Yearly Check Up

 

Fucking shit. Nothing worse than realizing your time is up, and it's time to get personally checked under the hood again. Why on earth would I write about going to see the gyno? Because I had a rather grand visit there recently, that's why.

I can be an anxious person at times, but nothing sends me into a spin more than hitting up this exam. Every year this visit becomes more and more painful, and I don't mean physically, I mean emotionally.

I do not own a scale of any kind (not even for cooking, because I'm not that precise). I don't weigh myself because my clothing tells me enough, and I feel it's just not healthy for me, as I can obsess.

So what's the first thing I get to do upon arrival (after waiting an hour surrounded by pregnant women and small children), I step on the scale. The scale being in the hallway next to the waiting room for all to see. I know they can't fully see the number, I just don't need an audience. It's like having someone at a carnival guess your weight, no one over sixteen picks that option. Eventually we all opt to have them guess our birthday.

At this office, although it sounds like a carnival with all the kids running around,  I step on, the audience is present, but there is no chance of a prize, bullshit. The least they could do is fancy a guess and toss some condoms or pamphlets my way.

After the pain of seeing a number I didn't want to see flash up on the scale, I walked my way down to the room to await doctor claw. I can feel myself fighting tears, and I try to pass it off as allergies when he finally enters the room.

I sit across from him, and he pulls out my sheet. The conversation goes like this:

DOC: How old are you now?
ME: Thirty
DOC: Married? Do you have a husband?
ME: No
DOC: Any children?
ME: Nope
DOC: Any pregnancies?
ME: No
DOC: Sexually active?
ME: Do I count as a partner?

Or maybe I just said NO and slumped further into my chair looking at my life and wondering if I'll be alone forever.

He proceeded with the medical questions and once he finished and scolded me for smoking, handed me the teeny tiny gown and excused himself. I hate getting into that shit, it's bad enough I suffered through a weigh in and questions that make me depressed, I now get to attempt to get myself into what appears to be a child's apron.

I await the return, and stand awkwardly to conceal my nudity which feels like it's popping out from all sides. The doctor returns with a young woman. He introduces her as a med student, and before he can go on I know what he's about to ask me.

I am all for training. Everyone starts new, and has to practice. But why must they all practice on me? A bad haircut I can get over, a bad exam in my under region, no thank you.

Alas, I say yes and now have an audience of two staring into my vagina. She doesn't even introduce herself and in goes that fucking tool I hate. I call it the claw, even though I am aware of it's true name. She fucks up, and has to do it again.

She fucks up again, and ends up doing it twice more before the doctor steps in. I felt like I should ask to go out for a smoke, because four pokes is short but it's the most action....you know where I'm going with this...

Four times. If you go to get blood taken and they fuck up twice, that's it. This should be an overall rule for anything. To top off my visit, as the doctor has his hands in me and I am staring at the ceiling waiting for it to end (insert married joke here); he looks down at me, and starts asking about my life out west and my new job.

What the fuck?! He wishes me well when all is said and done, and out the room my audience goes, leaving me in a gown, sitting on a table feeling low. Did I want to cry? Yes. Did I wait to do so in the privacy of my car? Yes.

Nothing hotter than a single thirty year old woman driving down the road crying. Did I then get into a Hank Williams frame of mind and start thinking I am so lonesome I could cry? Yes, I did. Then, I did something I've slowly learned to do....

I got over it. I got over it with a trip to see my mom, a swim in her pool, a nice cold beer and a good old fashion hangout with my friend. If I was married with kids, I may not have taken his questioning so harshly, but if I was married with kids, I wouldn't have the freedom to do all those things in a day.