It’s been at least six months since I last saw my gyno but as soon as I saw her it seemed like just yesterday.
We started the appointment as we always do – catching up on things and me reminding her that she removed my IUD a year ago. I also shared some new concerns, like the fact that I have hot flashes, cleavage on my back and appear to weigh a little more than I did six months before. “Do you drink soda, juice, alcohol?” she asked. “No, sometimes and yes, of course; however, I only drink socially. That said, I guess I am quite social.” “Alcohol has a lot of hidden calories,” she informed me. “They don’t appear to be hiding from me,” I informed her.
I assumed my position on the exam table and she did as she often does – positioned herself in between my legs and said, “Wow.” There is nothing more assuring than hearing that when you can’t see what they can see and what they can see is a major part of your body. “You definitely lack estrogen,” she continued. “How can you tell?” I asked. “Color, flexibility, thinness,” she replied, put the sample in the vial, took off her glove and attempted to throw it in the haz mat bin.
Unfortunately, the haz mat bin did not have a trash bag in it so she reached in the bin, retrieved the glove, and put it in the rubbish bin. She then washed her hands and, again, attempted to use the haz mat bin. Again, she had to retrieve the item and put it in the trash. She then turned around to do something, knocked the vial/sample off the counter, it fell on her skirt and then hit the floor. Fortunately, it didn’t break. She picked it up, said “Good thing I put the lid on tight,” wiped off her skirt with her hand and put it back on the counter. She then grabbed a tissue, wiped off her hand and attempted to throw the tissue in the haz mat bin. “How many times am I going to do that?” she asked. “It appears at least three,” I replied.
She then looked at me, with a very somber face, and said, “Your vagina looks older than you.” “Thank you. What does that mean exactly? Can I shoot it with Botox?” I asked. “It means you may be perimenopausal and, no, you may not,” she replied.
I (perimeno)paused for a second and then said, “OK. Well, again, thank you.” Not much more you can do with news like that. I may, however, throw a ‘going away’ party for my labia. It won’t be anything majora, just something minora.