Pouch of Douglas

I was sipping a glass of wine on Friday night while reading my pelvic ultrasound results … as you do … when I saw the words “There is no free fluid in the pouch of Douglas”.

The what?

How did I get to age 58 without knowing I have a pouch of Douglas? Female readers, did you know you have a pouch of Douglas?

I had to look it up. It’s not sexy, I’d put it on par with having a menopause apron.

Here’s the unexpected way an article in the Medical Journal of Australia describes it: “The pouch of Douglas is a small area in the female human body between the uterus and the rectum. It has a name and a shape, but the essence of it, the point of it, is that it is a piece of nothing. The territory of the pouch of Douglas is infinitesimal; because when all is well, the surrounding organs slide against each other like two slugs in a mating dance. The pouch of Douglas, like the pouch of a mother kangaroo or a coin purse, can expand to accommodate growing or multiplying things.”

Those words were written by a woman called Tracy Sorensen, who was diagnosed with Stage IIIc primary peritoneal carcinoma in 2014. Cells had been multiplying in her pouch of Douglas, but a note at the top of the article said she was in remission at the time of writing.

After reading that I feel very relieved to have an empty pouch of Douglas.

It’s named after an 18th-century anatomist called James Douglas who “discovered” it. More recently it featured in the Netflix  special Hannah Gadsby: Douglas, which I gather was a dig at men naming everything, even female body parts, after themselves.

Actually, I need to tell you another story that popped up (and startled me) while I was researching the pouch of Douglas. It involves James Douglas debunking a very bizarre medical scam.

In September 1726, news reached the court of King George I of the birth of several rabbits to Mary Toft, a 25-year-old illiterate servant. According to mother-in-law Ann Toft, Mary first gave birth to something that resembled a “liverless cat”.

The family decided to call on the help of an obstetrician called John Howard. He visited Mary and was presented with animal parts that Ann said she’d taken from Mary during the night.

The following day, Howard returned and helped deliver more animal parts. Over the next month Howard recorded that Mary produced a rabbit’s head, the legs of a cat and, in a single day, nine dead baby rabbits.

Over the following months Mary continued giving birth to dead rabbits and became a local celebrity as a result.

But, of course, it was an elaborate – and horrifying – hoax.

According to a report from the University of Glasgow: “The story came to the attention of the press and caused a national sensation.

“Interest in monstrosities and willingness to pay to see them was common in Europe in the mid 18th century. It is not hard to see why a poor family like the Tofts saw a way to make money with what seems, at first, a ridiculous scheme.”

Dr Douglas was called on for his opinion and said Mary had as much likelihood of giving birth to rabbits as a rabbit would be to give birth to a human child.

Mary eventually confessed she’d been sticking dead rabbits up her clacker and then pretending to give birth to them.

She charged with being a “Notorious and Vile Cheat” and sent to Bridewell prison for a few months before returning to relative obscurity, aside from making the occasional appearance as a curiosity at dinner parties thrown by the Duke of Richmond, who had a residence nearby.

Blimey, and I thought appearing in Married at First Sight was a desperate way to get famous.

As for Freddie the Fibroid, he has shrunk from his impressive 2015 measurements of 95mm x 82mm x 89 mm to a mere 73mm x 63mm x 70 mm.

My ovaries are “normal, mobile and non-tender”. I could have sworn otherwise when the radiographer was jabbing them with the ultrasound wand.

Oh, and as for my neck ultrasound results, there was “no haemodynamically significant stenosis detected”. I have mild plaque, which is concerning, but DD tells me most of us have some plaque at this stage in life.

This week’s area of focus during my visit to the radiology centre will be my boobs.

Bet you’re on the edge of your seat.

Song of the day: Britney Spears “Baby one more time”