All up in there…

I have a lovely doctor.

I do.

I am blessed with one of those down-home country doctors who delivered my fourth child almost twenty years ago and who has been diligently scanning my nether regions for signs of trouble ever since. The kind of doctor who lets me call him by his first name (rather nice, really, when his football-sized hand is you-know-where) and who raises a puzzled brow (as he peers at me over the very-thin-and-way-too-small-but-cheerily-printed-with-flowers-and-rainbows-like-that’s-gonna-make-this-a-pleasant-experience-paper-sheet draped casually over my above-mentioned nether regions) when I indicate that as much as I like him as a person, I really, REALLY hate visiting him and his cold gloves and enormous fingers and “you’re going to stick that CHIMNEY BRUSH … where?”

“It’s funny,” he muses. “Women don’t seem to like this.”

This, with my feet in stirrups, my hoo hoo chilling in the icy breeze of a sterilized office, and his face somewhere south of … well… yeah.

Yeah, Doc. I don’t like it.

Yet, in the name of women’s health and uterine bliss we go, don’t we? We women trudge wearily to the waiting rooms of busy doctors, gynecologists, and maternity clinics, dragging our weary vaginas behind us, squelching in the oozing broth of womanhood, determined to procreate, menstruate, menopause-ate, masturbate…(Wait…wrong blog post…)

We want healthy hoo-hoos.

Vaginas. Uteruses. (Or is it uteri?) Cervixes. (Cervixi?) Fallopians and ovaries and labias and clitorises. (Clitori? What a lovely word: clitori. I really like it. Reminiscent of a flock of glorious doe-eyed gazelle living in voluptuous abandon on the plains of some far off land… “Oh look, there go the Clitori, bounding through the fields! Quick, get the whipped cream and…” Oh… sorry…  wrong blog post!)

Every two years, minimum, we clench, and shudder, and gird up our loins and: “Put your feet in the stirrups and scootch down to the end of the bed please. Relax your knees. Relax your vagina. This might feel cold.”

I’d like to see HIM scootch.

I’d like to see him relax HIS vagina!

And why is the doctor never READY? I’ve scootched. I’ve stirruped. I’ve NOT relaxed ANY part of my anatomy, thankyouverymuch, and there we are… me, the sheet, the stirrups and the doc leisurely assembling his little tools like an eager spelunker with brand new crampons.  (Get it? Rhymes with…? Ahaha!)

A flashlight? Seriously? Up there? If this was really necessary why didn’t God make us complete with recessed mood lighting All-Up-In-There and the soundtrack to a Barry White album that starts playing as soon as you press… well… you know…

If vaginas could play Barry White, just think of all the marriages that could be saved.

But no.

Flashlight. Gloves. Rope, in case the doc gets lost up in that cavernous tunnel and has to rappel back down. It’s like he’s packing for a weekend camping excursion and he just casually opts to use the tent poles to check the terrain before setting up camp.

“Yes, I can feel that. Yes, it’s uncomfortable and yes, that is why every sphincter in my body is having a seizure. Are we done here?”

If a woman is young… as I once was several years… ok… several DECADES ago, she stirrups, it’s awkward, she blushes… but she goes home secure in the knowledge that her uterus is the pristine pear it is meant to be. She skips through a field of daisies and rides her bike up immense inclines every time she has her period.  She reads Fifty Shades of Grey and thinks it’s GREAT. She gets weepy when she sees diaper commercials on TV.

But after forty five?

She thinks about diapers any time she laughs too hard.

She has her period and wants to dig up the daisies with her teeth and throw her bike at the first man who dares to suggest that she is ‘a little grumpy today’.

Perimenopause. Menopause. Fibroids. Hormones. Unicornuate uterus.

You would think that after a certain age, after a certain number of births… lets pick four, for example… after a certain number of people have stood beside you watching your hoo hoo do it’s thing… (And with four births that is approximately 52 people. Watching. Occasionally applauding. Or cringing. Sometimes one or another of them puts their whole arm in there. To help.) You would think that after all of these trespasses into your personal vaginal space, that you could just gracefully and privately shuffle off toward old age without anyone intruding in your vaginal cavity unless you personally invited them there, with a little advanced warning, a glass of wine and … oops… again… wrong blog post.

But no. Aging means ongoing interventions. Invasions.


Apparently there is now a super powerful IUD that they can stuff up there to stop menstruation so you can approach menopause on a downy cloud of hormonal secretions guaranteed to dry you up like a popcorn fart.

Once I was dressed, I asked my lovely doctor, while his enormous fingers drew a picture of my cervix from a comfortable distance, if this magical device would have any side effects.

“Most women think it’s great.”

“So I’m not going to gain twenty pounds, cry every day and start thinking I’m being stalked by the mailman?”

“Well… some women have some side effects. But most just love it.”

No thanks. I think I will deal with whatever fun and games my poor old uterus is cooking up for me without any invasive devices All-Up-In-There.

Unless it plays Barry White.

Then we might have a deal.

Check out my novel: That Thing That Happened:  Available on kindle and kobo

2 thoughts on “All up in there…

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  1. Oh my goodness! You’re making me seize up – laughing, that is. DD and I just guffawed all over the playback of your recent indelicate procedure. Almost makes me look forward to my next exam. (My mid-wife/gyn NP and I usually have lunch following my “procedures”. Hands are thoroughly washed post-hoo hoo inspection.)

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