Grew up on whole
milk and sports.
Between
softball, basketball, and cheerleading I earned myself enough plaques,
trophies, and varsity letters to open my own gymnasium. But if there was one sport I couldn’t even hold
a candle to, never mind a tampon, it would have to be the fine art of
GYNECOLOGY.
Mom, of
course, was a devout Catholic. Because Nana before that said so. She sent me to Catholic School til seventh grade
or so and we attended church every Sunday.
This, of
course, had its advantages. I did
everything I was told. And because of
the strict dress code, I never had to plan my outfits. I did, however, spend
the better half of my childhood in maroon kneesocks.
And my best
friends were nuns.
Of course,
attending Catholic school had its disadvantages as well. Foremost being, I had
to learn about the birds, the bees, and everything in between from a NUN.
A NUN, mind you. At the ripe age of twelve,
Sister Cynthia taught me about the purpose of life. That being: don’t share any BIRD with any BEE
and just become a NUN.
Which was fairly
appropriate since the only boys I communicated with were my cousins and my C.Thomas
Howell posters. My dating pool was slim
to none. Especially on account of the
maroon kneesocks.
The nuns
also provided me with well-heeded advice.
Never shave above the leg, sit like a lady and use pads, not tampons. The
Lord frowns upon sticking anything up THERE.
I think it is a commandment.
Mom didn’t
breathe a word about “becoming a woman” while I grew up so I asked no questions
and made no announcement, especially having sworn to keep the truth and nothing
but the truth from my three younger sisters.
It was an unspoken DON’T ASK and DON’T TELL policy. Because Mom said so.
And Nana before that said so, too.
That was until
one morning when I reenacted a certain shower scene from Stephen King’s novel, ‘Carrie’,
resulting in Mom practically breaking down the door and me, heaving life and death
while she congratulated me. Incidentally,
my sisters were grounded in their rooms until the school bus arrived that
morning.
That was
when Mom scheduled THE appointment. The GYNECOLOGIST
appointment.
From there,
it was DOWNhill and UP through the depths of my soul with a flock of familiar strangers. Mom chose a male gynecologist, because the latter
would be “not natural.” Once I
discovered how FAR from natural that was, especially since it was pretty much
my first “date” with a guy, I asked the office to assign me to a female
gynecologist. I figured I could learn a
thing or two from a woman without a wimple and a veil.
I was a good
girl about my appointments, followed every instruction, never complained, and was
always punctual. In fact, I was often
very hospitable. Several times, I had
the special “honor” of being asked if a STUDENT PHYSICIAN could perform the
routine task of examining up THERE and take some footnotes for class in the
process.
Being the
courteous patient I was, I always obliged, not realizing when you agreed, you
would need to endure the examination not once, but TWICE.
That’s right. I became a FREQUENT FLYER of the STUDENT
PHYSICIAN EXAMINATION CLUB. I think they must have written it on my chart. “Ask this one. She is shy and Catholic.” Which translates to “she does everything she
is told.”
Made me miss
my first date with MISTER gynecologist though.
At least he got it right the first time and never once asked me for a
letter of recommendation.
I remember
telling my friends just how humiliating it was, to have not ONE, but TWO consecutive
physicians examine me. They never
laughed so hard and told me EVERYONE always
says “no” and why the hell did I agree to it.
This I’ll never know but this response did make me think twice. About finding myself some new friends.
Especially since they were all NUNS.
Through the years training in gynecology, I
learned a few things or two:
1.
Shave your legs, but never above the knee, for the appointment.
2. Wear your best underwear. Maybe even a set that matches.
3.
Use some pretty scented lotion or body spray. Let them believe you always smell like a
dandelion in bloom.
4. If they ask you if you are ACTIVE, explain that you walk at least a mile a day and you can do 35 situps in a minute. Then you won’t get the condom speech.
and 5. Repeat all these actions for a date. Except #2 because a good Catholic girl won’t be showing any birthday suit til she has a ring on her finger or is two months pregnant. Whichever comes first.
I also created
a few pieces of advice for the gynecologist.
Foremost, they
shouldn’t try to spark up any conversation during said appointment.
Sure, it’s
awkward when you’re sitting there at a dentist office and there’s you with your
mouth two feet wide and your tongue wrapped around a cement mixer. And there’s the hygienist examining you with
a pickaxe asking you what plans you have for the weekend and if you can recite the
periodic table of elements.
But there’s
something to be said about carrying on a conversation with a bear trap between
your legs, a crank suitable for lifting a 1975 Chevy, and a two foot long q-tip.
And worse
yet, don’t shoot the shit with me during a breast exam. A. It’s very awkward
and B. My mom told me no second base til I was 37. And Nana before that said so, too.
I mean, your gynecologist might be a nice person and
all, and it does make the time go by much faster, but you can’t make best friends
with the only person on earth that has seen you in the flesh except for
Snowball, your white toy poodle dog.
Yes, it’s
true. I did not learn much about birds or bees from my own God-given
mother. What I lacked I learned from my
husband and my part-time summer college job at the video rental store. Especially
when it was time to do inventory of the “Back Room.” You’d be surprised how much
a girl could learn just reading summaries of “The Sisters who Dropped their
Traveling Pants” and “Indiana Jones and the Invaders of Her Lost Ark.”
Then there’s
things I’ve learned from EXPERIENCE.
Pre-childbirth,
I used to enter that gynecologist office with my face a shade of crimson red.
As if I was up to something. Even when I
was newly married. Must have been the Catholic girl in me. Now that I’ve birthed two children, I waltz
in that lobby with my head up high like I’m there for a facial which is
equivalent to a chance to sit on your ass and read a magazine when you have two
kids at home.
In fact, I
now have a new list, being the experienced athlete of gynecology that I am:
1. When calling out sick from work,
ALWAYS say it’s for a gynecologist appointment.
There will be no questions asked, especially if your boss is male. This has NOTHING to do with being UNION. It
has EVERYTHING to do with being female. My
own father, in fact, avoided me from the 15th to the 21st
of every month since the age of fourteen.
2. For lack of sounding impolite, use
the word OBSTETRICIAN rather than GYNECOLOGIST.
Just like you can substitute STUPID JERKHEAD for ASSHOLE which my Catholic mother
taught me in the line of traffic.
3. Gynecologists now envelope the entire
WELL-BEING of the woman, so don’t be afraid to have your cholesterol checked,
your blood pressure, or leave your five kids there while you get the hell out of
Dodge and out of that medieval torture device they call a chair.
4. Don’t worry about shaving your legs
anymore. If this is the same doctor that
assisted you in childbirth, she will sympathize.
5. When they ask you if you’re sexually
active still, don’t be afraid to cry.
And furthermore, don’t be ashamed to ENJOY the boob exam. It might be the only action you get til your
next appointment.
As I said from the beginning, I have NO varsity letter in this sport. I have struck out far too many times. Take the delivery of my first daughter. That was my worst strike-out of ALL time.
Folks, as a Catholic and a product of my Mom, I have prided myself in never
passing gas. You can ask my sisters
about this one. Ladies do not fart, and
I was a lady. Because Mom said so. And
Nana before that said so.
I WAS a lady. Until March 12, 2003, that is. I was 31 years of age. First came love, then came 27 hours of
labor. Finally, a spinal insertion which
had me on the ultimate high and paralyzed from the waist down. And juuuuuuust after they wheeled me into emergency
surgery for a c-section, and riiiiiiiiiight before Magic 106.7’s rendition of
Jewel’s 1996 “You Were Meant for Me,” I passed gas.
For just about the first time in my Catholic school girl life. My sisters were there to hear it. I tell you, it was thirty-one years of holding
in all that was sacred and holy about me.
I lost all control.
That spinal had me so relaxed, I released all that pent-up fuel right there in front of my own gynecologist, a team of certified surgeons,
my anesthesiologist, and you guessed it a STUDENT PHYSICIAN. I even asked my sisters “who was that?” But between their gasping for air and
convulsing laughter, I already knew.
It was me. It was absolutely 120% me. And that passing of the torch was not just a
brief moment. It was a seven-second-guiness-book–of-world-record-Olympian-sized
fart. It was a like someone had rung the
town horn to warn the villagers the British were coming! It was like a foghorn ensuring passage for
wayward sailors.
I tell you, if my parents had heard that I had finally blazed my own
saddle, my mom would have asked for the Lord’s forgiveness and my dad would
have passed on cigars before the baby was even BORN. And he doesn’t even smoke cigars.
To this day, I am still not certain what the STUDENT PHYSICIAN wrote on
his clipboard on that cold day in March 2003.
Either “normal labor resulting in an eleven pound baby girl” or “gave
birth to the first ever epidural fart.”
And to make matters worse, this gynecologist, this SAME gynecologist that
rescued me from labor and stitched me up, is now my PRESENT gynecologist. Which would be wonderful, knowing she knows my
history and all, but she just so happens to live in the town I live in.
And her daughter is now the same age as my daughter.
And they happen to be in the same
classroom. For the last three school
years now.
Just when I think it’s safe from gynecology, I attend an Open House. So while all the other mommies and daddies
enjoy little kid poems all hung out to dry and handprint turkeys, I always bump into HER. My gynecologist.
Yes, she knows of my history. Especially the events surrounding the ‘Big Bang,’
not so much the groundbreaking infant I labored. And it’s great for my annual appointment, but
no so much for a school concert or class Valentine party. And regretfully, I
attend Open House each year my face a shade of crimson red.
It’s safe to say gynecology is NOT my sport. Perhaps it‘s my Catholic upbringing.
Perhaps God has burdened me with some bad luck for not having become a
nun.
Instead, I’ve become a woman, a wife, and a mother. I’ve had at least 30 annual checkups, 25
ultrasounds, one mammogram, and two childbirths. And up til now, I’ve shared
many BIRDS with the same BEE.
It’s also safe to say that I will never letter in gynecology in my
lifetime. It was never a sport to begin
with though. I’d like to think of it as
a practical joke on women. Staged by men,
of course. Or Ashton Kutcher.
