I’ve been a bit anxious since having lunch with DD’s mum, brother and sister-in-law on Sunday.
My way of coping with meeting new people … and the briefest gaps in conversation … is to talk … a lot. There’s no filter. At one point during lunch, I saw everyone’s eyes go a bit wide about something I was saying … but I just couldn’t stop.
DD later noted: “When you use deliberately shocking headlines you do get shocked responses.”
This is the problem with being a former weekly magazine editor … grabbing the punters’ attention gets etched into your DNA.
DD also felt his relatives possibly didn’t get my “black humour.”
I was so embarrassed afterwards. I wanted to do that thing in cartoons where characters hit their heads repeatedly against walls.
You’d think the incident would have stemmed the flow of TMI, but no, I’ve decided to blog about the anniversary of my pelvic ultrasound that lead to my eventual womb razing.
The blog was called How Big Is That Thing? As evidenced in picture above … it was freaking huge.
I’m still feeling a bit drained by my stomach bug – my brain is all sluggish and uncreative – hence the lazy repub (but there’s a certain synergy: it also involves talking too much at inappropriate moments). Here goes …
Since it appears I am destined to live a life less ordinary, I had a pelvic ultrasound this week.
My doctor neglected to mention it would be performed in two stages: first externally, then internally. If I’d known I’d have taken a little more care with my personal landscaping that morning.
When the sonographer outlined the intimate situation that was about to unfold, my shoulders sagged. Oh god. No.
And I know this shouldn’t be the worst part, but he was really young and really cute. Really young, really cute sonographers should be banned. They should become podiatrists or something instead.
I don’t think it would be nearly so embarrassing to have a middle-aged woman wave a huge wand thing at me.
I had to discuss lots of awkward things with the young, cute sonographer pre-wand. Then he did the external ultrasound, which was a little unpleasant as they make you drink a litre of water first then press really hard on your bladder.
Then I had to sign a consent form for the internal ultrasound. And once it started I could understand why. It’s a VERY intimate procedure.
The wand is VERY long. And young, cute sonographer’s hand rests on your naked inner thigh in extremely close proximity to your clacker. Blokes reading this will probably think phwoar. But there’s nothing phwoar about it.
The sonographer also informed me the procedure could take up to 15 minutes, depending on how much I talked. Usually it only takes about 5 to 10 minutes, but going on how much I talked during the external procedure he felt he needed to build in more time.
I do talk rather a lot these says. And particularly when I am nervous because cute, young doctors are poking things up my clacker. But I went very quiet during the internal examination because it was uncomfortable and awkward and I’d have died of embarassment if I’d given it much thought, so I focused intently on the monitor instead, despite having absolutely no idea what I was looking at.
It turns out there IS a problem. I have to go to the doctor on Friday for a chat. Google tells me it’s probably not serious and probably won’t require surgery.
Although my mother has cheerfully informed me it’s quite routine to get your uterus whipped out these days and it’d be a blessing to be rid of it. Thanks Mum.
But I think it would be very unkind of the universe to visit surgery on me right now.
Song of the day: Fleetwood Mac “Big Love”