By the time I arrived – 15 minutes early – for my uterine ultrasound this afternoon, my bladder was exploding. I was feeling like one of those little kids squeezing my legs together, bouncing up and down. I am sure that I was whining when I explained to the nice guy at the check in desk that I “really had to go, bad!” He seemed a little unsettled to have a grown woman discussing such thing with him, but I had been given explicit orders arrive with a full bladder at 2:30. It was 2:15 and I was more than full. He checked with someone behind the curtain and came back to tell me that I could do a “partial elimination” and it would be okay. “So, just pee a little?” “Um, yeah.”
Right. Have you ever tried to pee JUST a little? That’s right up there with being a little bit pregnant or eating only one girl scout cookie. Whatever, I had a bottle of water. I peed, a lot, and then started drinking.
Unfortunately the woman called me right back. Ooooops. Shuffled me into a little shower-stall style room and handed me two gowns. I am grateful that they finally figured out that even the immodest amongst us (and I am certainly one) cannot consider ourselves covered up enough with just one. “you can close one in the front, the other in the back, that way you’ll be covered.” Good thinking. I like it. Then she added, “and you can leave your socks on.”
That’s a neat look, 2 hospital gowns and a pair of mens black knee-socks with gold toes. I don’t think so. Even in a hospital, a good pedicure trumps warm feet, thank you very much. I took my socks off and tucked them into my boots with my underwear. Flashed back to gym class in high school. Hated gym class. (Hated high school.)
So anyway, off we go, on to the table with my bladder surprisingly full again, and on to the external ultrasound. We were looking, just so you know, for a blob I had been calling “Maurice” for about a week. I know my body pretty well, and about a week ago, something just didn’t feel right in the part of my body loosely referred to as “my girlie bits.” I’m never quite sure what’s what in there, but went to see my doc and, sure enough, found an odd lump.
Hmmmm. Don’t like lumps in the bits. That exam, which was hysterical, with my very good looking and very gay doc probing around in there, more than just your average exam. We discussed the fact – with his hands deep inside me – that this is PROOF that sex is an emotional thing. “Because,” I told him, “if you were some really hot guy, this would be making me crazy.” Then I had to clarify, a very hot straight guy that I had a thing for. My doctor is, in fact, a very hot guy.
Anyway, lump found, ultrasound ordered. I did loads of research, decided that although there was a 98% chance that it was nothing, the 2% chance that it could be a rare and cancerous tumor complete with fleshy hair bits of living DNA merited naming it Maurice. So Maurice it has been.
Now, however, Maurice was nowhere to be found. Sneaky bastard. And had he been in there, this rather large and slightly curved device that was inside of me would have found him. Seeing as it has a flashlight at the end of it – something none of the toys to which it looked familiar have. Flashlight, that’s cool.
So the ultrasound tech and I were chatting and she told me how great everything looks “in there.” “You are scanning so beautifully!” she exclaimed. “Um, thanks, I guess.” What an odd thing to say. But it turns out there’s a reason. She had been doing ultrasounds on fat people all day, she told me, and apparently that is very hard.
Think about it, the sound waves have to go zipping through all kinds of matter in order to hit their target and send back an image of what they hit. Sound waves do not transmit through fat very well. Amazing. There is no area of life unaffected by being fat. So fat people, who are inherently at greater risk for a variety of health issues, have an even harder time getting tested to determine how healthy they are or aren’t.
In any event. Maurice was nowhere to be found today. Meaning it was probably a routine Ovarian Cyst that comes and goes. Why am I retelling this tale? Because I take my health and my body very seriously, and did not know that ovarian cysts are a routine thing. (I still would have insisted that it be checked out, even if I had known.)
As goofy and moderately unpleasant as pelvic exams and ultrasounds are, they are important. And my ability to stand up and ask for medical help is important. And I think that more people should be able to not only get a good doctor, but talk to them openly about sex, sexuality, sexual habits and sexual health. (Granted, the conversation about love nad sex while he’s probing around may have been a bit over the top, but that’s so me.)
So, to that end, here’s some info from the Mayo Clinic about your ovaries, if you have them that is.
And here’s a link to Planned Parenthood, because not everyone can have a doctor like mine, but everyone should have access to something. I love Planned Parenthood – they were there for me long before my great health insurance took over. Support them, please.
And all of you out there – get to know your body. Know when it’s not right, know when it is, and don’t be afraid to talk about it.
Thanks! Now, I have to go pee. It occurs to me that I may have taken that full bladder thing a little too seriously. But hey, I’m healthy, no diseases, nothing to worry about, so that’s good. Let’s keep it that way!
1 Comment
March 15, 2008 at 12:11 am
Alyssa,
This is hilarious. Maybe a bit macabre. I’ll look forward to laughing more on Monday