Wednesday, June 17, 2015


Let me start this blog by saying "I'm sorry mom...I know it's not ladylike to talk about the yearly appointment...please feel free not to read."

So, there I was...exactly on time for my yearly appointment that was 1 year and 10 months overdue.

Yep, I'm talking about the yearly.

This was my first visit where I could whole-heartedly say that this is no longer my Obstetrician office, but my full-fledged Gynecologist office. I'm good with that.

But never the less, I come in...and since it's an awesome office- the turn over is low.  So, I'm seeing MA's and RN's and assistants that have held my hand through pregnancies, ultrasounds, infertility, and everything in between...and they're like old friends.  Only the old friends I haven't seen in a while.  But still...good to see them.

Even as I was filling out paperwork, the questions came up:

When was your last period:  Friday (sorry, the date escapes me, and I don't have a phone on me so I'm essentially helpless)

How long are your cycles:  I'm not sure.  But I'm ornery every 3-4 weeks.

Are you currently pregnant: No. (see aforementioned period on Friday)

Are you planning on becoming pregnant soon:  No, no no noooooooooooooo

I had to snicker to myself.  Because I know this is a generalized form, but hey...there are 80 year-olds who come in this office and have to fill out this same paperwork.  I can only imagine the rise they get out of the last question.

 (Note to self:  When I'm 80,
write "yes, with God's help."
just to see the reaction from
the doctor).

So...then my name gets called...and it's the part I'm dreading...the weigh-in.  It's this I've been hiding from.  This is why it's overdue.  Because I let that number determine my self worth.  And I sit there with nothing but that number in the back of my head all darn day. Week. Month. Year.

So...then I weigh in, and ask to pee- basically because I do have to pee, but also to clear out the numbers on the scale.  Because when I came in, there were numbers left up, and I saw how much the sweet little pregnant little lady weighed even with a huge belly.  (did I mention little?)  And I thought "no one needs to see my number." 

Blood pressure: ok.  (take that, darn weight)
Pulse: still beating...and good (surprising because it was INSANE to get me here on time this morning, and just less than 15 minutes ago it was racing because I was running to get there on time...and had a cup of coffee...ok, two).

Then she leaves with the instructions I hear every time I'm here

...gown open to the back, sheet across your lap. 

Bah. here's where my real work begins.  Because I can never tie those darn gowns.  I can get the top one tied ok, but I feel like a contortionist trying to get the middle I'm there- looking like I"m chasing my own tail walking in circles in this 10x10 office...pretty sure I am about to throw my shoulder out of socket. 

Well...skip it. 

So, I pull the gown closed as tightly as possible, and sit "quietly" on the paper, and drape the sheet securely over the rest of me.  But...guess what.

 I keep my sunglasses on my head. 

 Because I needed something other than doctor-provided cotton to give me some security.  And apparently, sunglasses on my head has become my anchor to prevent me from floating into the sea of Abysmal Unclothed Embarrassment.

And then it hits me....

There is a gas bubble brewing.

 I can hear it gurgling in my stomach. 

 It's loud and angry. 

I can literally feel it moving south.

Bless me.

 COME ON, BODY!  Can't you play along nicely- just this ONCE???

The projection that it's moving south is just about faster than the speed of light...and I start to clinch up.  I'm weighing my options...

Do I:

a) let it go and pray there's no odor, or if there is it dissipates quickly???
b) keep clinching and pray for the best?

I'm weighing my options:

A) doesn't work.  I know I have GI issues...for a while now.  There's no such thing as a non-odor gaseous emanation for GI peeps.  No.such.thing.  They're all bad.  And it's just me in this room. No one to blame it on.  Just me.  Waiting with nothing but doctor-provided cotton cloth and sunglasses.

ok- next option:

B)   Just clinch it.  It's my only hope.  I can pray that it will die down and sit quietly in some corner of my gut during the exam...and pray...and pray. 

So, plan b is working well...until I start to sweat.  This nasty bubble has made my entire body break out in a cold sweat.  I'm sweating so bad that the "gown" is starting to stick to me and I need to wipe my brow and upper lip (sexy, I know).

So, then I'm moving around a bit.  Trying to get comfortable.  And what do I realize but the sweat episode has now glued the paper sheet to my exposed skin.  Anywhere I was exposed, now is covered with concrete paper.  Lovely. 

Again, my options:

a) sit there and cover the shredded paper with my ample behind and doctor-provided sheet


b) quickly redress the bed and throw away the shredded sheet.

b.  GO GO GO.

Thankfully, the bed was easy to redress and there I am- with new paper on the bed, a few papers stuck to my backside that I'm desperately trying to peel off- standing on the step stool ready to quick plop down when she knocks on the door- because God forbid I sit my sweaty behind down on the paper any sooner than necessary.

Wait...I'm still sweaty- and I'm standing, so I start fanning myself.  Dry off, please dry off.

Knock, knock.

Plop down, cover up..."come in"

The rest of the story is inconsequential (and also tmi), but other than a "well, you're down 10 pounds from when we last saw that's a start.  Keep going."

and my omission of not-saying "well, I'm actually down 24 pounds, but you don't have that I'm not telling you"

And an examination of a few suspect moles, I am in good health and on my merry way.

But I can say that plan b's worked. 
Both of them. 
So the long and the short of it is, plan A isn't always the best plan- plan b is usually good.  If executed correctly, things can work out...or you could break into a cold sweat, but keep trying anyway. 
 You'll get through.