(I told this story recently in the comments, but after thinking – and giggling – about it for a while, I decided it needed its own forum. So here we go.)
A few weeks ago, I had my yearly appointment with the gynecologist. For me, this is not as big a deal as it is for some women. Being, in many situations, a pragmatic sort of person and not terribly modest, it just doesn’t squick me out the way it does other people.
I should also point out that every year, when I go in for said appointment, I always request an HIV test whether I really need it or not, if you catch my drift. I figure one way or another, it’s best to know. Besides, Henry might come a-callin’, and I like to be prepared in those situations. Don’t you?
Anyway, when I went in for this year’s appointment, I expected the doctor to say the same thing he says every year: “Everything’s fine! You’re perfectly healthy! Go on your merry way! See you next year! Here’s your lollipop. That’ll be ONE MEEEEELLION DOLLARS, please.”
Um.
Yeah…
That’s not what happened this year.
I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say the words “cancer” and “infertility” were bandied about.
I did not get my lollipop.
The doctor sent me to a lab across town for some bloodwork, along with my HIV test. For some reason, even though I requested the HIV test, hearing him say the words “HIV test” mere seconds after he said the word “cancer” made my brain go, “OMFG HE THINKS I HAVE AIDS OMFG OMFG OMFG.”
What was that I said earlier about pragmatism?
Anyway.
I handed the receptionist my credit card, paid the doctor his ONE MEEEEELLION DOLLARS, walked out to Fiona in the parking lot, got in, put my hands on the steering wheel and burst into tears.
About that time, the phone rang.
It was The Guy.
We had, at this point, been dating all of seven whole days or something.
“How was your doctor’s appointment?” he asked cheerfully.
The proper thing to do would’ve been to say, “Not so great, actually. The doctor has some concerns and wants to run some tests. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”
Well, the minute I used the word “proper,” you knew that’s not what I actually did, right?
No. Instead, I spilled it. All of it. In excruciating, minute detail. Oh, sweet Jesus.
Now, I’m sure The Guy’s brain was going, “OMG PLEASE SHUT UP PLEASE SHUT UP PLEASE SHUT UUUUUP I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR CERVIX PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY SHUT THE F— UUUUUP.”
But instead he remained totally calm. He asked intelligent questions and got me to explain a couple things he didn’t understand. He was very logical and rational but nevertheless sweet and supportive.
(This from a man who, by the way, has no sisters. He’s an only child, so it’s doubtful he ever had to have conversations about these sorts of topics growing up.)
My poor father called next. When I said the word “cervix,” I knew, I just knew, that he was itching to say, “Don’t talk nasty! Stop cussing!” but he didn’t. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said, “You’ll see. And I can tell you right now, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to me if I had known ahead of time that your mom couldn’t have children. Wouldn’t have mattered at all.”
As it turns out, everything is fine. As expected, the HIV test was negative, and all the other tests came back normal. I am not dying of cancer, and there is no reason to believe I can’t have a veritable litter of wee Bachelor Girls and Boys.
I texted my friend E., who was the other unfortunate male who had to listen sympathetically to a screaming, sobbing and otherwise hysterical Kel lose her s–t over the phone that day: “All tests normal! No HIV! Can probably have babies!”
He texted me back: “So glad you’re not a diseased whore! Congratulations!”
The point of this story?
I love my Bachelor Girlfriends. I couldn’t possibly make it through life without them.
But the Bachelor Boys rock pretty hard, too.
This one’s for you guys.
Your grateful
Kel
It seems to me like it’d be a great relief to hear you can’t have babies, but hey, glad you’re not dying.
Also, I’m sorry, but when you said Henry, I immediately thought of this one.
Oh, yes. Instead of being like, “Oh, it could be anything! Or it could be nothing! Don’t worry! You’re probably not dying!”, the doctor listed almost every single cancer and/or disease that can affect the female reproductive organs.
GAAAAAH.
I am not ashamed to say I came home and UPENDED the only alcohol in the apartment, which happened to be a bottle of Mexican Mudslide mix.
Oh do I know how you feel! I’m sure you remember me calling you up when I had my appointment and the resulting tests which confirmed the fact that I can’t give birth. This, of course, the same week I got engaged. Poor Nathan got tmi on that day. But, like The Guy, he was very kind and supportive while keeping his “squicks” to himself. Of course, as I was understandably late back to work, my boss called. He too was very kind and told me to not worry coming back to work that day, but that is really a conversation you don’t want to have with your male boss when you are all sobby and snotty. Ah- good times.
I think we often don’t give the men in our lives enough credit!
And glad to hear everything is fine!
Oh, it was terrible. It’s really weird – I’ve never been one of those women who felt like I absolutely HAD to have biological children. In fact, I always thought I would probably adopt at least one no matter what. But somehow, hearing that there’s a possibility that you ABSOLUTELY CANNOT have children of your own? It’s devastating.
First of all, GLAD YOU’RE OK!!! *shaking pom-poms*
Guys do not do well hearing stories about ladyparts. Except my dad, who’s a trouper. Not only is he a Vietnam War vet, he’s lived in a home with three women (same difference, you might say). You know a man’s a good man when you can send him out for hygiene products without complaint. (ahem…there’s a litmus test for The Guy)
Once I had to have a second pap because my first one didn’t look right – turns out the lab might have dropped my sample. It turned out to be nothing. I didn’t breathe until I got my “all-clear” letter in the mail, though.
But girrrrlll, someday let me tell you about my first mammogram! Holy s–tballs! I can totally relate right now.
Your oversharing,
Mer
DROPPED your SAMPLE?! Oh, Holy Mary Mother of God. I might’ve shot somebody, Mer.
You and your pom-poms make me smile.
Oh yeah. My doctor told me the lab report said, “there weren’t enough cells.” He said, “That’s code for: we dropped the sample on the floor.” He made me come back in 6 mos because he knew my insurance wouldn’t pay for a second test in less than that amount of time. He also called me at home twice during my mammogram scare to keep me calm. And that’s why I drive 45 minutes to Raleigh to see him. LOVE HIM!
Honey, any time you need cheering up, me and my pom-poms are at your service.
Congratulations on all fronts!
Thanks, Tessa!
You well know what I drug Mark through before we were even engaged. There was many a hospital stay he shared with me over lady problems and he was so sweet and wonderful the whole way through.
We definitely don’t give men enough credit sometimes. Because even if its something foreign and scary to them, they care about the women they love suffering and would move mountains to ease our fears.
And I know we would all do the same for them.
Glad to hear he was ever so gallant.
I must admit, the whole experience made me think of Mark and what a knight in shining armor he was for you
I love the “ONE MEEELLLLION DOLLARS”! so funny! I’m so glad things are ok.
One day, YOU’LL get to charge people ONE MEEEEELLION DOLLARS!
Tom is also an all-out super guy in that department. I have rough times, and he is always willing to get me stuff or not give me grief if all I do for 2 days is lie around and groan. I’m so glad The Guy was so understanding. It takes a lot of balls to be there for a woman.
That Tom is a superstar, no doubt about it
Perhaps the Doctor was working in a cardio-stress test along with everything else…
I’m glad everything worked out though. And hey, you got a good post out of it.
Am enjoying your blog… found it through Sisters from Different Misters.
Hey, Bluzdude! Good to hear from you!
It never occurred to me that the doctor was just being super-duper efficient. Excellent idea! That thought makes me slightly less…you know…STABBY.
Kel, marry that man.
When women say that they’ve found that guy – the one who is supportive and sympathetic? They aren’t talking about the one that will sit through chick-flicks with them, or the guy that will kiss their ass while rubbing their feet every night.
They are talking about a guy who cares about them as a person, a soul, a human being. Maturity in men rocks, and being able to have a supportive other-half who actually takes interest and concern in the health of your body (even the gross parts, not just your boobs!) and wants to stay informed, and tells you it’s ok, and calms your fears… That’s the guy who has the right stuff.
Nuff said.
By the way, I usually read your entries in my RSS feed, so I’ve just now gotten to see your new masthead. Lurv it!
Oh, don’t worry – I plan to keep The Guy around for a long, long time.
That’s the nice thing about dating in your thirties, I guess – I’ve been around the block enough times to know he’s not just one of the good ones, he’s one of the GREAT ones!
By the way, WOO HOO on the clean bill of health. Forgot to add that.
Thanks, dear!
[...] every day, because I’m too embarrassed. ME. A BLOGGER. The same girl who told you all about her ill-fated gynecological exam. Is embarrassed. That’s how many it [...]