I have to go to the lady parts doctor today. I know, I know. Ew. Gross. How dare I casually mention that I have a vagina! And on the Internet to boot, where children might see it! While on their way to whatever website 9-year-old’s are hanging out these days, which I’ll never find out because I am ancient!
But just be glad you only have to read about it. I’m the one who actually has to go and sit pants-less on hygienic demon paper for 37 minutes while Dr. Bony Fingers soaks her hands in dry ice before beginning the examination.
As I’m sure you can tell, I am not looking forward to this particular visit, fun though it is to have medieval-looking devices fiddling around down there. In fact, you could say I’m downright nervous.
Now normally, being nervous before a doctor’s appointment, any doctor’s appointment, is just par for the course for me. It’s one of my oh-so-amusing quirks that would make me a great sidekick in a really bad sitcom. Take going to the eye doctor. I dread going to the eye doctor. I always feel like I’m failing all their tests, because unlike all other doctor tests, the eye doctor INSISTS you participate.
“Can you read the first five lines of the chart, please?”
“Yeah…uh…E F P T O Z L P E D P um…another P…that’s a lot of P’s, man, um…C T …O?…or maybe U?…Z D um, I have no idea so let’s go with P again cause I’m assuming P’s are like the C’s of standardized tests in the eye world, huh?…no?…um…Q? another Q? um…P…I failed, didn’t I?”
And if that weren’t bad enough, then they shove that giant machine in your face and demand you make a series of high stakes, rapid-fire decisions that will quite literally affect how you see the world for the next year.
“Is this one clearer or that one?”
“Um…the first one?”
“OK. That one or that one?”
“I…I don’t know. The second one? Or, no! Wait! The first one! I think. STOP PRESSURING ME!”
I am also not a big fan of going to the dentist.
“Have you been flossing?”
“Cause it doesn’t look like it.”
“Hey man, you don’t know my life!”
But the lady parts doctor is its own unique kind of clinical hell. Let’s just put it this way, the biggest lie that has ever been told in the history of the world is “you may feel a little pinch.”
But this time, the nervousness is slightly warranted. The reason I’m having Dr. Lady McParts kick the tires and check under the ‘ol hood is because my husband and I want to start trying to get pregnant again. One, because my husband wants another child and two, and much more importantly, I want a 9-month free pass to yell at everyone and eat cheeseburgers for breakfast.
But I’ve been having some symptoms. Of what, you ask? I have no idea. Nothing major, I’m optimistically assuming. Just a few things that made me raise one eyebrow and go “huh.” But I can tell you that according to Google, I am dying (because Google never looks at your symptoms and says “Holy crap, you are almost TOO healthy!”). However, I thought a second opinion was warranted before I drew up a will leaving all my vast estate holdings to my son.
“It says here that when Riker comes of age, he shall inherit all his mother’s back-issues of BUST magazine and her vintage ‘Drink More Wine’ t-shirt.”
I know it’s pointless to worry. But it’s also pointless to watch ‘Hart of Dixie’ on Netflix and I can’t stop doing that either. (Oh, Lemon Breeland, when will you learn?).
Because it’s not just my health at stake here, scary though that is. It affects the future of my entire family. Whenever something is amiss in that particular geographical region of your body and you are of a certain age, your first thought is “Oh god, what if I can’t have more children?” And generally, once that thought enters your head, you realize with horror just how much you truly wanted another baby. And how much your partner wants another baby. And how much your first-born needs a sibling so he doesn’t have to deal with those future nursing home “your mom bit a nurse again” phone calls alone.
And yes, we can adopt. And yes, we can be perfectly happy with just one child (some people don’t even get that). And yes, we can bring home a bunch of shelter dogs who can pitter-patter their little feet with the best of ‘em.
All things my husband and I have been saying as a mantra the past month.
Wish me luck.