I am uncertain who made the golden rule that visiting the gynecologist each and every year was a requirement, but I would love to punch them straight in the mouth (and then subsequently apologize profusely for my rudeness, put a bag of frozen peas on their broken nose and offer them some sort of enticing beverage. This is what non-confrontational people DO. They only punch people in their daydreams). I am fully aware that in the long run, this is a preventative measure in the world of female health, but in the short run, it causes all sorts of anxiety and good old fashioned terror. There are metal things that should stay in drawers, people. That is all I will say about that. There are men in the room. (And some of them are GYNECOLOGISTS. Which I will never understand).
So, this whole adult thing that I have been doing recently causes me to become hyper-aware of things like insurance deadlines, premiums, and deductibles, which basically means that I have to follow the guidelines set forth by the people we pay boatloads of money to every month in the event that one of us breaks a bone playing softball (which will never happen, because we don’t PLAY SOFTBALL — in your FACE, Blue Cross), or has a hernia repair surgery (which actually DID happen a few years ago to our primary insurance carrier, also known as spouse — THANK YOU Blue Cross). With that being said, I had a deadline to meet — visit the gynecologist for my annual “lady visit” (which is a polite way Southern women explain where they are going on a random Tuesday afternoon at 11:15am).
Once you schedule said appointment, you basically break out in hives and continue nursing those hives until the actual day of the appointment. You begin to notice that you should probably paint your toenails or at the very least wear a pair of socks that do not belong to your husband. You are suddenly aware of how totally awkward your body has become after birthing three kids in four years, oh and you know, AGING and stuff. This isn’t college anymore, this is your thirties, where your hair thins in places and thickens in others.
You have to give yourself up to the gods of gynecology at these visits, and they know everything about you. Everything. There is no faking your age, weight, or sordid past. These wizards will find a way into your soul, wallet and other areas that needn’t be discussed. For someone that can barely give a side hug in fellowship on Sunday morning, fully clothed, you can imagine what happens when you are forced to make chit chat about your kids and that killer clearance sale at Target while laying on a cold metal table like that girl from Titanic. Except there is no tragic boat sinking, scantily clad oil paintings, and no one gets paid a dime. Except of course, the insurance company, the doctors and nurses, and somehow Donald Trump. Basically, you are the one baring your self for free.
My mind wanders at these visits. I count every ceiling tile. My blood pressure, which usually is so low that they ponder if I am near death, sky rockets. I contemplate insane things like trying to run this year. I do not run. I send my kids to the mail box for me. This is the kind of insane thinking that is conjured at the gynecologist. I see politically correct posters about women’s healthcare, and graphs and diagrams that make me slightly nauseous. Am I supposed to be scheduling a mammogram at my age? What age did I tell them that I am in relation to my actual age? Why do I have to use words like “intimacy”?
Once the doctors and nurses and the janitor and everyone else that feels the need to poke their head in at my most vulnerable moment of life and say hello and ask how the farm is doing, — and if you are enjoying that Amy Poehler book you were reading in the lobby — has done so, you begin to see spots and start to lose consciousness. They know too much. They tell you to take deep breaths, and then blow like you are snuffing the flame of a birthday candle. There is no celebration here, especially since a so-called professional comments on my recent weight gain with, “Eh, it’s just your holiday weight.” My holiday weight? I should start scheduling these appointments in June. Maybe I should start running after all.
After you are finally released from the four walls of a women’s health prison, you smile and nod at all of the other suspects doing their intake information at the front. Large black and white canvases of smiling babies bid you farewell, knowing that you will be back again next year, to lose all shreds of dignity and keep your gown open in the front once again.
