Warning: This Blog Talks About My Vagina. (Yes, Again.)
Whoops! Forgot to publish this one. Sorry, it’s a little late outta the gate. *meh, shrug*
I’m visiting family before heading off to Cowboy Land. While at my brother and sister-in-law’s place, I mention that I’d like to get “checked out” before heading off to a new province with an unfamiliar medical system.
My brother checks the neighbourhood walk-in clinic schedule online: “Yep, Dr. Whatshername is on for walk-ins today.”
“Oh, good, I’d rather a see a female doctor.”
I don’t mention that I’d prefer a female doctor because I haven’t shaved anything in, um, a while, and even though I’ve had time to attend to the lady garden, I’m simply too lazy.
I figure I’m better off to save my shaving energy for when I meet a prospective male companion in snowy Cowtown. Plus, my furry legs will keep me warm (along with my chin hairs).
At the walk-in clinic, the intake receptionist asks me what I’m in for as though admitting me to jail. I reply, “I need some blood tests before I move to Alberta. Thyroid.”
Me: “Also, can I get a Pap test?”
“Sure, if there’s time.” She says. She’s country-style friendly.
I take my seat in the waiting room amongst the few locals who live out here in “the boonies.”
My brother and sister-in-law live in between my childhood hometown and my adulthood hometown in an area that is resort and retirement oceanfront residences — where they reside — or inland acreages. The locals can typically be found socializing in the neighbourly-like community while consuming alcohol either near the sea or against a backdrop of forest.
In my sweatpants and stained T-shirt with freshly washed hair and no makeup, I’m still a big-city fashionista getting sideways glances that tell me (without malice) that they think I’m not from around here.
I get moved to one of the patient rooms.
The door eventually opens and the doctor enters. He holds my chart and smiles at me.
I say, “Oh” surprised that he’s a he.
He says, “Oh?”
“I’ve been single for a long time, there’s sprouts everywhere.”
Doctor Feel Good cracks a half-smile.
“Can you check me for all the STDs? I don’t have any symptoms, but I’ve heard that some people don’t even get symptoms so maybe one of my past boyfriends — I’ve been single a long time, did I mention that? — anyway, maybe one of them had something and gave it to me, and I don’t even know about it. I should probably know, you know. Just in case …” My nervous ramble runs out.
He says, “Ok.”
“Also, my neck is tender.” Brief pause. “And I get constipated. My mom had Crohn’s. But, actually, I can manage that with diet. So never mind on that one.” Brief pause. “I’m moving to Calgary.”
“Ah,” he says, jotting notes in my file. “Want to get checked out while on BC Med?” It’s not asked as a question.
“Ok. Bottoms off, put this [paper sheet] over your lower half and sit here until I get back. Don’t lay down … the way the door opens, you’ll give everyone a show.”
The examination table is situated so that if the door opened while “in position” my va-jay-jay would be on display to more than the doc.
“Right,” I say.
A little while later, he returns.
I tell him, “I’m sorry, I thought I was getting a female doctor. I’ve been single a while.” I’m talking about my ill trimmed, well, everything.
I get into position, and he gives me the play by play, “I’m going to insert the spectrum, you’ll feel some pressure …”
I feel like saying, “While you’re down there …” but while that may be funny to a male server who’s dropped a napkin, this doc might think I’m serious. Or crazy. Though either may be true, I refrain from making inappropriate funnies.
He’s talking to me while spatula-ing my interior, but the well-intended distraction does nothing for my embarrassment, and I continue chatting nervously and making silly comments.
“It’s been four years,” I tell him.
“Then I guess I don’t have to check you for pregnancy,” he replies.
I chuckle, but I’m thinking that this is the closest a man’s been to my bits in way too damn long.
The next morning when I’m in town and exiting the Credit Union, I nearly bump into Dr. Feel Good and the woman I assume is his wife.
I’m caught off guard, “Oh. Hi. I, um, we, he … well, never mind. Good-bye.” I’m half talking to him and half to the woman who looks confused.
Doctor Feel Good gives me two thumbs up, “It’s all good.”
I cock my head, confused. “Ok great! Great.” But in my mind, I’m thinking there hasn’t been enough time from his being between my legs with a Pap scraper thingy and him getting the results. And I haven’t even had my blood tests done yet.
That was last week.
I’m happy to report — though it’s none of your business — that I’m free and clear of all STDs. (No judgement here, but if you’ve got leprosy of your lower bits: disclose! disclose!) And I have also weeded the garden. (Not that that’s your business or that there’s anything wrong with Sasquatch snatch!)
Rambling again … sooo, anyway …
Calgary … here I come (so to speak)!
In the meantime, here are some more SnapSnickers in case this blog wasn’t feel-good funny enough …
(Oh, and by the way, yes your face totally does give it away that you read this blog, so just please share it already, k? Thanks!)