The Exam

A few years ago, I visited my sister-in-law in Frederick, MD and we visited a Civil War medical museum. This place is not for the weak of stomach (like me), or the faint of the heart (like me), or someone who doesn’t appreciate creepy life-size dolls (definitely like me). Basically, this was not a place that was made for someone like me at all. It was filled with so many INSTRUMENTS. Not the lovely musical kind. But instruments used for “medical” purposes, although I would argue they looked more fit for horror movies. Everything was metal. Everything was sharp. So many saws. Civil War medical treatment was rough. I felt lightheaded even walking around looking at everything. The descriptions of diseases did not make things better. So many descriptions about oozing. But I made it out, more educated, and stronger for the exposure.

Somehow, every time I’m at the gynecologist, these same feelings of nausea and skipping heartbeats cascade over me. Just like the museum, there are posters discussing sexually transmitted diseases, often with illustrations (although not as disgusting). Even though more of the tools are now plastic and disposable, I still see all of them as metal torture devices. For instance, the beloved speculum. I’m 48. I’ve been visiting this type of doctor since I was a young woman. Why does this tool still bother me? I’m definitely better at breathing through it, and I have developed a weird habit of cracking jokes during the whole exam. Maybe if I can just make myself laugh, this will all go faster.

Except I’m not very good at telling a joke. Just ask Jason. I have to practice quietly over and over and even then I don’t always get it right when I deliver it. But now that I’m thinking about it, maybe this is part of my tactic. I start cracking terrible jokes, all wrong, and the gynecologist and nurse focus better to get everything done quickly so they can escape. I have just shortened my torture! YES! This must be it. I wish I could tell you what any of the jokes are. I don’t remember. I basically black out, babble, come to, and shakily leave. It’s a process.

All this is to say, don’t forget to get your annual exam! If I can make it through, anyone can!