I went for my six-month post-hysterectomy gynecological exam this morning ten months after my surgery. Oops! My bad. The lateness of my exam is due to a few reasons, most of which boil down to one: it turns out that every doctor I have had since that first one found my abnormal cervical cells back in September 2006 has divulged as little information as possible, especially when asked direct questions, even if it is something as simple as who you are supposed to make appointments with and when after having your fucking cancer carved out.
I was terrified to go to this appointment today, because my recent history with medicine has taught me to hate it. I used to worry about having swollen tonsils or a yeast infection, but now I worry about cancer and death. As a result, I forgot to breathe during the entire cab ride to the doctor's office and was intoxicated from oxygen deprivation when I walked up to the receptionist's desk. When she asked for my name, I insisted that my last name was that of my doctor. The doctor's name is unmistakably middle eastern, and I am a glaring bright poster girl for white europeanness.
I only waited for about five minutes before being called in to the exam, and then the exam itself took less than ten minutes. The exam was fairly typical, but there are a few things that have changed, at least in my experience, since I first began seeing gynecologists in my late teens (do not read the following section of wholly inappropriate bullet points if you are at all uncomfortable with the discussion of my pink parts):
I just remembered that my mother- and father-in-law sometimes read here. Did you know that? I feel like crawling under my desk, and, yet, still I publish. Hi there, folks! How's your yard coming? Any more squirrels in the pool?
Anyway, back to my appointment today. My doctor did a pap test, palpated my abdomen, and ordered a CT scan for me, which is a completely normal procedure to make sure my insides are still cancer-free and not too overrun with scar tissue. So, I will get to do all that breath-holding again someday soon and then again every six months forever. Joy.
The important thing is that I AM NOT DYING. I usually think I am, so this is excellent news which I should believe for, oh, the next six hours.
P.S. I made that business card at the left while I was worrying the other night but have not ordered any yet. What do you think? Yay or nay?