“It Looks Pretty Good Up There”

“It looks pretty good up there”, my gynaecologist affirmed, his face buried somewhere between my legs. 

That’s a good thing to hear at my biopsy. I mean it’s not official, the tissue samples need to be sent off to pathology and analyzed. Cells need to be dissected checked for malignancies.  

But maybe he’s not commenting on it from a potentially diseased standpoint. Maybe - since he IS an expert on vaginas - he was saying it looks pretty good for a woman of my age. A menopausal woman. With an almost nonexistent sex life. I DID put in an extra effort to groom before my appointment….

The appointment. I hate being there. But I’ve been having menopausal spotting and bleeding and it’s something to not be shrugged off. And so I met with my family doctor -a wonderful woman who’s been mine and My Favorite Husband’s doctor for many, many years- and got a referral to the gynaecologist I’d seen a few years back. Because of “what’s happening” I was put on a priority wait list (down from the two- six month wait list) and, well, here I am.

He’s a good doctor. Pleasant. My personal challenge was to get him to really
smile, crack the professional demeanour. He read through my ultrasound reports and said there wasn’t anything too alarming in them but we definitely needed to do a biopsy to confirm. With that he left the room and me to disrobe my lower half, settle my butt on the edge of a table and “relax” my feet into the stirrups, legs spread apart. 

I did a mental review of what I ate and drank that morning and felt confident that nothing was consumed that would make me fart. I’m pretty sure that would not make him laugh. 

And, with that, there was a knock on the door followed by his entry. 

Businesslike, he reached for and inserted the speculum that would not so gently open me up like a Christmas turkey. And had a look.

“It looks pretty good up there”.

“Thanks…sounds good… WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL”…. I yelled. You see, even though I knew it was coming, I was not prepared for the cutting and snipping of things “up there”. And so, I asked the question that was foremost on my mind..

“Can I swear”? 

“Let it fly”, the voice between my legs replied.

“Ok, but I’d appreciate it if you’d swear with me… what the hell! Hell isn’t a swear word”, I muttered.

“I’d rather not”, he chuckled.

“Oh, I get it. You don’t swear. It’s ok”, I sadly said.

“I absolutely do, I just save it for my residents”, he answered. And, although I couldn’t see the smile, I could definitely hear it.

“It’s fine”, I gasped between gritted teeth, “ I’ll save it for later”.

Every curse word I know - and I know A LOT- floated through my mind, creatively strung together in ways that would have me eating an entire bar of Ivory soap if my Mom knew what I was thinking. 

After an eternity (in reality probably less than five minutes), the good doctor was done. Hell, I was done. He looked me - in the eye- smiled and told me to make a follow-up appointment in three weeks. And left me to dress. 

And, as I shimmied my fine caboose off the table, I whispered (aware of the thin walls of the exam room) all of the bad words I know.. all of them. Every single one of them. 

I got dressed and left the room, stopping at the assistants desk. 

“How was it”? she gently asked.

“It hurt like hell and he wouldn’t swear with me so I’m a little disappointed”.

She laughed and seemed surprised that he didn’t. With a follow-up appointment scheduled I left the office, headed for home where my protesting internal cavity could have a rest from the procedure.

Three weeks later….

I sat waiting for the good doctor, telling the female part of my anatomy not to worry. This was a follow up consultation. No pants were coming off. Nothing was getting snipped for sampling. Swearing - depending on the news- was optional. Was I nervous? Yup. But no matter what I was going to hear I knew I could- and would- handle it. 

The good doctor came in, professional but with a slight smile on his face… I knew it! I’m his favorite menopausal patient! Ha! Hello…..

“ Everything looks good” he stated.

“So, I don’t have cancer”? 

“You do not have cancer”.

“Ok, then why am I still bleeding”?

He paused at that, puzzled. “You do have polyps. So I’ll book you for a day surgery to remove them and anything else that is causing this”.

“Sounds good to me. Any idea on when this will happen? I’d like to have it done before I’m 60”.

His slight smile broadened at that. “When’s your birthday”? he asked.

“Beginning of June. And, I’m planning on going away. AND, what happens if I meet a hot man and want to get lucky? This is not helping” I gestured with a large circle over my lower abdominal area. 

And, with that, I cracked him. He laughed at my boldness but what do I care, he’s a gynaecologist and, quite frankly, he’s seen my inner workings. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get much more intimate than that.

“A month. Two max. It’ll be taken care of before your birthday” he chuckled. 

With that he left the room. I sat for a moment, happy that my worst case scenario wasn’t happening and that what is happening seems to be a straightforward fix. I took a moment to finger the dime I had picked up before walking into the building for this appointment. I took it as a sign that whatever happened I wasn’t in this alone. 

With the delivery of the news I also took it that MFH was hoping for a little more peace and quiet where he is hanging out and a few more years of my antics as entertainment.

And I’m good with all of it.