Back In The Stirrups Again

I was given a challenge last night. It was a throw-down to incorporate two subjects into one blog for tonight: my (then) upcoming yearly pelvic exam/mammogram and what must be the wacky experience of finding nazis in one's family. Now, I hate to admit defeat right off the bat as much as anyone, but I'm also smart enough to know this is probably way beyond the realms of possibility and probable good taste. So I'll keep to one subject and call it a day.

And so was today my yearly "woman's physical." This is one of those things I endure every 12 or so months, like a good girl, the discomfort, uneasiness, downright pain, and yes, worst of all, the expense, today $355, none of which is covered by my insurance plan, the "Never Pay Policy." (I had to fork out $291 today, and life till the 15th's gonna be pretty slim.)

Nothing much changes from year to year at this ritual, and for that I guess I should be happy. I'd hate to suddenly lie down, assume the position, accept the speculum, and have bells and sirens go off and the Channel 10 News Team show up to report what surely must be one more case of some vaginal epidemic sweeping the nation. So a quick exam, a quick mammogram, and on my way, I guess I shan't complain.

There were a couple of small craw-stickers today, though. First of all, when I arrived and signed in ("Mystery Patient, would you enter and sign in please!"), I once again received the clipboard with the big long questionnaire on it. I've been going to good ol' Dr Keene & Physicians to Women four years now. Four years I've had to walk in and fill this fucker out. The first time, sure, I was new. The second and third times they were moving and updating their computers. At least this time they had the common decency to just come out with it: "It's time for all your information again!" Why can't these sadistas just come up with a system wherein, "if it's different, tell us." I'm convinced this filling out of the personal information is the equivalent of the Python sketch where the man has to fill the huge urine bottle for his insurance specimen. "Do you really need that much?" he asks. "No, we just want to make sure you're serious about buying insurance." Anyway, I've decided that next year when handed The Form, I'm filling in all new and different information just to see if they notice.

The other bugaboo today was an extra long wait time. Now, the Dr was behind due to a slight emergency, and I understand that. I also had a brand new book to start reading, pretty comfy chairs to stretch out in, and a steady stream of rain on the window. I was fine.

For a while.

Then I came face to face with the cold reality I'd heretofore forgotten. Gynecologists' offices aren't all filled with smart, quiet, single gals there for their yearly physicals or a fill-up on birth control. They can also be filled with women having babies.

When I was lead to the waiting area for Dr Keene, I slinked into a chair and began reading. There was a couple sitting on the other end of the area talking quietly to each other. Then down the hall came a young and quite pregnant woman. A nurse introduced her to the other woman in the area, pointing between the two. "Triplets? Triplets!"

Good Lord. I was amongst six babies-to-be.

And so for the next fifteen or so minutes, the more I buried my nose into the witty musings of Bill Bryson, the harder it was to eliminate the baby conversation from my head. "This is what 24 weeks looks like!" "I'm at 16!" "Well, my twenty four will be Wednesday." "My 16 will be Wednesday!!" Oh, these women hadn't been sick a day and they were both just brimming with energy. One of the women had another child at home already. Jesus Christ, I thought. I can't get it together to get a dog. These women are getting ready to fill their houses to the brim with babies and dance the Highland Fling while doing so. Maybe I need me some triplets!

Eventually, the two women and their six babies toddled off their separate ways and I was alone again. For a second. Then in came a young woman with with a baby carrier. She sat down, opened it up, and unwrapped a baby that was approximately 45 minutes old. I'm convinced this baby was born in the elevator on the way up to the office. She immediately began to talk to the baby, in the form of asking it questions, every question twice. "Did oo pit up? Did oo pit up on your onesie?" she continued to ask, as if expecting the answer, "Why yes, I did spit up on my onesie, dear, I'm afraid the trauma of being squeezed out of the womb in a moving elevator a few minutes ago has left me rather nauseous, if you don't mind."

And on it went, the incessant questions, baby talk, and the like. Just as I was about to give up and pretend to faint, she said something. "Ooo wuv your Aunt Jennie?" Well, that's OK. She's an aunt! All is forgiven! Everyone knows aunts are the coolest relatives.

Shortly after that, during the "coaxing baby to have a widdle burpie" session I heard a rather full and zesty burp. I glanced over to realize that it was in fact our Aunt Jennie who had a widdle burpie for herself. So, aunts are usually the coolest relatives, OK?

And thank the Lord, it was then my turn to hop upon the table for magic time. While waiting for the Dr to come in, something caught my eye.

Her office is filled with all kinds of goodies, tampons and pads and samples of new items. There was a display of a new kind of birth control device that for some reason fascinated me. It was called NuvaRing. In fact, I was so intrigued I took a pamphlet out with me, and had a look at it over lunch. And after looking at one and reading about it, by damn, I think I've decided I could make one of the little buggers myself.

And so add one more item to my list of things to do in the new year. Put more money in savings, work harder at learning the autoharp, and construct my own homemade birth control device.

And call now for my next year's exam. The wait time for this appointment was seven months.