Facing a first-time visit to the gynecologist is daunting,
but the visit becomes a simple walk in the park when the doctor presents you
with something far more frightening: the possibility of losing your uterus.
This isn’t just another boring parable told to ensure pubescent girls get their check-ups; it was my unfortunate reality. Skipping lady exams isn’t a lesson you can afford to learn on your own. Trust me.
It is recommended that a young woman’s first “lady exam” occur when she reaches 13-15 years of age or becomes sexually active, whichever is sooner. I’m slightly ashamed to say I procrastinated for a couple of years. I mean, what girl wants to be poked and prodded there? I certainly didn’t, so I needed a little time to work up the nerve.
Gynos are an interesting breed. I’ve been to two separate specialists, one man and one woman, and they both felt the need for small talk. Um, excuse me, but the last thing I want is to discuss the weather while there are salad tongs in my cunt. Therefore, I spent the three minutes of eternity just staring at the pale white ceiling above my pale white, horrified face.
Honestly, the experience wasn’t that bad. I mean, I’d rather lay on a cold, metal table with my bare ass hanging off the end while gloved fingers delve in like someone lost their wedding ring in a chunk of raw hamburger than, say, get mauled by a bear.
What really takes the cake, though, is when they tell you in an unsympathetic, robotic voice that the results came back “abnormal.” That shit’s scary.
The doctor told me she’d need to do a “biopsy,” which is a fancy medical term for “tear off a chunk of your skin.” And she did. And it pinched. Then she told me she’d call me. If I had a dime for every time I heard that line.
I was filled in on all the possible outcomes of the biopsy: If nothing came back, she’d want to see me every six months, rather than the normal requisite annual check-up. If something came back, it could be cancerous. If it were cancerous, they’d have to do surgery. If they did surgery, they would need to remove my uterus, and I would no longer be able to have children.
At that point, when she dropped that happy possibility, I think I would’ve preferred the bear.
So I obsessed for a couple of weeks while waiting for the results. I did a lot of Googling, and my fingernails didn’t fare well during that time, but finally I received the call. Ms. Gynecologist informed me it was just a normal abnormality (whatever that means), I would be fine, and would I like her assistant to schedule a six-month follow up?
Even though my heart was firmly lodged in my throat for a solid two weeks, I have to say I learned a valuable lesson: I would rather endure the unpleasant pressure of preemptive care than lose my baby maker.
Ladies, I implore you, please take advantage of those yearly visits with Dr. Hands and the awkward vagina dialogues. It’s worth it.