Today I found myself experiencing a series of embarrassing medical examinations, all in an attempt to find my ovaries. They (my ovaries that is) are two of those things I just assumed were there, enjoying the cushy environment I have supplied them. Apparently not so.
At midnight last night I could be found shoving a hot cross bun in my gob as the panic of a 12 hour “fast” approached. I even woke my husband to ask him, “I’ve got to fast till 1 o’clock tomorrow afternoon for my blood tests. Do you think I can make it?”
“Of course”, he said. And of course, I did. I arrived for my blood tests on time and explained politely to the nice lady that she should expect to have to try at least twice as my veins are notoriously difficult. She peered and prodded at me for a minute and informed me quite innocently that my veins aren’t the problem; they’re just hard to get to, being so deep under the fat and all.
Next stop was through the door marked Ultrasound. Not the warm-gooey-on-your-stomach type that brings tingles to the skin with the thought of a little one. Oh no, this is the Star Wars Lightsaber, humiliation variety. For all those women who have been spared this experience, Mozeltoff. For those who have not, I feel your pain.
The lady was very nice, I’ll give her that. But whilst she tried to distract me with talk of the weather, I really wish she would have kept her perfectly painted lips together. I was all too aware that she was going where no woman had gone before and I half expected to hear the “pshhhhewwwww-pshhhhewwww” of Luke Skywalker in the corner, when the whole episode climaxed in my sheer panic. All because she offhandedly commented,
“I’m having a little trouble finding your ovary. It’s all very odd”.
Great. Brilliant. She continued to ask me a series of questions, all resulting in the same anxiety, “Would you describe the pain as stabbing or dull? (Just emotional scars at this stage). Have you had trouble finding your ovaries before? (Ummm, yes, we often dabble in a little hide and seek). Do your knees go any wider? (Can you buy me a drink first?)”
I’m not even joking about the last one. The thing that really got me going was the deep exhalation and long sigh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh she finished the examination with. And whilst the dull dread that sat with me all morning was really about the fact that this anonymous lady may judge the size of my thighs, when I left I realised that some worries are actually bigger than the size of my girth.
So this Valentines Day I hope for a surprise card…posted direct from a pair of hiding ovaries…