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Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Grope, grope. Spread, spread. Scrape, scrape. A tale of a trip to the Gyno.

Reflecting upon yesterdays annual trip to the Gyno, I've realized there are a lot of ironies that occur during such a visit. Here is a tale of my trip to the Gyno.

I wake up bright and early. It's Monday, yuck. Not only is it Monday, but the day will include a trip to my favorite doctor, my OBGYN. She actually is my favorite, by the way. She's awesome! However, I do NOT look forward to seeing her. Not without a baby in my belly anyway. Without a baby to add some "oohs" and "ahhs" to the visit, it's just all bad. There is no payoff. Except of course the reassurance that my girly bits are A-Okay.

I'm tempted to hit the snooze a few more times and then realize it's Monday, the dreaded appointment day. Groan. I get up and hit the shower. Like any decent woman embarking on such a journey, I groom meticulously and make sure I'm as fresh as a daisy and as pretty as a rose. As I dry off and get dressed I catch a glimpse of my feet. RATS! My polish is chipped on a few toes and missing completely from two. I can't be spread eagle in stirrups having funky looking feet! I'm exposed enough! The parts that are not covered by a hideous looking gown or draped in paper towel should at the very least look presentable. Ugh. Another 10 minutes to remove the faded polish and reapply a flawless coat.

Now to the outfit. I have a busy day ahead, but comfy just won't do. The last time I was in I had just had a baby and was still in that horrible in between stage of not in maternity clothes and not yet into my clothes. I was horribly sleep deprived and looked like hell. I had to make a comeback appearance. I wanted to go in to see all the friendly faces looking not just put together, but put together with style. Let's see...high waisted grey pencil skirt, white collared shirt, black pumps, some bangles, drop earrings and a red bag. Yep, that'll do just fine. On to the delicates. I cannot, will not, refuse to show up in a mismatched cotton number. No way, no how. Hmm, okay, this lacy little number is classy. Purrrfect. I carefully get dressed, and add the finishing touches of some Aqualina Shimmering Pink Sugar. A dab here, there, and oh yes, there. Let the games begin.

My busy day included a trip to the dentist with Belle, which I'll go into in another post. I then rushed to work. I worked through lunch since I got in late. 2:30 rolled around and it was time to go. A quick stop at the bathroom on my way out and I was on my way. I arrived right at 2:45 on the dot. Signed in, paid my copay, and started to fill out the obligatory paperwork.

Currently pregnant? NO! Exercise? Yes. (Phew, I can actually answer that one honestly this year) Trying to conceive? Hell No! (What are they thinking? Don't they know my little man is just 16 months? I'm not insane!) Drugs? No. Vitamins? Yes. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I take a glimpse around and there are two adorable but very uncomfortable looking pregnant women. Awww. I look down at my tummy. Focus Stacy, focus. Back to the questionnaire. Drip, drip, drip. I notice the two pregnant women shifting in their seats. I look over and notice the waterfall fountain. Then I remember. I remember being pregnant and cursing that damn fountain. As if a pregnant woman doesn't have to pee enough, they put a fountain in the waiting room to relax you! Even though it is not inducing a mad dash to the restroom, I curse the fountain on behalf of all of the pregnant women to grace this office. Back to the questionnaire. Check, check, finished. I return the paperwork and sit back down and wait to be called.

Ho-hum. The minutes drag out and I'm fixated on the preggo's tummy sitting across from me. I can see the baby squirming like a little alien trying to escape. Hmm...I wonder if I'll ever feel that again. My mind drifts. "STACY?" Oh, that's me! I jump up, grab my bag and start the walk of doom. It's not my favorite nurse that always is there. Pout. Where is she? Even when I was a tub she'd say I look great. Damn. "Room 6, go ahead and drop off your bag and meet me at the scale." Groan. I do as I'm told. I step up and calculate in my head "Pencil skirt, collared shirt, pumps, bangles...yeah, that's gotta add a few lbs...maybe 5," I delude myself. "Okay, good, you lost all the baby weight, good for you." Phew. I love this new nameless nurse. She's my new best friend. I knew I'd like her the minute I saw her! (Just go with it) Blood pressure is checked and perfect, yay me. Then she hands me the dreaded ugly gown and oversize blue paper towel. "Undress completely, put the gown on opening in the front, and drape this (I don't even think they have a name for the paper towel and don't want to say PAPER TOWEL) over your lap. Oh, and press the red button when you're ready."

Logistically trying to complete this task is quite a feat. Picture this, well, don't picture ME, picture YOU. Getting buck naked, putting on a gown that's completely open in the front. Try to hold that together, drape an extra large paper towel over your lap and shimmy to the wall to press a red button, then dash back to the exam table, hop your naked butt up and try to be somewhat decent before the door is flung open. The thought of it exhausts me.

I undress halfway and put the gown on, then the other half comes off. I neatly fold my clothes and drape them on the chair. Then, I tuck my delicates inside. God forbid my doctor ever see them! I mean, I did pick them out to match, and I will be spread eagle in a few minutes with my girly parts facing the heavens, but the thought of her catching a glimpse...*shudder* the horror! (Ironic much?) I unfold the paper towel and make a mad dash to hit the button like an Olympian sprinter and jump back onto the table. YES! I'm in position before the door opens! I am the WINNER!!!! Of what, you may ask? I don't know. But I feel victorious at this moment. It's the little things in life, really.

Knock, knock, knock. In comes my favorite doctor. "Stacy, hello! Man, has a year flown by already or what? I LOVE your hair! You're looking great!" *Swoon* I love her! A few questions and then she gets to work. "How's the little man doing?" "Great!" I say. "Does he still have a head full of hair?" "Yup!" She does an excellent job of keeping the conversation flowing as if she isn't groping around my nip. What a professional! Onto the next boob. "I bet he's a flirt!" "He sure is!" Grope, grope, circle, circle. "All done! Feels great!" Feels great? What a completely odd, yet appropriate, thing to say. Gee wiz, thanks doc.
She pulls out the stirrups and says "Saddle up partner". (Again, just go with the dialog, it'll make the story more enjoyable). I slide my butt down and saddle up. Groan. Here comes the torture device. I will skip over the next few moments of this tale, because really, nobody wants to hear that. Let's just say, there was some tension and some talk of weather. Imagine going to Disneyland and finding out all of the rides are broken, there will be no refund, a tropical storm is about to hit, oh, and your dog just died. It feels that good. I do notice my feet though and have the random thought that I hope they don't smell seeing as I wore pumps all day. Funny, I'm worrying about my feet smelling at this exact moment. "Looks good. We should get the results in a few days. Keep up the exercise, and make sure to take a calcium supplement if you aren't getting 1200 mg a day. Now, are you guys done or do you want anymore?" Hmm...."I think we're done, but we aren't 100% positive." "Okay, be sure to take your pill religiously and let me know if you guys decide to try for another before you stop taking it." "Will do doc." "Keep up the good work! You look great." "Thanks doc." I love her!

Out she goes and it is at this moment I feel obliged to take a few pics of my ridiculous clothes (above) and my flawless polished feet in stirrups. I did notice that from this angle I appear to have enormous cankles. I don't. I guarantee you I do not have cankles. I just want to make that clear. If proof is needed, I will take an additional picture to submit. I have ankles and calves, completely separate of one another. No one in my family has cankles. I assure you.
I digress, back to my tale. I dressed promptly and made my way down the hall towards the exit. I notice 2 preggos in line for the bathroom. Poor souls, they must have fallen under the fountains spell. I again look at their adorable, huge bellies. Sigh. Maybe, maybe not. Until next year dear friends, I say, adieu.

As a bonus, here is my PSA of the day: Even if you do have cankles, you have to go sockless in the stirrups. Being in that compromising position and wearing socks is just as bad as doing the deed and keeping socks on. Nobody wants to see that. **UNLESS you have some funky feet, then by all means keep those puppies covered up!