I had my first *ahem* appointment with a gynecologist in approximately 7 years last week. As part of the whole "yeah, maybe we'd better look into the possibility of this 'procreation' thing with a little more clarity and intention" process, my trip to the most dreaded of all offices above even the scraping dentist and the glaucoma air puff eye doctor was imminent.
Having made it so long without having to go through the...hoopla, let's just say I felt anxious. But really, I'd call any woman out as a rotten, no good liar if she said the experience was ever breezy as a butterfly landing softly on a kitten's nose. No. In fact, I'd liken it much more to the anxiety of seeing a diapered sumo wrestler running toward you while you're backed up against a wall of Saguaro cacti. ...Yeah. Much more like that.
Let's even skip discussing the amount of energy and annoyance brought on by the idea of the prep work alone. Ah yes, I've read the articles that claim your doctor has little to no expectations in that arena, AND YET. We obsess. And assess. And now, because now I've begun to drum my thumb against my keyboard and seek awkwardness refuge glancing outside my sunlight-saturated windows, we move on.
I felt socially inept in that office. Not in a haha way, either. On top of the general pressure of the visit itself, I have so craftily avoided doctors' offices for such a long time that I was pretty convinced the building itself had me a little stupid with unfamiliarity. After the nurse took my blood pressure there was a nanomoment when it seemed she was trying to...hand me the cuff? I don't know, I reached out for it and then pushed my hand forward in a pseudo stretch move when she instead grabbed the other end and took the thing back over to the desk. Whatever. I told myself she probably didn't see that and gave myself an "I'm still cool and also super sophisticated" pep talk and moved on.
Then came the fabulous question & answer part of the game when, as a new patient, you get to regurgitate all matter of responses to inquiries into your habits, history, and the current state of your innards. Am I the only one who feels a disproportionate level of smugness when I get to say "no" to nearly all of the "Have you ever had...?" and "Do you have a family history of...?" questions? Oh, yes. I'm sure I've just impressed them because my family's stroke-free and I'm not a smoker. Then of course comes "Any family history of endometriosis?" (YESYES) and "Have you ever had issues with depression?" and you kind of want to say, "...uh, well, define 'ISSUES'", etc., etc., ick.
The fun just starts there. Truly. Then it's time for robes with weird asymmetrical openings in wrong places, avoiding the cold floor (and, let's face it, trying to feel a little less naked) by keeping on cute striped over-the-knee socks, having the "Well it's really good that you're coming in to start this process now while you've still got a little over a year before hitting 35, because..." conversation, trying to get dressed again fast fast fast yet gracefully before that stupid knock on the door, OH and I forgot to tell you about the way I wouldn't let them tell me my weight because I threw out my scale 4 years ago to avoid the very nitpicky way I watched the numbers move all day long, so they had me step on the scale backwards. Yep. This entire visit I was pretty damned dignified, alright. PRET.TY. DAMNED. MUCH.
Also, I got lost exiting the office and wandering the connected medical building/hospital hallways to find the blood lab...where I was violently assaulted by a mean, horrible sadist from the dark forces man who turned my inner elbow green and made my entire right arm ache for 3 days.
On the up side, my doctor was completely and utterly awesome, caring and upbeat. So. I'm kind of looking forward to seeing her again this week. Also because I'll get to keep my clothes on. And my blood in.
