That doesn't sound fun. I think I'll pass, thanks.
So I'm sitting in a new OB/GYN's office, because I've recently gotten health insurance back, and my old OB/GYN doesn't take my new insurance. Anthony and I are TTC, so I want to make sure all my parts are in the right places. Picked this doctor out of the phone book.
I'm skeeved right quick because of the women waiting in the waiting room with me. One 60ish woman with a romance novel sucks and slurps and clicks on her dentures about every three seconds. There's no Musak or anything, so every slurp sets off my inner gag reflex. Then there's the woman with moles all over her neck who is wearing a floral skirt... and pilled black socks and black sneakers. I wonder if she's been recently homeless. Then the woman with the knit cap that appears to have lasted at least two decades without a washing. I am in the wrong part of town.
I begin thinking about the fact that these women are going to have their hoo-has all out in the same room I'm about to be in, and I nearly leave. I don't even want to touch the pen they give me to fill out my paperwork. I inspect it for lice. I think if the doc had waited about five minutes longer, I'd have been in the parking lot. But I made it, and thank God for...
(Men, you probably should stop reading here, if you haven't already.)
...plastic, disposable speculums. They look like salad tongs. I've never seen them before, but I am endlessly pleased to see them now. All the instruments are wrapped like condiment packs at a fast food joint.
So I go through with it without much more in the way of digust. And the damn woman finds the lump in my boob that I thought for sure was gone by now. I was supposed to take care of this more than two years ago... the last time I had insurance. Anyway, she looks really concerned and has her assistant call and make an appointment for a mammogram and a biopsy while I'm standing there. This really must be bad, because she gets me an appointment for three days from now. Nothing works that fast unless you're a goner.
So 'm getting my first mammogram ever on Thursday. It feels like a rite of passage of some sort. I've never had pancake boobs before. Then they analyze the results, then they schedule the biopsy. Now, that's the part I'm really not looking forward to. A needle? In my ladypart?
Why can't they just trust me that it's nothing? 'Cause I'm telling you, it's nothing. I made this deal with God a couple of years ago. It went like this:
Me: Okay, God, cut the crap.
God: Fine. Party pooper.
So we're good. But the mortal is making me go check it out anyway. And I'm not allowed to get preggers in the meantime. Yarg.
I'm skeeved right quick because of the women waiting in the waiting room with me. One 60ish woman with a romance novel sucks and slurps and clicks on her dentures about every three seconds. There's no Musak or anything, so every slurp sets off my inner gag reflex. Then there's the woman with moles all over her neck who is wearing a floral skirt... and pilled black socks and black sneakers. I wonder if she's been recently homeless. Then the woman with the knit cap that appears to have lasted at least two decades without a washing. I am in the wrong part of town.
I begin thinking about the fact that these women are going to have their hoo-has all out in the same room I'm about to be in, and I nearly leave. I don't even want to touch the pen they give me to fill out my paperwork. I inspect it for lice. I think if the doc had waited about five minutes longer, I'd have been in the parking lot. But I made it, and thank God for...
(Men, you probably should stop reading here, if you haven't already.)
...plastic, disposable speculums. They look like salad tongs. I've never seen them before, but I am endlessly pleased to see them now. All the instruments are wrapped like condiment packs at a fast food joint.
So I go through with it without much more in the way of digust. And the damn woman finds the lump in my boob that I thought for sure was gone by now. I was supposed to take care of this more than two years ago... the last time I had insurance. Anyway, she looks really concerned and has her assistant call and make an appointment for a mammogram and a biopsy while I'm standing there. This really must be bad, because she gets me an appointment for three days from now. Nothing works that fast unless you're a goner.
So 'm getting my first mammogram ever on Thursday. It feels like a rite of passage of some sort. I've never had pancake boobs before. Then they analyze the results, then they schedule the biopsy. Now, that's the part I'm really not looking forward to. A needle? In my ladypart?
Why can't they just trust me that it's nothing? 'Cause I'm telling you, it's nothing. I made this deal with God a couple of years ago. It went like this:
Me: Okay, God, cut the crap.
God: Fine. Party pooper.
So we're good. But the mortal is making me go check it out anyway. And I'm not allowed to get preggers in the meantime. Yarg.
