So, off I go for my ultrasound appointment yesterday, innocently throwing some of Sting's Fields of Gold on the CD player in the car as I leave behind my nauseated son lying prostrate on the couch watching The Matrix, and Mr. Handsome, who was taking a handful of Advil and claiming to have a wicked headache as I walked out the door.
My appointment was just for a regular ultrasound of my uterus, the womb from whence my children came, related to the perimenopausal symptoms I've been having for the past six months or so, namely having a period every two weeks. Yes, it's been awful. Sorry to all my male readers, but maybe it's time you realize and understand that we women go through absolute hell. Hell, I tell you.
So, I find the place, and I think to myself that maybe I didn't make such a great choice in having the ultrasound done here since the office is located in the middle of an industrial area, smack dab in-between a construction company, and Al's Diner (open to truckers 24 hours a day!).
After I get past the initial fear and the trembling in my rectum subsides, I enter the building and find the office. There are a lot of women there, lined up, which settles my stomach some, because after all, we can't all be wrong here, right? And then I just get pissed off because now I have to wait for what seems like freaking forever to hand in my health card and appointment form.
It actually doesn't take that long, and I actually begin feeling a little sorry for the receptionist because she's, like, handling a 10-line phone plus a line-up of emotional, hormonal women. And I just know she's getting paid diddly to do it. I almost want to give her a smooch, but I resisted, mainly because she didn't really turn me on. And also, I wasn't in the mood. So, instead, I told her how much I liked her stained sweatshirt, and I went to sit down.
I was down for about two minutes before this diminutive East Indian fellow in a white lab coat calls my name, then chuckles to himself because he couldn't pronounce it, and thought that was pretty funny.
I follow him into the room and climb onto the table. In about five seconds flat, Mr. Thankyouthankyouverymuch begins berating me for not having drunk enough water.
"I didn't drink anything," I told him.
The room was dark, and all I could see were the whites of his eyes and he stared at me in disbelief.
"You did not drink? Why not?!"
And all of a sudden I feel like the little schoolgirl who is getting crapped on by the principal for befriending that strange man who would come into the schoolyard and sit in the corner and sharing my apple with him.
I tell him that I was not told to drink anything, to which Mr. Thankyouthankyouverymuch replied, "But you have had babies, no? You know that you must drink drink drink when you come in for such a test."
And I say, "But I'm not pregnant."
And he says, "But this is the same test. The same test, you see? And now I cannot see your uterus. Do you see? Your bladder, it is not very full."
"I know. I didn't drink anything before coming here," I remind him.
He blathered on and on for a couple of minutes, took a few pictures, and then said, "Well, so now we will insert this tool into your vagina and we will look at your uterus from this angle since you do not have the water in your bladder."
And it was my turn to look at him in disbelief, my jaw dropping simultaneously as I looked at the instrument to which he was pointing, and thought to myself, 'No way no how that thing is going up my Precious.'
But, of course, I've had this test done before. But, you have to understand, I have to be prepared for said test. Whenever anyone is going near my nethers, it takes a lot of concentrated effort on my part not to shit my pants. And, although I am not a prejudiced person, and treat all people equally and with respect, I had a bad experience with a doctor of the same ethnicity as Mr. Thankyouthankyouverymuch, and ever since, it's been hard for me not to scurry away and hide behind a closetful of coats when one such doctor comes near me.
Mr. Thankyouthankyouverymuch proceeds to explain the entire procedure to me, saying the word "vagina" at least 20 times in the span of one minute. That's a "vagina" almost every two seconds! In that time, he also tells me that I'm fortunate since having the test done "this way" is much more preferable for my problem than having it done externally. To which I reply (in my head), "So then why the f&*k didn't you offer to do it this way in the beginning?!"
So, after he leaves, I take off my pants and underwear and hop back on the bed, trying to act as nonchalant as I possibly can. How bad can this be? I ask myself. It couldn't be anywhere near as bad as that time I had the same test done and farted very audibly through my vag when they inserted the
Mr. Thankyouthankyouverymuch comes back in, this time with a chaperone, a female technician called Candy who chewed gum but had very nice teeth. He proceeds to place a glove over the probe, and lubes it up with more cold lube than I've even seen in an entire pharmacy. How big does he think Precious is, I'm asking myself.
I tell him, "Umm, I'm allergic to latex. And all condoms. Even lambskin."
And he replies, "Oh, yes, this is non-allergenic latex. You will be just fine. Now spread your legs and relax."
Last time I heard those words ... oh, never mind.
So, I'm thinking to myself, 'What the f$*k is he talking about, non-allergenic latex?!', but I just smile, nod my head and do as I'm told.
Candy tells me to take the probe and shove it up my Precious, I'm guessing so that they can't be sued for attempted sexual assault on a prostrate perimenopausal woman.
And the test begins.
And no, it was not enjoyable. Thanks for asking.
And here I sit, writing this, and notice that that non-allergenic latex glove Mr. Thankyouthankyouverymuch told me I wouldn't react to has possibly caused a very uncomfortable crotch-rot feeling in my nethers, and Precious is not a happy camper.
And when Precious isn't happy, no one's happy.