Today we took a field trip to the gynecologist. On the way there, the 10-year old had a few questions. She became squeamish after my first response and then didn’t walk to talk about it any more. I guess it’s one thing to hear Oprah say “Va-jay-jay,” like it’s a talking monkey, and another to discuss the real deal.
Once in the private room, I strip down and put on the gown. My daughter begins bitching that she has to hold my clothes, since she’s sitting on the only available chair. I am amazed that she could find something to complain about when I am standing forelorn in the middle of the room, fat, practically naked, wearing an old rag that’s been worn by 17,025 other women. She wants to place my clothes in the bathroom on the toilet, allowing them to drip onto the floor and over the bowl. I do not concur.
My very genial physician enters the room, gives a quick “Hello!” and immediately goes for my plump yet somewhat saggy bosoms. My mind goes elsewhere and I think about the breast cancer media campaign: pink ribbons everywhere, yet heart disease and colon cancer kill way more women.
I definitely want to keep my boobs, but I’m in more jeopardy from the other stuff. My supporting jewelry would be blood red or colon brown; better yet, just a big fat butt with french fries sticking out the pooter. I would love to wear such a pin.
As he continues the examination, pressing on my overloaded abdomen, I think maybe I should just have a fatty liver tattooed on my left hand and the name and number of a great cardiologist on my right.
He recommends once again that I have a mammogram. I think of the 95 degree day in July when I followed his directions, did not wear deodorant, and my sweaty mammary gland got stuck on the metal plate. I had to peel it off, trying not to make any ripping noises.
He finishes off this happy meeting by telling me that I should definitely start taking cholesterol medication, lose weight and get my sugar in check. All this makes me wish I had hidden a toy spider inside my vagina.
As soon as he leaves the room, the kid wants to know, “What’s an IUD?” Out of 3,000 words she pulled three letters. Perhaps it sounded like a secret weapon, something similar to a SCUD missile.
I considered my answer for a moment. Would I say: “It’s the greatest birth control method available! I’m a big fan. Unbelievable to me that so many people do so many more difficult, expensive & troublesome things when this is available!”
I decided against that answer, since she still doesn’t even know what sex is and I doubt she could understand the whole “foreign body/spontaneous abortion” info.
I went for the heavy-duty medical terminology confusion method and told her it was an Intra-Uterine Device and asked if that meant anything she might understand. Of course it did not. Then I suggested she might want to go to medical school if she was really interested.
IUD – I Utterly Detest going to the doctor.