Disclaimer: This is a story about lady bits. Dysfunctional lady bits. If you have issues with lady bits, dysfunctional or no (but especially dysfunctional), go wander around WordPress, there are some lovely blogs here.
There are man bits. And there are lady bits. Hopefully the twain shall meet. Often. Cuz both bits together are a world of fun.
Sometimes, however, issues arise. For instance, as a hypothetical example, when the lady bits start bleeding and they really shouldn’t be. Visions of the big C start dancing in one’s head, because it’s much more dramatic than figuring, “A three-week period, hey! it must be the last hurray! After this I’m done!! Is it me or is it hot in here? You over there, come here so I can rip your head off.”
One then sees one’s doctor who requests an ultrasound. All well and good. The ultrasound reveals what seems to be a polyp. The doctor sends one on to a specialist who decides that one really needs a hysteroscopy. A hysteroscopy entails, for those not in the know, having a camera stuck up one’s cootchie, shoved through one’s cervix and poked around one’s uterus. Interesting concept to say the least.
One thinks, “Hey Cool! I’ll get to see the inside of my uterus on TV! Get some use out of the damn thing! Plus, drugs! Drugs are always good.” Ha!
For some reason the drugs are anti-anxiety meds. One wasn’t that anxious. One should have known better. One should have been very anxious indeed. Something against pain would have been nice one thinks, because, hey, it turns out a cervix is not really partial to being forced open. A cervix likes to stay tightly shut. The whole “lets-shove-a-camera-up-you” thang does not sit well with a cervix. It protests. Loudly. Sometimes one is obliged to squeeze one’s spouse’s hand into tiny little pieces while enunciating, quite loudly, “MOTHERFUCK!” or words to that effect.
At which point the doctor says “You really have an unusually tight cervix.”
And then they’re through. Hurray, from here on out it’s a free ride. Except, no. Turns out a uterus doesn’t like being played in either. In defense a uterus cramps. A lot. Just sayin’.
At this point, the faint of heart might want to go watch a rerun of I love Lucy or take a walk or have a nice long soak in the tub, because as it happens, one’s uterus is full of pus. Which now has an exit route. Yeah. Out it comes. That’s some nasty shit right there.
Doctor is all “Whoa!” One is all “What?” and “Ewww” And doctor vacuums out the U and sends a sample to the lab for analysis. “No evidence of polyps. See you in a couple of months”. “Huh”?
May one just make an aside here to note the indignity of the whole procedure? Laying there, legs wide open, cootchie to the wind, a guy’s head between one’s legs (and not for the right reasons) shoving what feels like the contents of a toolbox up there. Not to mention that having one’s feet in stirrups** for the better part of an hour fucking hurts or that the frigid speculum*** holding one’s cootchie open (a whole new dimension of screwed) , is also, for the record, not fun. Until it warms up. And then it’s still not fun. Really, would it be too much to ask to warm. The. Damn. Thing. UP?
May one also mention here how completely ecstatic one is in these moments that one never chose to have kids? Cuz really. Ouch!
And as another aside, that god guy? Total asshole:
To the woman he said, “I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.” (New International Version)
Biotch! that’ll teach you to eat apples!!! This guy had issues. Why worship someone who… oh yeah. Worlds of pain otherwise… Total asshat sadist.
Gods. Pfft. They are highly overrated.
Anyway, being all kick-ass 21st century, once one has slept the day away because the fucking meds finally hit, one turns to the almighty Google (now there’s something to worship!). As it happens, this condition is actually quite prevalent. In bitches. The four-legged kind. In humans not so much. So very not so much…
Cut to two months later, back in the doctor’s office for results: Irritation.
No shit Sherlock. Irritation. Medicalese for “we have no fucking idea thank you very much, maybe she has canine genes”. Then, the doctor (not the same one) innocently says “Oh, by the way, we have to do it again, no biopsy was take the first time”.
What!?! You were in there, you emptied, you filmed, you vacuumed. You freaking dusted and washed the windows and floors. And you didn’t take a damn biopsy while you were hanging out in there? Are you fucking kidding me? At least this doctor was a woman and she had the decency to be apologetic. Not that it helped.
So we did it all again. Without the drugs. With the nausea inducing cramping. Results in three weeks. Hoping to discover I’m not actually a bitch.
Did I mention how thrilled I am I didn’t have kids?
* Title courtesy of Brigitte
** What’s with those stupid metal stirrups? After all these years they haven’t found something more user-friendly? I’ll bet if men were the majority users, they’d be as cushy as a puffy leather recliner
*** The word always reminds of speculoos cookies. Which are yummy. Which the cold-ass speculum is not