I'm really hoping that this isn't your first visit to Absolute Mommy. This place is usually pretty classy. I try really hard to keep it clean and lady like, but not today. No, today, I'll be talking about that dreaded yearly appointment.
The Annual.
You know, that once a year visit to get the baby maker in order. To make sure that every thing is status quo, in working order, doing what mother nature intended. As usual I was delighted to see the Questionnaire. You know the one, to confirm that your sexual partners hasn't increased or changed (that was fun to answer in college). The questionnaire that asks you if you've ever had the bubonic plague or traveled to Thailand ala the Hangover. (No Dr. V, I haven't had relations with Mr. Chow).
Normally, I take all these elements of the visit in stride. No problem, just another doctor's visit to make sure I'm fine. Just a half an hour of my time. Just a few moments in cold stirrups, exposed to the world. No big deal. Nothing exciting about that, right?
Right?
Normally, I take all these elements of the visit in stride. No problem, just another doctor's visit to make sure I'm fine. Just a half an hour of my time. Just a few moments in cold stirrups, exposed to the world. No big deal. Nothing exciting about that, right?
Right?
This year, my annual was completely depressing. It must be because I'm on that downhill slope to 40. It's time for the baby maker to retire. To hang up the saddle and put this mare out to pasture. I'm being dead serious. The OBGYN at 34 or older, I've decided, is a lesson in aging gracefully, or as in my case, not.
First let's talk about birth control. For the first time since stepping into their office over 5 years ago, I felt a tug at my uterus. Like a serious, honest to God, tug. You see when you visit the gyno, there are unusually lots of pregnant women waiting to see the good doctor. Pregnant women are usually happy to be there, to get another peek at little jr, all happy and swimming in their amniotic fluid. Once in a while there will be a crying baby. Like today, a perfect little 6 week old baby, screaming that baby scream that they do, that makes your eyes tear and your uterus tug.
Available uterus. Party of one.
So with my emotional uterus, trying to convince me that I need another one of those babies in the waiting room, I go in to talk to the nurse practitioner about birth control. Since I'm looking for non hormone birth control, the idea of tubal ligation comes up. Usually when tubal ligation is in the conversation, the NP or the OB say that it's something to think about. Something to mull over, to take my time, to make sure I'm done having babies. You wanna know what the NP said today? "Well, when you are ready, just call to schedule your pre-op. Then we can get you scheduled at the hospital". Because apparently 34, isn't young and vibrant, it's old and uninhabitable.
Awesome.
Next were the stirrups. Even after 17 years, this is the most evasive and exposed situation that can happen south of the border. Seriously me and the Hubbs rarely get this up close and personal anymore. I understand that it's important to do, so I try to be as relaxed as possible. Telling myself, don't look at the tray of medieval tools. Don't even let your eyes wander. Just lay back and look at the ceiling and pretend that there isn't a person with their head stuck between your legs, who is now talking you you about the dryness that comes with perimenopasal women. I have no idea who or what she is talking about. I'm not in the category of perimenopasal women, I'm 29. Wait, I'm not 29?
Here is where I lost all sense of myself. All ideas that I'm still in my early 30s, went out the window with the breast exam. I know they are important. We should do them every month. So while she's doing the honors, she informs me that next year, being that I will be 35, I get to graduate to the big girls club. The big girls club having nothing to do with my "girls" who after a failed attempt at breastfeeding are now quite small. No, take a guess what's on the menu for 35 year old me. A base line mammogram. And while I welcome it, I truly do, because breast cancer isn't something to thumb your nose at, I seriously don't feel old enough. How on earth am I on tap for a base line mammogram?
Fine, I'm 34. I feel like I'm still 29, most days. I can maintain an overall sense of self, and be happy about the woman I've become. I've come a long way friends, and I feel like I'm just beginning. I hear that the 40s are the new 30s, or 20s, whatever. I've been ready to tackle it. Until my annual. Being slapped in the face with statistics is a reality check I didn't want. I'm happy blisfully thinking I was in college 10 years ago. Which, if you must know, isn't the truth.
If I sound like I'm complaining, I am. With no rhyme or reason. Am I healthy? Yes. Am I afraid of any bad pap results? No. I'm just venting, because, that try as I might, I can't deny that I'm going to be 35. I had no problem turning 30. I embraced it. I tell everyone who is turning 30, to embrace it. 30 is fun, it's the new 20s right? Well it is, until you turn 35, get a free pass to the tubal ligation station, and are told that your are on deck for your baseline mammogram. How am I supposed to age gracefully? Because I got the eye cream, I dye the grey away, and I moisturize. What more can I do?
If I sound like I'm complaining, I am. With no rhyme or reason. Am I healthy? Yes. Am I afraid of any bad pap results? No. I'm just venting, because, that try as I might, I can't deny that I'm going to be 35. I had no problem turning 30. I embraced it. I tell everyone who is turning 30, to embrace it. 30 is fun, it's the new 20s right? Well it is, until you turn 35, get a free pass to the tubal ligation station, and are told that your are on deck for your baseline mammogram. How am I supposed to age gracefully? Because I got the eye cream, I dye the grey away, and I moisturize. What more can I do?
Maybe the key to aging gracefully is to appear younger than your uterus.
The baby maker can't lie about her age.
She knows we ain't 29 anymore.
The baby maker can't lie about her age.
She knows we ain't 29 anymore.
