I'm becoming convinced that's it's impossible for women to maintain a shred of dignity. From the time our period starts, we're on a continual loop of humiliating life experiences.
When I was a teenager my cousin thought it would be funny to throw me into the pool....that situation quickly became hysterical when my pad came floating to the top. Enter the 'Learning to insert a tampon' phase. (Don't panic. I've chosen to spare you from my water park story. You can thank me later.)
There's the fun of finding places to discreetly carry our necessities. When K was a baby, we were in the crowded church nursery and I asked Z to bring me a diaper out of her bag. He skipped over carrying an open super-all-day maxi pad with 'wings' no less. Sadly, I think it would have fit her. Of course none of that compares to our annual appointments with the gynecologist. I could practically hear the beeps of a large truck backing up as the nurse directed me onto the scale when I was eight months pregnant with Z. Her gestures looked like she was trying to land a small plane.
And the weigh-ins don't get any easier when you're not pregnant either. Those are followed by stirrups, and a 'you're about to feel a little pressure' comment as you lay there trying to think about anything other than 'what if I farted right now'......
The list could go on. The birthing process, breast milk arriving, engorgement that brightens the eyes of your husband with hopes that those things will stay that size forever, and the fun of trying to learn the art of feeding your own infant with those giant monsters while trying not to suffocate the infant. It's horrifying.
Anyway, last year I discovered a lump under my C-Section scar. My gynecologist diagnosed it as Endometriosis. Painful but nothing serious. I opted to have it removed and we scheduled my surgery. Last November I sat in the surgery center for over nine hours, starving, wearing a revealing hospital gown, hooked up to a constant flow of IV liquids, with the occasional visits from the male nurse anesthetist who would give me shots of something to 'relax me' but that would actually work as truth serum and I would tell him how good looking he was right in front of my husband every time he'd inject me with one. All for nothing because my doctor never freaking showed up! I pulled the plug on that little 'prisoner of war' experience and walked out swearing off Gynecologists forever.
Almost a year later, I was finally ready to deal with this situation once and for all. I found an amazing new doctor who seems like the type that would show up to do your scheduled surgery. He agreed with my previous doctor's assessment of my lump and ordered an Ultra Sound before scheduling my surgery.
My Ultra-Sound was yesterday and I was instructed to have my bladder full. I lay there on the table trying not to pee myself while a technician named Lisa pressed down with her machine as her student follower, Amanda, watched and I thought, "This couldn't possibly get any worse." Then she told me to empty my bladder (whoo hoo) because she's going to do an internal scan. (S***).
Ten minutes later I was lying on the table again, feeling like a human video game as Lisa moved the controller and Amanda studied the screen and once again made the mistake of thinking, "Okay, now this couldn't possibly get any worse." And then Lisa asked me if I would mind if Amanda took a turn. (Why not at this point?) Just before I went to my happy place where my orifices weren't being invaded, I heard Lisa tell Amanda, "Oh look....she has to pee again." (Thanks for the heads-up.......)