While I laugh at the horror that is the gynecologist's office, I'm glad that the doctor has never told me I've had anything too horrible. I saw an article on MSNBC today that talked about a woman's struggle with breast cancer.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21209744/
Not only was the illness horrible (and think of the embarrassing exams and inadequate gowns she's had to contend with!!!!), but it's practically bankrupted her.
I can relate. My husband has been sick with degenerative disc disease for over 11 years. Even with health insurance, our portion of the bills has been monumental. And, now that he's disabled and not working, I've had to switch the family to my insurance. I pay $520 a month to keep my family insured. Add to that co-pays for prescriptions, doctors visits, surgeries and procedures, and we pay about a $1,000 a month on medical expenses.
What are we going to do? I mean all of us? It's not funny!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Psycho at the Gyno - Part 4
In an earlier episode (September 10), I sat mostly naked and freezing in the gynecologists office. And, we continue...
Now how to entertain myself? I glance around the room taking in the bland, neutral décor and spy a Cosmo on the counter. Thank goodness! I’ve been needing a new do, wondering what’s hot and what’s not, and I have not yet learned how to become a sex goddess and make him beg in five easy steps.
I go to get up and find that the crinkly paper has adhered itself to my butt, and my blankette is stuck to my legs, and consider whether the Cosmo is worth redoing all of that. No, but there must be a way.
I look at the tools at hand. The crinkly paper under my butt, my gownie, and my blankette are all too flimsy to be worth anything, as I’ve already found out. But I do have the rolling tray with the Instruments on it. The Cosmo is on the edge of the counter, so maybe if I push the rolling tray hard enough into the counter, the Cosmo will fall. Then, I can wedge the magazine under the wheel, pressing down on the tray as I pull it toward me, and reach down to pick it up. Sounds doable.
I grab the tray and line it up at a 45 degree angle to the magazine. And whoosh! I push it away with what I hope is sufficient inertia to knock the magazine down without overturning the tray.
And find that non-physics majors should not attempt feats that require such calculations. Instead of falling forward, the Cosmo falls backward into the damp sink, and the collision is forceful enough to send some of The Instruments in with it and make a big crash at the same time.
The opening of the door timer just got reset and it’s only giving me a few seconds. I spring into action, taking a large chunk of the crinkly paper underneath my butt with me.
One of The Instruments was in a paper wrapper, and it’s now damp from the sink. But given that my poor person doctor’s nurse didn’t get out The Instruments until I was in the room, I know where they are. I race to the drawer, pull one out, replace it and the plastic instruments on the table, and throw the wet one away. Panicking, I toss the wet Cosmo in the cabinet under the counter, slam the door shut, and in a ballet-like move take one running leap onto the step at the bottom of the table landing my hiney on top with an unceremonious, “Thwump!” just as the nurse opens the door.
She looks around the room with a puzzled expression. “Are you OK? We heard a crash?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I reply, looking at my fingernails. “I didn’t hear anything.”
The nurse scans the room again, a bewildered expression on her face. Finding nothing more to do, she leaves.
Now I’m sweating. And I have a piece of paper stuck to my butt.
Before long, though, I start to get cold. The heat generated by my frantic clean up and the giant leap back to the examination table has worn off, and my skin is starting to turn a glaring white with purply-blue splotches.
My feet look and feel like they belong to a dead person. They begin to hurt so badly, dangling there in the icy air, that I’m certain I’m going to die and then they will look appropriate.
I decide to warm them up. First, I try the old rub and blow method. That works only slightly and is very temporary.
(Don’t worry; I haven’t forgotten I have crinkly paper stuck to my butt. I’m just too tired to deal with it right now.)
I do a systems check on my body and find that the only part that is warm is where my skin touches the thick vinyl covering of the examination table. The skin on the bottom of my butt and back of my thighs has become sweaty and slick.
Now, to take advantage of that heat generation, I sit Indian-style and tuck my toes between the vinyl and my hot, wet thighs. (That sounds porno, doesn’t it?)
I have to scrape off the crinkly paper that is stuck on my butt, but once I do, the heat hits immediately. I’m a gynecological patient genius!
Now, how to while away the minutes (hopefully minutes and not hours)? I survey my surroundings. Breast exam shower cards. More health pamphlets.
I notice a model of a breast chopped down the middle with half thrown away. My boobs begin to hurt just looking at it. Plus it’s kind of nasty with all those little fluid filled pustules, veins, fat, nodes, milk sacs, and other unidentifiable blobs of stuff. Boy, I bet my husband wouldn’t find this glimpse at my boobies too appealing.
I wonder if the model is accurate color-wise, because there’s something blue in that plastic half breast. That can’t be right. What would be big, round and blue?
I can’t read it from where I am, so I lean precariously forward and feel myself start to tumble. But at the last moment, when gravity has its icy (remember we’re naked in a doctor’s office) grip on me, I feel a slight tug on my butt. It’s just enough to suspend my forward motion, and I activate my core, like I learned in Pilates, and bring myself upright.
Wow. The crinkly paper stuck to my butt saved my butt. Not only is it used for hygiene, but it doubles as a life-saving device. Just like the seat cushion on an airplane.
Tune in next time for more grins and giggles at the gyno...
(To download the series or to sign up for future installments, visit: http://shelldgirl.googlepages.com/home.)
Now how to entertain myself? I glance around the room taking in the bland, neutral décor and spy a Cosmo on the counter. Thank goodness! I’ve been needing a new do, wondering what’s hot and what’s not, and I have not yet learned how to become a sex goddess and make him beg in five easy steps.
I go to get up and find that the crinkly paper has adhered itself to my butt, and my blankette is stuck to my legs, and consider whether the Cosmo is worth redoing all of that. No, but there must be a way.
I look at the tools at hand. The crinkly paper under my butt, my gownie, and my blankette are all too flimsy to be worth anything, as I’ve already found out. But I do have the rolling tray with the Instruments on it. The Cosmo is on the edge of the counter, so maybe if I push the rolling tray hard enough into the counter, the Cosmo will fall. Then, I can wedge the magazine under the wheel, pressing down on the tray as I pull it toward me, and reach down to pick it up. Sounds doable.
I grab the tray and line it up at a 45 degree angle to the magazine. And whoosh! I push it away with what I hope is sufficient inertia to knock the magazine down without overturning the tray.
And find that non-physics majors should not attempt feats that require such calculations. Instead of falling forward, the Cosmo falls backward into the damp sink, and the collision is forceful enough to send some of The Instruments in with it and make a big crash at the same time.
The opening of the door timer just got reset and it’s only giving me a few seconds. I spring into action, taking a large chunk of the crinkly paper underneath my butt with me.
One of The Instruments was in a paper wrapper, and it’s now damp from the sink. But given that my poor person doctor’s nurse didn’t get out The Instruments until I was in the room, I know where they are. I race to the drawer, pull one out, replace it and the plastic instruments on the table, and throw the wet one away. Panicking, I toss the wet Cosmo in the cabinet under the counter, slam the door shut, and in a ballet-like move take one running leap onto the step at the bottom of the table landing my hiney on top with an unceremonious, “Thwump!” just as the nurse opens the door.
She looks around the room with a puzzled expression. “Are you OK? We heard a crash?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I reply, looking at my fingernails. “I didn’t hear anything.”
The nurse scans the room again, a bewildered expression on her face. Finding nothing more to do, she leaves.
Now I’m sweating. And I have a piece of paper stuck to my butt.
Before long, though, I start to get cold. The heat generated by my frantic clean up and the giant leap back to the examination table has worn off, and my skin is starting to turn a glaring white with purply-blue splotches.
My feet look and feel like they belong to a dead person. They begin to hurt so badly, dangling there in the icy air, that I’m certain I’m going to die and then they will look appropriate.
I decide to warm them up. First, I try the old rub and blow method. That works only slightly and is very temporary.
(Don’t worry; I haven’t forgotten I have crinkly paper stuck to my butt. I’m just too tired to deal with it right now.)
I do a systems check on my body and find that the only part that is warm is where my skin touches the thick vinyl covering of the examination table. The skin on the bottom of my butt and back of my thighs has become sweaty and slick.
Now, to take advantage of that heat generation, I sit Indian-style and tuck my toes between the vinyl and my hot, wet thighs. (That sounds porno, doesn’t it?)
I have to scrape off the crinkly paper that is stuck on my butt, but once I do, the heat hits immediately. I’m a gynecological patient genius!
Now, how to while away the minutes (hopefully minutes and not hours)? I survey my surroundings. Breast exam shower cards. More health pamphlets.
I notice a model of a breast chopped down the middle with half thrown away. My boobs begin to hurt just looking at it. Plus it’s kind of nasty with all those little fluid filled pustules, veins, fat, nodes, milk sacs, and other unidentifiable blobs of stuff. Boy, I bet my husband wouldn’t find this glimpse at my boobies too appealing.
I wonder if the model is accurate color-wise, because there’s something blue in that plastic half breast. That can’t be right. What would be big, round and blue?
I can’t read it from where I am, so I lean precariously forward and feel myself start to tumble. But at the last moment, when gravity has its icy (remember we’re naked in a doctor’s office) grip on me, I feel a slight tug on my butt. It’s just enough to suspend my forward motion, and I activate my core, like I learned in Pilates, and bring myself upright.
Wow. The crinkly paper stuck to my butt saved my butt. Not only is it used for hygiene, but it doubles as a life-saving device. Just like the seat cushion on an airplane.
Tune in next time for more grins and giggles at the gyno...
(To download the series or to sign up for future installments, visit: http://shelldgirl.googlepages.com/home.)
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