My history with pap smears has been decent blog fodder.
Which was exactly what I was thinking yesterday morning while I closed my eyes and screamed obscenities at my new obgyn. Of course, the pain wasn't exactly her fault.
Sure I went in for my yearly physical, but I also went in on the recommendation of a friend who knew I needed a doctor that would treat my infertility with seriousness and sensitivity instead of diagnosing me with: you're fat.
The new place was a bit more of a drive into the city, but well worth it. The staff was kind, efficient and best of all they listened. A nurse came in to talk with me about my whole medical history, down to the very last detail. I explained my history with infertility, my recent diagnosis of fibromyalgia, and of course my weight loss (which for the record hasn't changed a single thing when it comes to my lady business).
The doctor came in and went over all the information and then said something that no doctor has ever said to me in regards to my struggle to get pregnant: let's run all the tests and find out what's wrong.
I thought: Victory! Someone who wants to do this medically instead of passing me off as someone elses problem, a hypochondriac with an eating disorder or a simple waste of time. It was greatly validating and I was over the moon.
Me: "Tests? Take all the damn tests you want! Sure I'll sign this release paper. Sure I'll lay down! Oh by the way . . . what exactly did you mean by endometrial biopsy and OMG (expletive deleted)!"
To be fair, I agreed to the biopsy and my doctor explained what it was and why she wanted to do it. I read the paper work in detail and thought, "Meh, it wouldn't be the first thing today she'll stick up my bajingo." Little did I know.
Seriously, I laid on the table and cursed at the ceiling while the nurse held my hand and looked genuinely sad for me. My doctor continued to apologise and assured me it was almost done, just as I could (exaggeratedly) see what I assumed was a light saber scraping against my abdomen. I was silently grateful that I'd sent Matt on errands and that he wasn't there while this was happening, cause hubby would be freaking out.
In between gasps of breath I tried to remain light and humorous.
Me: Shouldn't you buy me a drink first? I feel I should be liquored up for this. ...
Me: Out of curiosity, if my husband needs to get tested for anything, are you gonna shove anything sharp up him?
Doctor: Unfortunately men have it a little easier than women.
Me: Could you do it anyways? Just for kicks? ...
Me: I lied. I don't want to be pregnant. We can stop now. Actually, I would like to be pregnant, but at this point I'm almost certain I could not handle it. This would be great birth control for teenagers by the way! ...
Doctor: Alright, we're done.
Me: I'd like to schedule my epidural now please.
When I came home and told friends and family what happened, the epicness of my badassery was seen as I was asked repeatedly whether or not I'd been drugged up for the procedure because one friend nearly kicked the doctor, another took two percocet beforehand, and one cried so hard that she begged the doctor to stop.
I was sent out the door with gentle hugs and condolences for my wounded uterus with orders for lab work, an ultrasound, a hysterosalpingogram, and instructions to begin taking progesterone immediately to trigger that-which-shall-not-be-named and pick up a carton of ice cream and some midol cause shit's about to get real up in here.
I get the results at the end of February. In the meantime I'll be dealing with my homework onslaught of labs and appointments, all looking forward to the possibility of a great big epidural followed by a little bundle of crazy.