Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Bubble Wrap Tits

It's that time of year again.
The time of year when a stranger attempts to make small talk with their faces two inches from your crotch while groping you and poking you in the 'gine with a giant Q-Tip. I really love the spotlight they put on it too. It's like, give it a top hat and a cane and it could be a Broadway star...
Anyway, my annual "women's wellness exam" started out like usual, me scrambling at the last minute to get an appointment before my 'script of the pill runs out. This meant I would be with yet another doctor I had never met and in a building I had never been to.
The scene: Me, PMS-y, trying to navigate through construction traffic full of Johnson County soccer moms, wandering around aimlessly in a building where "suite 240" does not exist only to find out after I was already 15 minutes late that I was in the wrong building. Frustrated crying and screaming ensues when I get back in my car and I must de-psycho before driving to the next building and walking inside. I'm 30 minutes late, but they still take me. Phew.
When the nurse asks me about STD testing, I say, eh, why not just throw it in? I'm fine, but shit can hide sometimes and I should probably make sure I'm good with all the promiscuous sex with multiple partners (a.k.a. complete and utter abstinence) I've been having lately. I would really hate for some gona-sypha-herpa to pop up at an inopportune time, try, like, ever. Then, being the brave woman that I force myself to be, I also agree to blood work for HIV and other nasty shit testing. I mean, damn, I'm 25 and I've never had an HIV test. In this day and age, that's just irresponsible for anyone.
And so, the exam begins and I decide my midwife chick is OK. She's normal, nice, but then she asks me the question that always makes me feel guilty, "Do you do your monthly exams?" As in, do I spend a few mere seconds each month getting to second base with myself, which would totally detect early signs of breast cancer if I were to have it and is a really good idea to do so. But, I of course have to answer honestly, hesitantly and sheepishly, "No."
Then it's into the usual explanation while the doc gropes me, however this time, the doc was a little more descriptive in her wording.
"Now," she said. "They usually mirror each other, so if you feel something on one of them, you should go check the other side and if it's also on that side, then it's normal."
OK.
"See like this right here, (groping left boob near armpit) feels like bubble wrap."
OooooooK.
"And I bet on this side, (switches to grope right boob in same spot) yep! There's that bubble wrap!"
Well, I guess you learn something new everyday: Some friends aren't really friends at all, sushi is in fact a tasty treat...I have bubble wrap tits...you know, the usual, every day learn-as-you-get-older type of things. But, hey, everyone likes to play with bubble wrap, right?
More poking and prodding and grimacing then I was good to go, except of course for the dreaded blood work that I sort of wish I hadn't agreed to at this point. After an eternity of waiting, the phlebotomist, a large, animated black lady in brown scrubs named Heather, I believe, came to get me and stuck me in this tiny cubbie hole off the hallway full of viles of blood. The sweat immediately begins to form at my hairline as I squirm around in the chair trying not to think, Fuck, Fuck, FUCK! I'm surrounded by blood and it's icky and I'm going to vom and pass out.
After about six years, Heather comes back and before she jabs me with the needle, it comes up in conversation that there is a distinct possibility that I will vom and pass out.
"It's cool girl, I do this all day, everyday," she says.
I stare her straight in the eye as she begins her exaggerated yet hilarious conversation about how her ex husband got sooooo mad because she said she was a better cook than him in front of their friends one time, but no matter how engaged in the conversation I tried to be, I was still acutely aware that there was a needle just chillin' in my arm and I was on the brink of ripping it out and seizing on the floor.
As she flailed her arms in emphasis, the needle was taken out and I immediately felt every ounce of life drain out of me. Yep, gonna vom and pass out.
"OOOOOOOOOOhhh girl, you alright? You not lookin' good," she said, noticing my face went pale.
Then she instructed me to uncross my legs, stick my head between my knees (totally wearing a skirt by the way) and cough - something about circulation I guess - while she fanned me furiously with a manila folder and nurses peeked in to gawk.
"See, I do this so much that sometimes I see it before the patient even does."
After sitting there is a daze for about 10 minutes, I finally decide I'm good to walk and with Heather repeatedly asking, "are you sure you OK?" I make it back to my car where I immediately call my mom to brag about my braveness and laugh about my neurosis.
A trip to the gyno has never been so exciting.

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