“Just scooch back and put your feet in the stirrups.”
No man will ever hear these words without pants on, unless he is learning to ride horses in the nude. Crap, mental image now. Yes, they have the ever humiliating grab em by the balls, turn your head and cough routine, but it’s nothing compared to the metal duck crammed inside and cranked like a vice in reverse. The annual pilgrimage to the gyno, or the OBGYN. No real difference, just whatever your preference is, baby doc, crotch doc, really whatever. No disrespect to the men and women who went through medical school, residency and the array of twats they’sve Had to see, but if someone is sticking implements and fingers up my who-ha and I’m in a hospital gown and not an evening gown not even getting to imagine an orgasm, I get to call them whatever the fuck I want.
Back to the pilgrimage. If you are responsible, organized and going to the same doctor, you get that postcard in the mail. It’s pretty, flowers or art adorn one side, you have that moment ‘oh someone sent me a . . .’ and you flip it over. Damn it. Dear Miss Baldwin, just a friendly reminder it is time to get in an awkward position so we can scrape cells from your who-ha. Oh, and it’s also time to smoosh your boobs, too.
Now you have your appointment set, trying to remember the last time you had your period. That morning you can’t forget to shave legs and pits, trim anything else needing maintenance, find your cutest, newest pair of underware (I’m still trying to figure this one out, no one ever actually sees them), pick an outfit that is breathable down there and cross your fingers it’s not one of those ‘discharge days’. You always try for the earliest appointment or the one right around lunch. The less time your pussy is confined, the better. After the obligatory hang out time in the waiting room, where you play, “she’s knocked up by baby-daddy” or “we’re having our first baby” and a few “I hope I don’t have to use the room she is going to”, they slaughter your name worse than a drunk barista and call you back.
The worst, absolute worst part of the entire day is about to happen. Right there, just on the other side of the door are all of those judge mental women (they are by default because you were just a second ago), in front of other staff, nurses, assistants and other patients. Anything but “step up on the scale please”. Nooooooooooooooo! Racing through your head, what can you take off here? Jewelry, the watch and pandora bracelet could easily be a pound. Shoes for sure, could the pants come off, they are about to anyway. The scale at home tells the truth most of the time, this one on the other hand, it’s a conspiracy at the deepest level. Hesitantly, the foot, sans shoe, raises to project my entire mass onto this wretched torture device. The digital numbers deliberately toy with my mind. It stops. No do-overs, no ‘let’s spin the wheel again’, that number is you. The nurse scoff and laughs, then screams out the number like a bingo game. It is projected on to the wall like a bat signal. The clock in the waiting room wasn’t a clock, it was a scale face synced with this scale now everyone knows. Damn Ben & Jerry’s. This is what it’s like anytime we have to step on a scale in public is like.
What really happens though, you walk in, they ask how tall you are, you step on the scale, they take down the number as you cringe. They ask you to step off and sit down in the small chair next to the scale and take your blood pressure, temp and pulse. You are then escorted into the empty room with the modified exam table and in the back a wall or curtain with a bench.
Now ashamed and totally regretting the pint of ice cream you destroyed Saturday night, you have to strip. The whole Monty. Bare butt and all, you put on what they call a gown, but it is more like a couple of Kleenex scotch taped together. I have see more substantial ‘toilet paper wedding dresses’. They also give you a ‘sheet’, a disposable piece of paper, aka a giant kleenex to place over your legs. And so it begins.
It’s great when the doctor walks in and asks how you are doing. It’s creepy that the nurse has to hang out in the room (patient safety from pervy doctors). It’s freaky when your in ‘the position’ with the doctors head below deck and with a hand gesture included says ‘scooch your bottom towards the end of the table. A little more, just a bit more, perfect.’ This is the position where your feet are in the stirrups, the Kleenex on your legs is really only there to keep you from having to look at the doctors face while they are on their expedition and the Kleenex with tape, open to the front is trying to fall open at every point and you have the feeling that your fat ass is about to fall off the edge of the table.
You wouldn’t believe the pick-up lines the doctor will try now!
”I’m placing my fingers in your cervical canal”
”You’re going to feel a little pressure as I push down on your uterus”
”This will be a little cold”
Then they play with your boobies! Which of course isn’t necessary because they are sending you off for a mammogram (radiology speak for squished booby x-ray). Before you even blink, the doctor is up at the sink washing their hands about to give you the biggest brush off you will ever get after having someone touch your goodies, “ok, good to see you, stop by the front, see you next year.”
It’s really depressing when this is the most action you have seen in a while. I’ve got to update my tinder profile.