Your Scissors and My Cervix: A Love Story

First and foremost, I’d like to address my recent blogging absence. As is true in most facets of my life, without fail I will start a hobby and just as I'm starting to get good at it, I will then abandon it without warning. It's been a full two weeks since my last blog entry, and I’m surprised I haven’t lost any readers yet. Needless to say I've obviously been quite busy between the Thanksgiving holiday, my Ten Year High School Reunion and a host of other engagements, therefore I just haven’t had the time. Plenty of blogging inspiration, just no time to write it all down for your viewing pleasure. Lucky for you, I'm no longer on vacation and now have company time to do so! So please accept my sincerest apologies. I won’t let it happen again.

With that said, since I didn’t lose any followers over the past two weeks, I figure I might as well try my hardest to lose them now. DISCLAIMER: I'm about to get pretty deep into some "Womanly Stuff" - all for the sake of humor, of course - so please stop reading now if you’re opposed to the sensitive subject matter. You’ve been forewarned.

As I alluded to above, I recently had a medical “procedure” performed. I’m not going to go into too much detail about the actual procedure itself since my dad reads this blog. Call me crazy, but I’d prefer to continue the habit of looking him in the eye when I see him. I’m sure most of the females who are reading this are pretty in tune with what procedure I'm talking about, but if not, I've included some helpful hints in picture format.

My procedure involved the use of THIS:

And THESE:

And scariest of all, THESE:

All served with a side of utter humiliation.

My doctor’s office called a few weeks ago to inform me that I needed to return after my annual physical for further “investigation” and that I needed to schedule the appointment with a doctor for the procedure. I’d never before seen an actual doctor at this location, only a Nurse Practitioner, so the receptionist was kind enough to select a doctor for me on my behalf.  I hung up the phone satisfied with her selection of a doctor for me – Dr. McNeer – and imagined a pleasant procedure, abetted by an older, ruddy cheeked, jolly Irish lass with a hearty brogue. I waited out the few days patiently for my appointment, and by "patiently" I mean I drilled everyone I know for information about what I was about to experience. It appears that the procedure itself is pretty standard in the world of “womenry”, as most everyone I’ve talked to has had a similar experience, but I was still nervous nonetheless. I don’t like anyone poking and prodding in my nether regions without buying me dinner first. Yes, I just went there with the requisite gynecology “buy me dinner first” joke. 

I’m so predictable.

On the day of the appointment, my mom came with me in the exam room, armed with her clipboard of questions and a myriad of printed out pages from WebMD. As my mother launched her PowerPoint presentation about common medical malpractice and negligent risks, she drilled the nurse with incessant questions about my "condition". Namely, "IS SHE STILL GONNA BE ABLE TO GIVE ME GRANDBABIES!?" When, and only when, my mother was satisfied in the repeated assurances by the nurse that contrary to her vast internet medical research her first born daughter was not at risk of dying right then and there on the exam table, did the two finally leave me alone in the exam room to get ready for the procedure. So there I sat on the exam table, naked from the waist down (save for my socks and a paper sheet folded over my lap), swinging my (unshaven) legs and reading about summer trends in an outdated US Weekly.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

A strong, sturdy knock.

A confident knock.

A MANLY knock.

“Come in!” I yelled out in my most singsong “you’re about to see me naked” voice.

The door opens with a click, and then I hear a booming male voice from the other side of the curtain.

"Hi Jennifer, I’m Dr. Robert McNeer." He rounds the curtain and faces me, his outstretched hand awaiting mine.

Oh my friggen lord.

“Um. Hello.” I manage to eek out as I limply shake his hand. My mind starts racing... “Sir, I think you’ve taken a wrong turn. YOU'RE IN THE WRONG ROOM, SIR. WRONG ROOM. We’ve got WOMEN business going on in here. Where is your WIFE, Dr. Roberta McNeer with her ruddy cheeks and Irish brogue?”

It never even crossed my mind that my doctor might be the opposite sex. I’ve never before seen a male doctor, and I was particularly shaken about having a male doctor for this particular procecure which involved having a massive microscope akin to the Hubble Telescope inserted into my body, followed by several biopsies on my cervix. What did this man know about cervixes? (cervixi?) I quickly scanned the room for exits with my peripherals. I frantically tried to determine how to best make my getaway, albeit a naked from the waist down getaway, although looking back I’m sure I could have fashioned the paper sheet to look like a wrap dress if I tried real hard. Sadly, I realized that even if I did manage to escape the exam room, my mother would block my exit from the building like a linebacker, and drag me back in to Dr. McNeer by the ear shouting all the while "Oh no you don't! I WANT GRANDBABIES!".

Escape not being an option, I decided to just grin and bear it. I cursed myself for not shaving my legs that morning. Women doctor's understand that sort of thing! It’s winter for chrissakes! Razor cartridges are expensive! In the same thought, I quietly thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t taken my boyfriend’s suggestion of shaving a lightening bolt into my crotch. How embarrassing would that have been? Totally would have sent the wrong message to Dr. McNeer about the type of person who lay legs up in the air in stirrups before him. But a WOMAN doctor would understand my need for individuality.

So I’ll spare you the rest of the awkward procedure, save for the fact that Dr. McNeer was cheerful and pleasant, totally professional, and even tried to make a few jokes here and there. Unfortunately I was still miffed at the recent turn of events, therefore I was having none of it. I was simply not interested in making pleasantries. Dr. McNeer took a couple of biopsies, and informed me that for the most part “everything looked good up there”.

I was confused.

Again, this was a MALE doctor, so when he said "Everything looked good up there" did he mean everything looked good up there as in “I’m healthy” or everything looked good up there, as in “he wanted to be seeing more of it?”

I debated slapping him, but thought better of it. One will never know his true intentions, I guess.

Shoeless, and still buttoning my jeans, I rushed out of the exam room and into the waiting area where my mother sat chewing her fingernails in wait. I grabbed the magazine from her hands, threw it on the chair next to her,  pulled her out of her seat by the coat sleeve, and whispered “Let's go. NOW.” through gritted teeth. Looking back, I don't suppose it would have looked any different had I been holding a gun to her back.

Once in the safety of my car, I called my boyfriend and told him all the lurid details about having been violated by a man. Of course he wanted to know immediately how this procedure would affect him personally, so the first question out of his mouth was – excuse me – SECOND question (the first question was “so did he wear a lighted miners hat?), was "so when can we, you know, do IT again".

I broke the news that it would be a good seven days before we could, you know, do IT again.

To which he replied “Oh good, so basically nothing will change”.

I hate men.