Ok, you remember
this and
this, right? Well, the story continues.
The time had come to check up on those polycystic ovaries. I realised, with mild embarrassment, that I had not yet received my results from lasts year's every-girl's-favourite-annual-outing. So I rang up the Doctor 1's office.
"Hi, I wonder if I could hear about my pap results from December please?"
Receptionist 1 chokes on her pen. "What, you haven't had them yet? I'll check into it right away!"
Click. Line dead. I shrug. A minute passes. The phone rings. It's her.
"We phoned you. It's in our book. We sent a prescription for you. It was faxed. It's recorded in your file. I spoke to you on your cell. I wrote it down."
What? "I'm so sorry, but I never got a call. I don't know about the prescription. Am I sick? I haven't spoken to you on my cell since I was last in your waiting room. Am I gonna die?"
"It's all been noted - in ink. I told you about it. I faxed your prescription through to your pharmacy. I made a note."
"Er, can I talk to Doctor 1, please?"
"She's out. In theatre. I'll get her to call you."
Click. Line dead. I call the pharmacy immediately to check on my prescription. They check their files, their computers, under the tables, between the prozac and the Valium. Nothing. No prescription. No illness reported.
I do a quick self examination. Heart: pounding: check. Lungs: gasping: check. Stomach: knotted: check. Blood pressure: rising: check. Girly bits: status unknown, I thought I knew, but I didn't, my ovaries may quite possibly be quietly shriveling up and expiring unbeknownst to me.
The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She can't understand what happened. I'm upset. Am I sick? Am I going to make it? Will I live to see my grandchildren? She thinks I'm over-reacting. She apologises again.
Click. Line dead.
The phone rings. It's Receptionist 1. She can't understand what happened. She apologises. Profusely. I'm still considering my mortality.
Click. Line dead.
The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She wants to see me. After I've had my abdominal sonar. An apologetic follow-up of sorts. She says sorry.
Click.
I check the mail. The pathologists have not been paid. They say my medical aid doesn't recognise me as a member. They have incorrect details for me. Crap.
A day passes. I breathe. In. Out.
I have an appointment for an abdominal sonar with Doctor 2. Must have full bladder is typed on the card. I have an hour to get ready. I hop in the bath. It's the right thing to do when you're going for an intimate check-up. I drink a litre of water. Tap water. Not bath water. The doorbell rings. The garden service has arrived. I need to let them in. Hop out of the bath. Wet footprints on my wooden floor. I put on something decent. Open gate. Bring the puppy in - the lawnmowers make her nervous. The phone rings. It's the Ultimate Man. We talk. The puppy squats on my favourite carpet and starts peeing. I yell. The phone meets its demise on the kitchen tiles. Dog outside. Drink some more water. Dry the carpet. Swear. Drink water. Phone. Bath. Drink. Dammit. Gotta go.
I arrive for my appointment. Screw polycystic ovaries, I think to myself, my bursting bladder causing copius irrational thoughts to drift through my mind.
"Is Doctor 2 running late?" I ask, tears welling in my eyes. I can't remember when last I was so uncomfortable. Apparently she isn't. I perch myself on the edge of the seat trying not to think about my bursting pelvis. A gentle rain starts to pitter-patter against the window. I feel an aching spasm stretch over my abdomen. I pick up a magazine and try to focus my attention on a fascinating true-life story of a woman who grew a head in her stomach. Receptionist 2 stands up and goes to the loo. I hear it flush. I wince. The tap runs for a bit. A gentle, but annoying trickle.
I'm starting to do the butt dance. You know the one. Your bladder's so full you can't find a comfy spot to be in, so you shift from one butt cheek to the next. It's an awkward jiggle of sorts.
Doctor 2 comes out. She smiles at me. Then turns around and goes to make herself a cup of coffee. I cringe. By this stage the muscles controlling my eyelids have attached themselves to my bladder, and every time I blink, I have to pinch.
Doctor 2 ushers me into her office. She starts to exchange pleasantries. "Listen lady," I say, firmly gripping her by the arm, "let's just get this over, then we can chat." She nods and squeezes sonar gel all over my belly. A quick and agonising abdominal scan is performed. She shows me the door to the loo. Grateful, I excuse myself.
If I had died at that point, I would have gone into the next world with a smile on my face. There is no greater pleasure than the relief I felt at being able to empty my stretched bladder. I must have spent a long time in there, because when I returned to the room, the doctor was checking her watch. She eyed me with vague recognition. "Better?" she asked and offered me an examination gown to don. "Bottom's off, please."
Step two to checking out these spongey ovaries was the vaginal sonar. She slipped the magic wand into me and quickly picked up the (much better looking than last year's) ovaries. The black and white image on the screen illuminated the room. She removed the wand. The image disappeared. a look of mild horror crossed her face.
"Oops," she said. "The image is gone, I'll have to do it again. Sorry!"
"Well, it is our second date," I giggled, "and I won't mind as long as you don't charge me double!"
She repeated the sonar.
It was over quickly. I had a device-free vagina. I asked her if she was done with me, and could I get dressed.
"Unless you want me to do it a third time," she smiled, "I'll have to charge you, though. And I may be pushing the goose that laid the golden eggs"
"If it was as good for you as it was for me, " I said, "we'll call it quits"
Anyway, the results show my abnormally large ovaries have shrunk somewhat, and, after a year of hormone treatment I'm not popping out ova at a rate of knots. Guess it's not all bad.
