So today, I ended a friendship. A 20 year friendship that started with drinking late nights at on campus bars and toddling half coherent back to a dorm room located somewhere one should be able to walk to — (if only our knees would cooperate). A friendship based on years of learning to be adults (or feigning such) of boyfriends and husbands and children and Bar Mitzvahs. Well, you get the picture.
So why would I let such a deep and meaningful relationship go? Because she didn’t warn me about the an@l probe! Sure, we all say that phrase a lot as in: “I’d bet an an@l probe on it.” Or “A bird in the hand is worth two an@l probes in the… (well you know how that ends)” or the ever popular: “One day if you go to a doctor that I recommend to you for a procedure that I’ve already done and I forget to tell you an an@l probe is involved, you can totally end this friendship, I’ll understand.” You say those things in passing and you never realize that one day you may actually mean them.
“Well, Jenny cough again but harder this time,” said Dr. Pollen from her cushy position directly underneath me and looking up into my nether regions. How did the doctor get such a view, you ask? I was on a special type of birthing chair (one that was probably used in the 1600s as they inquired as to whether you were a witch). Not only was there barely any seat to hold me up, I was hoisted about 6ft in the air, so that the doctor’s assistants (or people with weird fetishes who pay to be called doctor’s assistants, as I like to call them) were looking my vajajay dead in the eye, ahem, the labia. The doctor then sat on her stool and literally rolled underneath me as if she was checking out my chassis. Which makes sense because she did mention the need for a tune up.
Why would one sit on such a chair without being dared or paid? Because apparently I have all kinds of prolapse (that’s stuff caving in and falling down, to you and me) and I’ve been totes ignoring my pelvic floor, which is weird because I’m pretty good about taking care of my floors … waxing the wood ones, cleaning the grout on the stone… Actually I do have a cleaning person, so it would’ve been weird to ask her to attend to my pelvic floor after say, vacuuming. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s let their pelvic floor slip through the cracks. Google says 40% of women are found to have stage II or greater prolapse upon pelvic exam. I read it on the internet people, so it must be true.
And yet, no one seems to discuss it. So, I am because A. “Vagina” is my favorite word to work into random conversation B. Doctors like to treat this issue with hysterectomies, which may not be necessary. C. If I pee on the floor while we’re having a conversation, you’ll already know why and we can just gloss over it and move on to the next topic. Continue reading →