the panacea for a probing is a 40 minute spin class

col·pos·co·py [kol-pos-kuh-pee] noun. it sounds so much friendlier in the medical lexicon than "pap smear with fondue fork".

i've had one of these done before; i know what to expect.

"oh, your blood pressure is slightly high today, i wonder if you're just anxious about the procedure...?"

[well, maybe if you had a cocktail and some peanuts on that metal trolley over there, oh wait, no, just long swabs, and a bunch of steel skewers in sanitized packaging, how about i lie back here on this sanitary napkin throw pillow and just relax].

if hasidic jews can fornicate through a 200 thread count sheet, then i honestly don't understand why, in this day and age, we can't have a more puritan approach to the pap.

and why do we need another person in the room?

"are you her back up? will you be sitting on me in case i decide to jump up and run?"

...

"no, she's here to pass me things."

and before the good doctor could even wax lyrical about the weather/holiday plans/my inconsequentially tipped uterus i steered the conversation to something far more comfortable; "so, do you have many people fart in your face when you do one of these?"

bless her, she started laughing into my crotch, "20 minutes ago, actually. occasionally, even with a little something solid".

i was told to come back in four months for a follow up probe. i'm bringing the fart machine next time.

forgive me, but it's been three years since my last yucky doctor appointment

"i know you have a different priority to focus on for the next 5 minutes, but i just took my shoes off, and i'm so sorry, but my feet really smell".

it's hard to break the ice with the professional who will be poking around in your tropic of capricorn, and the 10-15 minutes spent sitting and waiting on a piece of medical baking parchment provides a wonderful opportunity to notice all of the other things that will now be scrutinized from a different angle. or just a time to reflect on my own standards of personal hygiene and the fact that i probably should have at least removed the last few chippings of toenail polish/pumiced off the calluses/not (repeatedly) picked at the bug bite on my ankle, which now looks purple and somewhat necrotic/shaved my legs in even lawn stripes (versus the hacked up weedwacker stubble).

i considered (for about 3 seconds), whipping out a cellphone to tell her i just wanted to tweet from the twat doctor's, but i also really wanted to ask if many people had farted in her face. instead, i just haemorrhaged from the mouth.

"those scabs that look like rug burn- i fell down on a trail run yesterday. and err, those bruises on my calves are from bike pedals. and uhm, you're going to see some really odd looking chafing, but that's from a 17 mile run i did last weekend".

and after running the baby belly gauntlet in the waiting room to the exit, she gave me absolution for another year.

WWYD- for a friend?

as children we will do "anything" for our friends; stay up the entire night, eat a whole box of betty crocker brownie mix, and hold each other's hair out of the toilet bowl when brownie bile is resurrected at 3am. as adults, we will (conditionally) do the same thing (there is no such thing as being too old for cake mix) depending on how much the co-dependency levels are fluctuating.

i empathize with the resistance to making an office co-payment, but a recent discussion heard one (straight) (and married) acquaintance sharing how she had engaged in ways that only a gynecologist should. as the subject or object of this particular "i have a tampon that has been stuck inside for over a week, and i'm in pain, and i cant get it out, will you please come over and help me" scenario, i think i may have feigned a flat tyre/herpes of the finger/newly discovered lesbian tendencies.

i have interupted my sleep to do an airport run at 4am. it was even a close friend.

not for the squeamish

the yukky doctor; round 2. the nurse led me to a special "procedure room", where she informed me that the YD was going to perform something that had at least 5 syllables, and ended in "oscopy" (good thing i had just emptied my bladder).

she familiarized me (as a way to alleviate anxiety?) with the assortment of 12 inch metal instruments that would be part of said procedure. it really looked like she was getting ready to assemble kebabs for a BBQ (can i get one with an ovary on it?) all the while calling me "sweetie" (yes, i wanted to slap her for that too).

i was instructed to disrobe and sit on the padded paper (exactly how much fluid was she planning on siphoning?) and informed that i would definitely feel cramps and more than likely bleed. on her way out of the door, to give me pre-stirrup "privacy", she noted the feminine hygiene products ("heavy flow") for my conveniance.

before i could ask about skipping next year's exam (doing double duty in one month should count for something) the YD said she wanted to see me (and my bits) back in 6 months. aging is happening, my uterus will need a zimmer frame to shuffle around on. if the YD starts talking mammograms at the next appointment, i will resign myself to the fact it is time to start shopping for dr scholl's orthopaedic shoes in their only shade of tan.

take that speculum and shove it...

"this is the dr's office...you know, the one who pokes, probes and scrapes you...well, we just wanted to call and leave you a friendly message to tell you that we have your test results back, but we're not actually going to tell you if you've passed or failed, we're just going to leave you hanging, and then when YOU call back, well, we're not going to be available to take your call at that time, so you'll have to leave a message for us asking about the test results...and then when we try to call back, well you wont be there, so we'll leave an even shorter message, and this will go on all afternoon until you begin leaving threats on our voicemail about bodily harm with a speculum."

"your results showed glandular cells, blah, blah blah. dr. "poke 'n probe" would like you to come in again, blah, blah, blah, it's probably just inaccurate because of the time that you came in, blah, blah, blah, she would just like to be sure, so she wants to take the scraping from a little higher up."

where exactly, my left ventricle?

not to beat a dead horse, into my now 6 storey soapbox, but i am not a sickie. i do not revel in the ritual of form filling, cheque writing, and flicking through tatty copies of people magazine from the 1980's. i realize that for some individuals, this is both an opportunity to take time off work, and then upon returning to work, a way to bore the shit out of the rest of us with the intricacies of their sinus problems. however, in the past month i have been to: the mole doctor (who cut and burned my skin), the yukky doctor (ky jelly and a backless paper gown), and the UTI doctor (thankfully no lube or branding). now i have to follow back up with the mole doctor so he can check that the aforementioned wounds are healing (they are), in addition to shelling out another copayment to rule out the less than 1% chance of ovarian cancer because the front desk scheduled my uterus at it's most "inflamed".

my fuse is short, must be the pms. so...obviously the appointment is scheduled for next week.

ageing and the yukky doctor

apparently women not only cycle together, but they also schedule to see their gynecologist's at the same time (not in the "going to the bathroom together" way). in the past week, four of my clan have all stirruped up for their "annual".

perhaps more torturous than being subjected to the probing and scraping, is having to listen to whitney houston wailing at you while trying to remember if your great aunt had polyps or a prolapse, on the litany of forms provided. market researchers at an institute somewhere in bangladesh have obviously identified womens' easy listening radio as the best way to relax, and trigger the braxton-hicks.

i will spare the paper gown gory details, because ultimately they were trumped by the reccomendation that, at 32, i need to begin taking a daily calcium supplement. i am, indeed, closer to brittle bones than beginner's bras.

what do a gynecologist and hairdresser have in common?

answer: patients/clients who are able to overcome their comittment issues.

there are very few women i know that will change their "service provider" once they have identified one that they trust, not necessarily like, but definitely feel "comfortable" with. the professional that is wielding the appropriate metal device will then be followed (sometimes even stalked), with unwavering loyalty, over office or salon moves, health insurance changes, and quite often, state lines. sometimes for decades, and even in spite of retirement.

i went 5 months, FIVE (caps and long hand are necessary to convey the emotional scarring), without going to the hairdresser when i moved to san diego. this is far too long to be walking around with a skunk stripe of dark roots for all to see, but wait and wear hats i did. i could not bring myself to go to another stranger, only to leave in tears, because she didnt do it; "the way KIM did it".