It’s always great fun to run into other parents at pre-school drop-off. We all escort our children to class together. We exchange niceties, make play dates and keep tabs on what’s going on in each other’s worlds. Next year, Asher is in kindergarten. I will take him to the bus stop in the morning and pick him up at the bus stop after school. I’ll miss my morning chit-chats with the parents of Asher’s class. I won’t be able to leisurely head back to my car whilst catching up with another mom in the parking lot who says, “Your health insurance coverage runs out IN A MONTH?!? Oh my God! I would be FA-REAKING OUT every single day!! What ARE you going to DO?!?” Alrighty then.
I extricated myself from that particular conversation quickly not only because I was starting to sweat, but also because I needed to get to my doctor’s appointment--the check-up before we’re cut off. I had a few glasses of water that morning so that I’d be able to fill the cup, and I was afraid I might not make it in a timely fashion. Luckily, I made to the doctor’s office without a sneeze, cough or road work.
As my sister Rachel likes to tell friends and strangers alike, I’m not really a fan of doctors. As a result, I avoid going to the doctor as often as possible. Besides an inherent mistrust of the lot of them, you must understand that I am a doctor’s daughter. My father’s approach to the health and well-being of his children was, “If your head is still attached by a thread, you’re fine.” I tend to assume everything is ok or that it will be eventually. Not the best philosophy to health, I realize. So, my doctor's practice is large, and I’m never there. My doctor and I needed to get reacquainted. Dr. S. asked some general questions while reviewing the vitals that the nurse had collected earlier. She adds a few birth questions before the pap. Kids? How many? Vaginal birth? Where did you deliver? Etc. Nice to get to know someone before they turn you into a horizontal hand puppet. It’s only polite.
Next, the breast exam. She informed me that I have fibrocystic breasts which is news to me. I suspect she just wanted an excuse to feel around a little longer. Who can blame her?
I’m escorted to another room where another nurse is ready with needle and vials to take a few gallons of blood. “Is that your urine over there?” Asks the nurse as she points to the cup sitting on the counter across the room. Really? “Why yes. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
I had gotten on the scale, but I never let doctors tell me how much I weigh. It’s all about how I feel in my jeans. Considering I only have one pair of jeans that I can easily pull over all that junk inside my trunk, I’m feeling pretty slovenly right now. So after my doctor’s appointment, I went for a run, well jog. Had to take it slowly because the left-over ooze from the pap smear reminded me that gravity is strong and my pelvic floor muscles are not. More kegels!
This is the point of the blog where my sister says she experienced water brash. Apparently many of the more graphic descriptions in my blog cause her to throw up a little in her mouth. I learned the term water brash from her. She’s a wealth of information, and I am grateful for her tutelage. I might have to respond with another gem from Rachel, “Are you sure it’s not a bezoar.” It’s a hairball oft found in humans. Whatever you do, don’t Google images of bezoars. Ew!
I do realize that talking about pap ooze might be crossing a line-like when Wanda Sykes suggested Rush Limbaugh could use a little water boarding during the White House Correspondents' Dinner.
I’m always flirting with that line. The problem is that the line isn’t in one place. We never actually know where it is proverbially drawn until someone crosses it. Some draw their line in the sand with a stick, and some draw their line with pap ooze. Too much? A little water brash?
“How was your check up?” Gabriella asked. “The doctor was particularly impressed with my vagina and spent an inordinate amount of time up there. Good thing she did because she found that iPod Shuffle you were looking for last week. Who knew it was up there?”
“Huh. Who knew?”