Something you don’t expect to do at almost-50 is pee into a little plastic jar so your doctor can check if you are pregnant.
My life, never dull.
I had a doctor’s appointment on Friday. I told him I was crook as Rookwood … but that wasn’t why I was there. Not much can be done about a bad cold.
I wasn’t there because I thought I was pregnant either.
I needed a very, very belated pap smear. I had CIN1 when I was in my early 20s so I’m supposed to be vigilant. But my life has been a teensy bit hectic in recent years.
It turned out I was one of the first people to get the “new” Pap smear that came in on December 1. You still have to take your dacks off and get the nasty speculum inserted into your clacker, but the way they test the sample has changed. Rather than looking for abnormalities, they just check if there’s evidence of HPV, as apparently that’s pretty much the only way you can get cervical cancer.
I had a bit of an argument with my doctor when I told him my CIN1 was caused by HPV. He reckons they didn’t know for sure waaaaaay back then and were still mucking about in laboratories doing trials.
I said bull. He said bull. Then we decided time was getting away from us and we’d better get on with the awkward business of poking around in my vajayjay.
I know lots of women who see their regular male doctor for everything else, but then book themselves into a female doctor at the practice if it’s something to do with their lady bits. I told my doctor I thought that was a bit of a cop out and not really fair on the female doctors to be expected to look at vaginas all day.
I talk a lot when I’m nervous.
Anyways, he did the pap smear and then headed back up to check my ovaries are still the right shape. Then he had a feel of my uterus and freaked out about the size of it … until I reminded him about Freddie the Fibroid.
I segued into a chitter chat about how despite having PMT for three weeks and having the sorest boobs on the planet, which require me to support them with my forearms when I do any sort of jumpy exercise.
It was at that point he got slightly nervous about Freddie being animate and got me to pee in the plastic container. I said it was highly unlikely that I was pregnant given I’d had an embolisation AND an ablation AND was fast approaching 50, but he said it was best to be on the safe side.
Fortunately it was negative. Can you IMAGINE being pregnant at 50? The horror!
And then I got him to syringe the massive chunks of wax out of my ears that have been making interviewing people on the phone at work a little challenging – “eh, what did you say?”
What a pleasant little trifecta for my doctor: vagina, urine and ear wax!
I’d mentioned to my ex when we parted ways after the school band Christmas concert that I had to dash to the doctor.
When he came to pick up the kids’ stuff – with the kids in tow – he asked me how I’d gone, obviously thinking I was there about being crook as Rookwood. I stared at him a bit rabbit-in-the-headlight for a second.
I’m not sure “I’m not pregnant!” would have been quite the right thing to announce to everyone on my doorstep, so I muttered something about “having a few tests”.
I didn’t look shifty AT ALL.
Song of the day: Dire Straits “Tunnel of love”