings on literally everything that's come out of male politician's mouths in the last week that relate to lady parts. Or you can tell yourself that I really do care about following the Code of Blog, totally up to you.]

Right, so I went to the gynecologist. It should be known that I have absolutely no issue with going, as I know many women do, and I had no fear or apprehension or anything of the sort leading up to my examination.

WAIT. We all know what a gynecologist does, right? Google it right quick.

I felt totally whatever about going in for my annual because, in case you didn't know, I'm a pretty big advocate of women's health (ok, all reproductive health, let's not discriminate) and I firmly believe that if you have shit to get checked out, then get it checked out. For years I quarreled with a friend who refused to go to the gynecologist. She thought it was disgusting and weird and totally humiliating and her biggest fear was being judged by the doctor. But I told her that it's not like a Redwood tree down there--the doctors don't see rings or anything. And besides, you have no idea what is going on inside of your body so you need someone to give it a nice thorough looksy, make sure everything is where it needs to be, make sure nothing is growing where it shouldn't, and then you're done until next year. And my friend? Yeah, she totally hates going. She indeed finds it disgusting, weird, and humiliating. But hey, I don't like the dentist. C'est la vie.

I made it to my appointment on time, signed in, sat around in the creepily silent but always filled with pregnant ladies waiting room, and then I went back to begin my journey through the labyrinth of desks, exam rooms, offices, stock rooms and phantom exit signs that don't really go anywhere. The nurse weighed me and before stepping onto the scale, I sucked in my stomach. I like to tell myself that this makes a difference. Then back to the exam room where I sit in the weird modern furniture and the nurse asks me some questions before she says:

"Ok, I need you to pee in this cup."

I must have laughed or made a face or simply shook my head because I can't imagine having any other reaction. There was no way in hell I had any excess liquid in my body. I should explain. My body does not adjust well to heat. In fact, my body has yet to develop a heat regulation process of any kind and I spend May-August completely miserable, completely dehydrated, and completely gross. I sweat when I take showers. If I'm baking and I touch the batter, the dough melts. (This is true, this happens pretty regularly.) And my car, the very one I had just driven to said appointment, is a convection oven and offers no relief from any outdoor temperature above 55 degrees. At the moment of being asked for pee in a cup, I was lucky to have fluid in my eye sockets. I said:

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some water for that."

I changed into a slate gray robe, the kind with the weird drawstring ties that don't really draw or tie anything together. The nurse brought me a red Solo cup filled with ice cold water, a bendy straw included. I couldn't help but be reminded of a cheap cocktail. But the water was tasty and almost certainly came from a Brita--this is definitely the kind of place with a Brita. She left me again and I traipsed around in circles, letting my robe hang open while I slurped my water. After I finished, I jumped up and down a few times, hoping for gravity to help. It worked eventually. I went to the bathroom, mustered a pathetic Dixie cup of urine, and then set it on the counter next to my Solo cup, like a full shot next to an empty cocktail.

More minutes passed, because time at the gynecologist's office is predominantly spent waiting around, and then another nurse entered my exam room. She immediately went for the Purell pump sitting on the sink, slammed down the top, and Purell went everywhere. She made a comment about it, hoping for a laugh I would have usually given her but I had nothing clever to say. I think I said something like Yeah, that'll happen. Heh heh. But then this nurse, who was not the nurse from before, picked up my pee cup and DUMPED IT DOWN THE SINK. So nonchalant about it. Like. Oh, here's some pee in a cup, this is probably old anyway, I'll just go ahead and get rid of it. Now there is an excellent chance that something medical happened between picking up the cup and pouring it out, but the next thing I knew she was tossing is in a trash can. I worked really hard for that, you know? I had to drink a whole cup of water for that. But of course I didn't mention anything to her because I didn't want to pee again. I just assume they got what they needed from me.

Then my doctor came in for the main event. My lady doctor is a man and that really freaks some people out. Well I love the guy so it doesn't phase me too much. He has this fantastic way of sweeping into the room, his nurse trailing him like a groupie, and he just starts up some fabulous conversation that makes you feel like a god damn princess and before you know it the exam is over. Now we could all make a lot of jokes about men and their charm and how my pelvic exams sound like a bad date but seriously, believe me. This guy is the cat's pajamas. He asked me about my summer and I kind of ho-hummed about the difficulties of being a new graduate and not knowing what to do with my life. It was then that he launched into a truly brilliant believe in your dreams!!! speech. I know that some people reading this have had a full exam with the gynecologist: the one that starts under your arm pits and ends inside of you. For those who haven't, well, read the previous sentence. That's basically what happens.

How I felt during my pelvic exam. 

So there I was, splayed out on an exam table, feet in stirrups, robe wide open, and I felt like a million bucks. Though I have received a lot of support for my move to Chicago, I have also dealt with just enough negativity that it's began (begun?) to wear on me. People talk to me like I'm an idiot; like I don't know it's expensive; like I don't know I don't have a job; like I generally have no idea what I'm doing and I'm being a big fat entitled Akron-hater without a clue. No, it didn't necessarily take my rubber gloved gynecologist to finally convince me I'm not making a huge mistake. But I do love it when adults are on my side. I loved that this man, who probably spent most of his twenties in  school, was so unbelievably excited for me to take my time, have fun, and be whatever I want to be. I'm sure you are, too!!!! Seriously, though. Great talk. What do you think: would that scene most likely feature a) Carrie Bradshaw b) Hannah Horvat c) Liz Lemon? or d) some other really awesome girl character?

So, yeah! Woo! Yay! Success! 

But then I had to get an ultrasound anyway. Uhghhghghghghghghghhhhggg.

I'm some thing of a "high risk" patient, so when things are not functioning at 100%, into the ultrasound room I go. I've had the procedure done more times than I can count, so it's not the physical act that annoys the shit out of me, it's the waiting for the apparatus to not be in use. And it's the waiting around to see if the ultrasound tech is even in the office that day. And it's the listening to that awful receptionist talk about all the cute lunch boxes that are on sale at Target. In case you didn't know, you don't just "get" to have an ultrasound, the doctor is doing it see what's wrong with you. I'm talking about the internal ultrasound, by the way; the invasive one. Have you seen Knocked Up? There's a scene where one of the potential gynecologists lubes up a large phallic looking probe, points it at Seth Rogen, laughs and says, "You're next!" Ok, it's that thing. 

I was eventually called into the ultrasound room. The tech was an older woman, undoubtedly someone's grandma, and upon checking my chart she realized that she had done my first ultrasound so many years ago. Adorable. I changed again behind a curtain and waddled to the chair with a paper sheet wrapped around my waist. Alright, I thought, breathe and relax your knees. My eyes were closed and I had a nice zen smile on my face. But when I looked next to me, the woman was holding the probe out to me, as though offering a popsicle. 

"I'll let you insert this yourself," she said smiling.

And then I laughed because I didn't know how else to react. 

So that was my doctor's appointment!!! By the way, I'm fine. This wasn't my way of subtly hinting at some illness I have. In fact, one of my proudest personal achievements is how healthy my blood is. No, seriously. Whenever I want to feel good about my body I give blood because the nurses always go crazy about how perfect my blood is and how healthy my veins are. I'm giving blood tomorrow--the area Red Cross thinks I'm something of a celebrity. Oh, right, I also do it to save lives. 

I am moving to Chicagoland on Saturday! Can't wait to write the entry about me trying to understand public transit. I can't say for certain, but that is going to be a hoot. 

And for anyone keeping score, I didn't even have to say vagina. You're welcome.