I started my day by getting all gussied up. I awoke before the rest of the house and took a shower in preparation for my big day. I took this shower all by myself. I must admit it was a little strange taking a shower period, and even more elating that I took it without a little person at my feet complaining that the water was too hot or shrieking in a blood-curdling scream, “Ahhhh! I got soap in my eye.” It matters not that all soap in our home now is tear-free by child mandate. If one microscopic drop of water touches her cornea she fears blindness.
But alas, my bathroom buddies were still asleep, Daddy was still home, and I had an excuse to pencil in this special time for much needed grooming of my personal parts. After all, I had to be presentable.
After almost 16 months postpartum I broke down and called for my one year check-up. The day had arrived and I was filled with child-like anticipation. This may seem confusing to you as to why I would be celebratory over having my cervix investigated. Well, two words for you. No. Kids.
I had secured a babysitter for the event, something I seldom due out of some twisted Mommy guilt thing. I just can’t push myself to have someone watch my children for no reason. This results in two things. One, days like yesterday where I wish to be like Jenny from Forrest Gump praying “dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away from here,” happen. And two, I end up getting pretty darn excited for doctor appointments.
It mattered not that I would be baring my downstairs goodies to a cold speculum and above-average-sized, gloved hand. What was important was that I would be doing this by myself. I wouldn’t have to hold anyone, change anyone, feed anyone, or anything like that at all. And most importantly; it would be quiet. Yes, there would be the background noise of the waiting room television interspersed with muted conversations among strangers (Which is always kind of fun to listen in on, by the way. Kind of like being in the audience of Maury Povich.) But overall it would be beautiful, precious silence.
When they first called me back the young woman apologized for such a long wait, for them running so far behind. I held myself in check and restrained myself from enveloping her in a grateful embrace. She had no clue to the blessed gift her waiting room had provided. While “waiting” or as I call it, relaxing, kind of like a day at the spa, I felt as if it was like my first visit there.
I could still recall my first time in their waiting room, five weeks pregnant with my first child, so blissfully unaware of the havoc that awaited me in 7 1/2 months. I wished I could go back to that fresh-faced woman, with nary a dark circle under her eye or permanent belly pooch from excessive stretching of skin. I wanted to see her, shake her, and say, “Enjoy this silence! It will be gone for a long time!”
Yes, yes, my life is filled now with wonderful, precious moments of the joy of motherhood that I know I will miss, but it is also filled with noise. And questions. And whining. And little people tugging at my shirt, fondling my breasts, and wiping boogers on me while crying, “I need _____.” You can fill in the blank. It’s always something different. But the waiting room was an oasis away from those demands. And I’ll be honest. It felt good. It felt amazing. I didn’t care what awaited me on the exam table. I was free.
When I got back to the exam room my new wardrobe was pointed out to me, folded into a neat stack on the counter, awaiting it’s destiny to make me look fabulous.
“Everything off, have the gown open in the front, and there’s a sheet.” I was given my instructions for how to prepare myself prior to my date with a probing cotton swab. I was a bit disappointed by the wardrobe. It seemed to be the same one I had worn four years ago. Actually I believe it was the original gown from when they first opened the clinic. It’s pattern of stylish orange squares had long ago faded from repeated washings and the number of holes in the fabric made it similar to fishnet stockings. Undaunted, I began to undress.
Without fail at this point of things, as I stand mildly ashamed amidst unfamiliar surroundings in my bra and panties I ask myself do you need to pee? It doesn’t matter that I just relieved myself prior to coming back in a cup adorned with my name. I still have that brief moment of fear where I wonder if I should put my clothes back on and make a mad dash for the restroom. But I never do. I take the chance and it fills me with trepidation. There’s always this unrealistic thought under the surface that screams to you what if you pee on her right when she’s doing it?! You know you won’t. If you didn’t have an accident at 52 weeks pregnant when you had to urinate every three minutes there’s little reason to think you’ll lose bladder control now. But still. What if you did?!
Like I said, I like to live on the edge, so I made the wild decision to not pee again and instead put on my spa robe, AKA tattered hospital gown, open to the front of course.
When I glanced at my awaiting throne I smiled. A barrier of white paper lay ready for my bare tush. I’m always reminded of an old Seinfield sketch at these moments. He said he felt like a sandwich served up on the strip of butcher paper on an exam table. And indeed, all I needed was a kosher pickle to complete the look.
It’s always peculiar to me the large amount of small talk that accompanies the uncomfortable part of the female exam. It only takes maybe two minutes, but in this time we conversed about summer footwear, income tax returns, my job, and the idea of adding a fourth child to our brood. As for the latter, I explained I didn’t know where we’d put one. She suggested bunk beds and I smiled. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her we had done that already.
“Ok. I’m done.” she beamed while she stripped off her gloves. At this point I’m always expectant and we stare at each other for a few moments while I consider asking, “So, is everything where it needs to be?” Even though you know it’s all good down there you always wonder. After all I was completely aware of the traumatic happenings after my child’s exit. With each daughter I had been extremely curious afterwards to assess the damage.
If I am ever asked to offer advice to a new mom it will be this. Whatever you do, no matter how much you think you want to know, do not, I repeat do not take a hand mirror and decide to look around down there. At least not that first week. I believe this to be a possible contributor to postpartum depression. It will shock and frighten you. And you will never be the same. Nor will your vagina. I’m sorry, but no amount of Kegels will bring it back to its previous appearance. Ever.
Being the curious and medical person I am I did look. And now I always wonder if it won’t just end up being like a old Chevy and one day the engine fall out of the rusted undercarriage. I’ve taken care of enough elderly women to know one day it just might. But thankfully not today. She assured me all was as it should be. Or as much as is possible after The Incident, AKA childbirth.
I used their entire stock of hand towels to remove the copious amounts of lubricant left behind and surrendered my fancy robe they had borrowed from Methuselah.
As I left the office they handed me an appointment card for my next visit. One year away. I tucked it away in my wallet already making plans in my mind for my next allotted Mommy Spa Day.