pallas athena March 28, 2006
So I went to my gynecologist today for my way-overdue annual check up. I hate the impossible indignity of this experience and I have never gotten used to it, but I like my doctor. He is younger than me, wears longer hair than me and a goatee, rides a motorcycle, and has a very calming manner. In addition to the annual check up, I wanted to tell him that I was having what I thought were pre-menopausal symptoms. Additionally, I needed to talk to him for the first time about birth control. I have been telling him for years that I was using condoms, but the truth is that my birth control method could have been more accurately described as involuntary abstinence.
As he went to work on the other side of the sheet, I told him what was going on. He started talking to me. I had trouble listening because I was uncomfortable.
“Blah blah blah . . . cancer . . . blah bla . . .”
“Wait. What?”
“I could check your hormones, but I don’t think you are close to menopause. Some of these symptoms could also be signs of endometrial cancer. I’m going to ask you to come back for an ultra-sound and a biopsy.”
Fuck. Dude. I came down here for a Pap test and some decongestant. My head started swimming and I could hear the ocean in my ears. I started panting. I must have turned white as the sheets because he and the nurse held my shoulders and laid me back on the exam table. He told her to get a cold cloth. I broke out in a cold sweat and in my mouth I tasted salt.
“I’m going to send you downstairs for a blood count. You might be anemic, too.”
“I’m having an anxiety attack.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“Too late.”
He held my hand and stroked my arm. I could feel the blood coming back into my pale head. The thing about anxiety attacks is that I get an overwhelming rush of all the fear my brain can muster up, but then it’s over. After the atomic fear bomb hits me, the path to safety comes to me immediately, and there are no aftershocks. The acute heat of the adrenaline takes fear and turns it into strength and wit. I’m always embarassed by my Post Dramatic Stress Disorder, but it has taught me the survival skills of a wild animal. I don’t think my doctor is a stranger to it, so that’s why I like him. He told me not to worry and that he was going to take care of me.
After I came down off the fear, I was able to ask intelligent questions and get him to repeat some of the things I couldn’t hear because of the ocean in my ears. I am not going to get all upset, I’m too old for that. I have a lot to occupy me until I go for all these tests next month, and I’m confident that they will take care of me. They suckered me into making an appointment for a mammogram, which I think is the most god-awful painful thing they ever dreamed up for us to do, and I’d rather have brain surgery.
I’ll probably play it for all it’s worth, though. “Meredith, honey, can you pick me up some Voodoo Barbeque? I can’t drive down there, I’ve probably got cancer, you know.” On the way home I stopped at Dorignac’s and picked up a bottle of very expensive scotch. If I’ve got cancer, I’ll be damned if I’m drinking cheap liquor. I’m resisting the urge to google all the terms he used because it might very well bring on another anxiety attack. I’ve always wanted to be blissfully ignorant, and this time I think I will. This is the first time the c-word has been used pertaining to me, and the first time I ever thought of my own body as a potential enemy. But, I’m ready for you, baby. Bring it on. Don’t MAKE me open up a can of whup-ass.
- Posted in : main, my eggs! my eggs!
- Author : dangerblond
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