Mind Over Uterus (Alternatly Titled "Shameless Overshare")

*A disclaimer. If you are a male relative of mine or are bothered by discussion of female anatomy or visits to gynecologists, please skip this post and come back tomorrow, when I promise to discuss none of those things.*

The mind is a powerful thing, and I hope that mine doesn't qualify me as crazy - but after this last week I may have to embrace the truth.

On Tuesday I once again convinced myself that there was something very wrong with my insides. Specifically, my reproductive system. The pressure, the bloating, the (excuse me for saying) excessive vaginal discharge, the heavier than normal menstrual bleeding... It had to be bad.

Normally, I try to stay away from any websites like WebMD or diagnose me dot com because I know that I am a raging hypochondriac and I need to just chill out. But this time I thought that one of those symptoms was so far out of my norm that I couldn't ignore it. So I googled my little heart out.

No one should ever google the things I googled.

I soon discovered that I had all the symptoms of ovarian cancer, (which are basically anything from abdominal pressure to eyeball twitches), and I panicked and called to make an appointment with a gynecologist.

This morning I stood in the bathroom ready to prepare for my appointment, and I had to wonder what was the appropriate level of personal topiary? You don't want to leave things untidy, but you also don't want to look like you're trying too hard. I spent a good hour in the bathroom shaving to perfection, taking extra care to avoid a repeat of "the Soul Patch Incident of 2007".

At 11:30 I headed out to the gynecologist. Part of me knew that I was about to have a very routine visit, the other part was wondering if my life insurance company would grant me an advance on my death benefit so I could take my kids to Disneyland before I succumbed to the inevitable.

I walked into that doctor office and wondered if I had gotten the wrong building. It was like a posh ski lodge with muted lighting, huge wood beams in the ceiling, a separate room for kids complete with two story play structure, and everywhere I looked there were women who resembled models from Hustler Magazine, except that most of them had baby bumps. That was the only indication that I was in the right place.

I approached the reception counter and told them my name and who my appointment was with and while I watched the girl type in my info, I gazed down the counter and noticed that all of the staff looked like Bratz dolls. They had gobs of make-up accentuating big eyes and full lips, their hair was teased into playful, spiky messes of intentional seduction, and not one of them could have been over the age of twenty-five.

I started to wonder if I had walked into some kind of cult reproduction of the Playboy mansion.

Then the receptionist handed me one of those vibrating pagers that you get at Olive Garden on Friday nights when 600 people all decided at 7:00 that they wanted crappy Italian food.

"I'm sorry? What's this for?", I asked.

"We'll page you when it's your turn," said Miss Thang.

"My turn to eat? Can I see a menu? I should have brought my husband."

Unamused, Miss Thang went back to her typing.

I sat down and tried not to look at all the pretty women sitting around me. Where were all the old people? The women with hairy upper lips or so many piercings and tattoos that it almost certainly guarantees some kind of diseased pustules on their girl parts? You know - the women who make you feel better about a stranger poking around in your downstairs because nothin' you got is going to be as bad as what the doc will have to deal with on them.

I realized that on this day, I must be that woman for all the sex kittens there.

Not that they were worried about anything with their perfect skin, stilettos, and expertly applied make-up. I actually felt kinda bad for the doctors and hoped they had some kind of system in place to keep themselves calm.

I tried to keep my eyes on my Parent and Child magazine, but I kept stealing glances at the other waiting patients until I felt my pager buzzing on my lap.

Dinner time!

I collected my things, met the nurse who was waiting for me in the hallway and was led to a scale that is not as polite as the one I have at home. I decided to take five pounds off for clothes. And another two for shoes.

Blood pressure, check, then into the exam room. I was given a lovely paper gown and blanket and was told to put on the gown so that it opened in front and lay the paper blanket across my lap.

And it's always a race, because some of those doctors, I swear they try to catch you standing there naked, trying to slip your arms into the holes without tearing it. Give a girl a minute to make herself presentable!

I had barely gotten my rear onto the table and the blanket around my legs when the doc knocked and opened the door. Phew!

He came into the room, and good grief, even the doctor was beautiful! A nice looking man with gray around the temples, dark eyes and a gentlemanly southern accent. He sat down and asked me all the standard questions, including whether I had any questions for him.

This is the part where I had to say things like "discharge" and "bowel movements". I tried to tell myself that he deals with this stuff all the time, but I couldn't look at him while I talked.

What on earth makes a man want to become a gynecologist anyway?

The doc took it all in stride, performed a thorough exam, including one of those obscene ultrasounds that do not take place on top of your stomach.

At the completion of his time with me he pronounced me completely healthy from a gynecological standpoint and suggested I go to see a gastroenterologist regarding my bloating, pressure, and general feeling of constipation in spite of my normal bowel functions.

Turns out I don't have ovarian cancer - just irritable bowel syndrome.

Which means a lifetime of Metamucil staring me in the face.

But at least I got my annual Pap taken care of.

So tonight the muscles in my left arm are sore, even though I haven't used them for anything out of the ordinary. I bet it's the onset of something sinister.

Damn that WebMD!