Pre-visit Checklist:
~ Water
~ Clean socks
~ Memorize dates
~ Sense of humor

There’s nothing quite like driving 45 minutes north of Atlanta through the fog, watching the sunrise and the fall of mankind en mass driving the opposite direction. Unless, of course, you’re doing it all in the name of reproductive health and some scrapage.

The waiting room at my GYN used to be littered with parenting magazines, because she was an OB/GYN then. She’s stopped delivering babies, moved into a swanky new private office and got a better magazine selection. No matter, I brought a book, and since I’m the first appointment of the morning, I won’t have to wait anyway. I’m crafty that way.

As an aside, I like that they changed the process and now I pay upfront – before they assault me. There was something systematically and psychologically wrong with paying after the fact.

First stop: peeing in a cup. After many years, I’ve mastered the art of writing on the side of the cup with that peel away black pencil. I’m still petrified I’ll pee on my own hand. Good thing I chugged my water, why else would I have to pee again an hour after waking up?

Next stop: the scale. The truth finally sets in about what happens when I take a month or three off running but don’t adjust my caloric intake.

Now into the exam room, where the nurse does her “I’m not a vampire, it’s really for the lab so we can check your Iron” schtick. Yeah, whatever. It’s just a pinprick to the finger and mushing my finger against a clear container. I start humming “Electric Slide” in my head and force myself to stop. I’m a bleeder.

On the pre-visit checklist right next to drinking plenty of water (for the peeing), a clean pair of socks (you’ll see) and timing it with grooming, is memorizing the first day of your last cycle so they have it for the chart. I’m all set. I was attempting to have a romantic dinner in a nice restaurant at the time, I think the receipt might still be in my wallet.

Blood pressure? Fantastic. Years of training during my childhood in the form of escorting my mother to near weekly doctor visits ensures I’m calm in this setting. It’s unsettling. Don’t you love the irony?

Now it’s time to change into the gown, throw socks on my bare feet, and hop up on the table. Yeay! The finest in women’s wear. I never feel sexier than I do in a “gown” void of color that’s wide open in the front and provides no hope for secure closure. At least they give me a warm sheet for my lap and legs.

Good morning, doc. Hey! I have those shoes! Yeah, lets review my history. Excellent. She tells me she’s on the tail end of a cold and her voice is coming and going. I tell her it’s ok, I won’t make her talk much. I’m funny, but I don’t think she’s used to patients being perky or friendly. I manage to get an “I’m not sure if I should laugh” smile. Time to feel me up! Yes, that’s the scar from the first one…yeah blah blah blah…

Now for the good part. Thow your heels in the stirrups which will be right next to her face (see also: clean socks). More idle small talk. She tells me to “scooch down just a little more” as she does every time until I can feel half my ass hanging off the end of the table. She adjusts the light so she can get a pristine view of The Grand Canyon. More small talk about my running and cycling and how we never had a winter so the cockroaches this year will be the size of livestock.

I can hear the clinking of the duckbills. Think of them like a reverse vise. She says (as she always does) that I’ll feel a little pressure, that she’s inserting the speculum. YEAY! Lucky for me, in the last few years some genius invented a little device that keeps the lube warm, so it’s not cold steel and cold lube. Not so bad is still bad.

Now that I’m spread open like the ass end of a Thanksgiving turkey sans stuffing, she reaches over to her tray and grabs the next device: the cervical scraper. Oh, PS, the cervix looks like a bagel. She explained this to me when I asked about ten years ago, and the description stuck with me. I love having my tender bits scraped like dried up the remnants of scrambled eggs off a cast iron skillet.

Now is the time she tells me there will be a little discomfort. I stare hard at the ceiling, wishing there was a TV built into it, wondering what Matt and Katie are reporting on. I unconsciously push my heels further into the stirrups as if it will erase what’s happening. It only lasts a few seconds, but that’s enough.

She pulls the blanket back over my knees and tells me we’re done. While she washes her hands we joke about always having to meet like this, then we shake hands, and exchange unemotional good-byes, I smile and tell her I’ll see her in a year.

It’s been 15 minutes and we’re all done. I walk back to the front, fill out my little reminder card for next year and haul it back to the car, thinking about the chats I had with girlfriends leading up to this and how they didn’t seem to know much about the inner workings of their bodies. I make a mental note to give them a crash course, and another mental note to call my step-mother, it’s her birthday. I hop in the car, crank The Cult (Fire Woman), take a picture of my soaked band-aid and embark on my journey back home to meet Mary Jac for lunch.

I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.