Considering the phone call pep talk I received over the weekend, it’s likely I’m going to get bad news. I ask Murly if I can bring my husband back with me. I’ve asked him to join me this time. I suggest that since I’m getting results, maybe he and I could talk to the doctor before she examines me.
Without actually using these exact words, Murly basically tells me that my doctor does not wish to speak to me without my vagina in full view. I tell Michael to wait outside.
I am weighed. My height is discussed. This is my third visit in the same number of weeks, and not surprisingly, to my knowledge, my height has remained the same. In all honesty, it could change daily. Who measures their height every day? If they are so concerned about it, they should measure it themselves, so we could know right down to the fucking millimeter exactly how tall I am.
The doctor comes in and speaks both to me and my naked bottom. This visit there is some talk of precancerous cells or dysplasia. She explains I should consider a LEEP procedure and babbles the details about what that is. She also gives me the option of seeing a pathologist for a second opinion.
I lie there thinking how I wish my husband were there to help me decide what to do. I think about how I should have been more assertive and brought him back anyway. Mostly, I think about how much worse bad news seems to sound without pants.
A LEEP procedure involves the gynecologist using an electrified wire loop to excise tissue. It can be both curative and diagnostic in that they cut off the offending area and also biopsy it just in case.
I gotta tell ya. Not the best day. The clamp she put on my cervix must have once been used as a bear trap. She got it, cleaned off any bear blood or fur and promply slapped it on my girly bits.
They put a grounding pad on my thigh before they began. Murly and the doctor discussed the settings for the machine, and the doctor suggested Murly change something. It was technical so I don’t know what that was about exactly, but I’m sure I would have been fried like a fish at a church picnic if the doctor hadn’t chimed in with that little detail. (Murly, as you will recall, loves to fuck up. It’s kinda her thang.)
It hurt. Not at first. At first, it just felt warm, but then the doctor scraped some more tissue and it was just brutal. She explained that she had cut away the part of my cervix that had been numbed so this was virgin territory. Still had the bear trap on my cervix at this point so that just added to the fun.
A quick side note: My family doctor is a wonderful caregiver and prescribed me an anxiety pill to take before the procedure. The gynecologist had tried to talk me out of it. She kept telling me how tough I was and how it’s only teenaged girls that ever have an “issue.” I am very glad I took that pill. My only regret is that I did not take three.
So, when the gynecologist left the room, Murly realized she had not entered me in the computer yet for this visit.
This was my fourth visit in less than two months. Murly asked me how tall I was. My head exploded. With a quiver in my voice, I responded, “Uh, I’m 5′ 7″. Does your computer not allow you to save that information?”
Murly responded with, “Well, you know your height can change.”
I said nothing, but my brain screamed and screamed.
“Can it?! Can it really?! How much can my height change? Am I in danger of going all kaiju and stomping Tokyo? Or, is the real concern that I’m going to get so tiny a bear trap won’t fit up my cooch and then you are out of a job? I’m just askin’.
But, really, lady, fact is, we won’t know until it’s too fucking late, because I have been telling people that same height since I was 17 years old, and it’s probably a goddamn LIE! A lie! I may have been 5′ 6″ all along. Muahahahaha. 5′ 6″. Put that in your computer and hit ‘save’, you stupid stupid cow!”
When Murly asked me my height this time, there was tension in the air. I cut through it with some small talk.
The doctor looked at my cervix very carefully. She barely touched me. She told me the good news that they got everything out that was even a minor concern. My heart grew two sizes (but I was careful to stay the same height).
I asked her if the instruction to not have sex for four weeks post-procedure was set in stone. “So, it’ll be at the three week point, will intercourse be ok next week? It’s my wedding anniversary.”
“No.” She waits too long to elaborate and I feel like a scolded child in the interim. But, I’m so happy this is over.
If you learned anything from my story, I hope it is this:
Your height is the most important medical fact of all, and it can change. You should be measuring yourself daily, if not hourly, to keep track of even the most miniscule differences in your size and calling your doctor to report on them. If you forget to do this for even a day, feel free to let your own careless negligence send you into a panic. Fret, cry, drive wrecklessly.
Bitch, get thee to a measuring tape!