How Lovely To Be A Woman

Today my mother went to the OB/GYN for the fifth time in one month (and we were out of the country for half the month). Frequent visits would be normal, if, say my mother was pregnant. But no, my mother has sandwiched herself between farting, bloated, waddling masses of fertility because she can no longer have children. And now that she may finally be free of the biannual gyno visit, her doctor is determined to diagnose her with something and snare an insured patient for life.

It all began with the abnormal papsmear. If you are unfamiliar with a papsmear, take your sharpest fingernail and stick it up your nose. Now drag your fingernail inside your nostril until you almost draw blood, then remove your nail. Look at what disgusting bodily fluid you have mined. A papsmear is like that except twice as much disgusting, humiliating, and painful because instead of your finger, there's a scary metal instrument. And instead of your nose someone is probing your VAGINA.

After suffering through this indignity, she moved onto her first ultrasound. Having an ultrasound when the oven is bunlessness is less pleasant because patients have to drink half a lake at least an hour before their appointment and not pee until the ultrasound is finished. This may seem only mildly uncomfortable if the patient has to actually endure only one hour, and the office is not behind schedule, which is never the case. The gyno's office, like the DMV, is the ironic ninth circle of hell reserved for incredibly impatient people. Here's a breakdown of my average ultrasound:

10:30: Arrive at waiting room for 11:00 appointment after dutifully drinking two liters of water. Settle down in ridiculously uncomfortable seat and drown out sound of proverbial wailing infant with iPod.

10:45: Cross legs and begin biting lip in discomfort. Look down at iPod and assure self that will only have to tolerate distended bladder for fifteen more minutes.

10:52: What? Only seven minutes have gone by? It felt like eternity. Ok, must distract myself even more. Watch the television.

10:53: Bad idea. It seems like 90% of adverts involve showers or large bodies of water. And toilets. Toilets being scrubbed, toilets flushing, toilet paper. Oh god, that dancing cartoon bear is taunting me. Charmin is the devil.

11:01: What? It's past eleven. I should be back getting my ultrasound, and several steps closer to being able to pee. Someone must pay for this grave injustice.

11:08: The person next to me is drinking a bottle of water. Very slowly. I can hear her gulping. I want to move, but I'm scared that if I do, the floodgates will open.

11:12: I'm not sure, but I think this is what my nerdy guyfriend from the seventh grade meant when he mentioned Chinese water torture.

11:15: I'm praying now. I'm praying that the next time the lady with the clipboard comes through that door she will call out my name, and I will not pee in front of a bunch of strangers.

11:17: I envy the child across from me that wear a diaper. No one cares if SHE pees herself, damnit!

11:21: How have I offended you, my Lord? Why have you brought this agony upon me? This must be how Job felt.

11:30: I'm going to do it. I'm going to pee my pants. I'm probably never going to see these people again. And the people who work here are used to dealing with WAY grosser fluids than pee. I bet a woman's water breaks once a week here.

11:32: I CAN'T DO IT. It's like my urinary tract went into lockdown mode.

11:40: YES! She called my name! I'm going to the examining room and taking off my clothes and putting a suit on. There's even a bathroom right across the hall.

11:44: Where'd the tech go?

11:50: Why'd she lead me back here only to make me wait, half naked and alone, for ten minutes.

12:01: Finally. She's back. And she's taking out her wand and- oh God, don't put that thing on top of my bladder. Stop pressing down. Stop pressing down! ::Ultrasound tech comments on how full my bladder is. I begin to cry.::

12:22: Ordeal is finished. I race to the bathroom, and make orgasmic sounds of joy as I finally relieve myself.

I think I go through all the stages of grieving there. Anger, denial, acceptance that I may pee yourself in a public place.

Anyway, so my mother just got her second ultrasound to top off many other degrading procedures. And now one of her ovaries have "disappeared." Now, I have heard of guys occasionally having a testicle recede, or lose one to cancer. But losing an ovary is especially disconcerting because there's NOWHERE for it to go. It's already inside of you.

So while I'm imagining scenarios involving weird ovary eating viruses and abduction by organ- stealing aliens, my mother explained that when a woman gets to menopause, their ovaries "change."

"How do they change?" I ask

Then Mom averts her gaze and changes the subject. So I went to Google and typed in post-menopausal ovaries. Now I wish Google would have an option to disable image search, because I'm now determined to die before I hit menopause. I will not describe the images that assaulted my eyes and shattered my innocence.

I'll never eat beef jerky again.