Curse You, You Stupid Girl Bits

I met with the doctor yesterday for my bi-annual torture. I don’t like getting a pelvic exam. I don’t know that any woman looks forward to it, but I’ve had some pretty unforgettable experiences that make the process dread-worthy for me. Since the beautiful state of California permits me to get my birth control pills without a prescription, I pretty much decided to never go again.

See, I don’t trust doctors. Maybe once people became doctors to help people. But I’ve not met many of those. And with insurance deciding who we can see or not, what’s the point in getting recommendations from your friends as all the advice sites suggest? Seriously. What is the point? My friend, Jessica, LOVES her gynecologist. But fiscally conservative as I am, I am NOT going to pay to be tortured.

Doctors, in my experience, rush you in and half-heartedly address the concerns you’re able to express in between them covering their legal butts.

But, I’ve been in pain. Could be gas. I think it’s probably gas. But it started out feeling kind of like a bladder infection. So maybe it’s a bladder infection. Pyridium isn’t helping so maybe it isn’t a bladder infection. It’s probably gas. But gas doesn’t usually hurt all the way down there.

Drugs aren’t helping. Sleeping with a heating pad isn’t helping.

I made the appointment.

As a reward I got those awesome giant Peruvian corn nuts from Trader Joes.

I then spent the next three days intending to skip the appointment.

But I went. I medicated myself and then I went.

And the doctor rush, rush, rushed, talking non-stop.  So I felt like I was being rude when–with my feet up on a table and the doctor already saying, ‘spread and relax’–I spluttered out, “Well really, the only thing that got me to make this well-woman exam appointment is that everything below my belly button has been hurting for a few days or I guess, like a month or so.”

The doctor did stop for a moment, surprised, it seemed, that I might have a medical complaint. The next words out of her mouth were, “Whoa. Your cervix just exploded.”

Oh good. Just what I wanted to hear.

She looked at me for my response while she stirred her bloody brush in the pap smear solution.

I went in to the room terrified. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to come up with any response to that. “Interesting. Do you care to speculate on what that could mean?” Did not come out of my mouth.

I don’t remember a lot of the rest of the exam. I remember one phrase clearly:

“Well the good thing about all of this [gesturing at the abdominal area] is that we don’t really need it so we can take it all out.”

RIGHT.

So now I’m sitting here, getting the word out about my latest book (Junior—A Wyrdos Tale about the adventures of the boogeyman’s son!) and trying NOT to WebMD my symptoms.

That’s a lie. And I know I’m not fooling you. I WebMD the shit of my symptoms while I was still in the lab giving them all of my blood and drinking enough water to give them a big enough sample for the battery of tests the doctor ordered.

I have all the symptoms of cervical cancer.

Of course I do.

But HERE’s the good news. (Shockingly, no, the good news isn’t REALLY that my uterus is extraneous.) I did a quick review of my life–as you do when you’ve convinced yourself there’s a possibility that you’re dying–and I’m good with it. Sure, I’d like to not have to go to the dayjob but I like those people. They’re kind of awesome and I wouldn’t run into most of them if I didn’t have that job. Plus, there’s the insurance, which I’m definitely gonna need.

But I’m spending most of my time writing books and introducing my characters to people and I LOVE that. If it turns out I’m really dying, I’m probably gonna want to write Callie’s Queen before the rest of the Consortium Battle trilogy. But that’s the only major change I’d make.

Well, that and I’d make immediate plans to visit Ireland. I can’t believe I’ve never been.

Too bad it’s probably just gas.