Jul

10

Rhetorical

Theoretically speaking, if JB said to me the other day, “Something smells funny in here . . . or actually, I guess it’s just you” then totally denied that there was anything rude about that statement (“What? You smell like whatever you’re cooking! What?”), would that make it okay for me to send him an instant message yesterday that read:

>OMG THE DR SAW 2 HEARTBEATS DURING THE ULTRASOUND

. . . or would that have been rude?

56 Comments 

Jul

9

Warm hands, cold bum

July 9, 2007

I forgot to mention in the previous post that while it was more than a little thrilling to get an ultrasound so early and confirm there is a real living baby in there (well, I guess it could have been a blob of bean-shaped Silly Putty, I suppose there’s no real way to be certain) it came at a very high cost: I had to also get a pelvic exam. From an intern. A female intern, thank god, but she was MY AGE. Or possibly younger—she certainly had nicer skin, probably from being around lubricant all day.

I know it shouldn’t really matter who is wedging a freezing cold speculum in my hinterlands, as long as they’re qualified and have a decent bedside manner, but still. Awkward. I like a comfortable age buffer between me and my stirrup partner, is all I’m saying.

Is it weird to be told you’re going to have a Pap smear, and immediately panic because you didn’t know ahead of time? I had this feeling like I should have spruced up the place, maybe put a little welcome mat out in front. Because during that cringeworthy moment when they get you all spread-eagle and yoink that light over to get a better look—all I can think is, where’s an airbrusher when you need one. If ever there was a time for a selective real-life Gaussian blur, it’s when someone’s aiming a bright light at your embarrassed naked vagina, that’s when.

Also, am I the only dork who breaks out in nervous hyena giggles during a breast exam? It’s not the boob handling that gets me, it’s the part where they briefly root in your armpit. Every time I sternly tell myself I am NOT going to laugh, and every time I crack up like a sixth grader in astronomy class (Uranus, huh huh huh huh). “Ticklish?” the Youthful Intern asked.

“HAR!” I replied, suavely.

The best part was how my doctor came in during the exam, and proceeded to have a totally chatty conversation with me while I was lying there on my back with my southern exposure all, you know, exposed. The doctor’s going, “So! Did you get that tan around here or were you on vacation?” and at the same time the intern’s got half her arm and possibly also a lacrosse racket up my lady parts.

The visit was basically fraught with humiliation right from the get-go, when they first called me in and a nurse presented me with two cups and a Byzantine set of instructions: “I’ll need approximately this much urine in this cup, and then if you can stop the stream, wipe with this, and resume urinating into this cup, and then I’ll need about this much.” Yeah, just TRY not to pee on yourself when you’re dutifully following those steps—you can wash all you want, but the fact remains that you peed on your own hand, jesus, it was all warm.

In summary: ultrasound = good, remainder of appointment = somewhat lacking in the personal dignity department.

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