The other morning found me on my way (crankily, and with a slight hangover. ever so slight) to an OBGYN appointment that I had successfully avoided for nearly six months, in a manner quite similar to this:
Nurse, to me: "We're just calling to let you know that your PAP results came back abnormal again, so we're going to have to take a little piece of your cervix out and send it to the lab for further analysis."
My brain to myself: "Self! This sounds important! You need that cervix for baby-having in the future! Make that appointment and don't repeatedly cancel it like you always do!"
Me, to Nurse: "Oh, um OK. I guess just put me down for the next available appointment then."
Me, to Nurse, on the day before the appointment (multiple, rescheduled appointments) "Ummmm, I've been sort of feeling under the weather/have a job interview tomorrow/have to take my dog to the vet/am going out of town/could possibly start menstruating at any moment, so we're going to need to reschedule that. Again. Sorry!" (literally, I think I rescheduled it about six times. And straight-up just missed it twice).
On the morning of the appointment that I finally decided was probably in my best interest to actually make before I turned thirty, I was running late, having overslept at NAB's place (UPDATE: having not blogged for months, readers should note that I did in fact enter a very short-lived relationship with NAB. It has since ended. By ended, I mean we are no longer 'exclusive' because we want different things. Do we still go on dates, spend significant amounts of time together, and hook-up? Naturally. But that's a blog for another day.). I was in prime walk-of-shame mode. Slightly wrinkled short, cleavage-baring dress, boots, and some serious bedhead. Complete with smeared eyeliner and serious cranky-face. There's really something special about going to get checked out at the ol' womanly doctor in the outfit and panties you wore to your booty-call the night before. And by special, I clearly mean definitely-not-something-a-girl-in-her-mid twenties-should-be-doing.
So, there, I sat, contemplating the state of my life while simultaneously wondering what this 'procedure' I was about to have would entail. I was already pretty nervous, and had been ever since I was told that 'a little piece of cervix' would be TAKEN FROM MY BODY and analyzed. Dudes, I'm no lady-parts doctor...but it seems to me that you probably need most of your cervix for important reproductive procedures. You can probably imagine the level that my already high anxiety rocketed to when my eyes fell on the procedure tray and found that amongst the shiny, clean, sterilized equipment and iodine, alcohol, and saline bottles, there was an old, sketchy looking pair of NEEDLE NOSE PLIERS! By the time the doctor came in I had worked myself into a full blown anxious frenzy and chewed off most of my manicure. As she was explaining the procedure to me, my doctor must have somehow caught on to my high anxiety level. It was probably the fact that I was breathing heavily and sort of backing away from the stirrups and towards the door. She finally sighed and asked me if I wanted to tell her what I was so worried about, because "Frankly this is a really routine thing, you're going to be just fine, there's probably nothing seriously wrong..." At which point I interrupted her to screech "There is a pair of pliers on that tray, PLIERS!!!!" She gave me a curious look and glanced over at the tray and then turned around to look at the medical assistant who almost peed her pants from laughing as she told me that the pliers were just to tighten the broken microscope. Then they both kind of looked at me like I should be embarrassed or something. I maintain that it was a pretty legitimate worry to have crossed my mind.
Since I generally live most of my life in a constant state of obsessive-compulsive worrying, it should come as no surprise that what my doctor next told me sent me right back into an anxiety spiral. Basically, she said that I'd probably have to get my uterus removed around age forty. She said that's really not a big deal, because "You're planning on having kids before then, right?" I told her that I sure hoped so. She then said: "So you're dating someone, right? Someone serious?" When I told her I wasn't I briefly caught a look of concern (and dare I say pity) pass over her face. I pretty much knew what was coming next. She told me that at my age (Jesus, is 26 the new 35?!) I really need to start "narrowing it down, and not switching from partner to partner." Gee, thanks lady. That's some solid advice right there. Essentially I had my gyno tell me to stop slutting it up and find a mate to procreate with before she snatched my uterus away from me.
Definitely one of the most shameful walk of shames I've done lately.
