A few weeks ago my right ovary went missing. True story.
It was gone for a full twenty minutes, and I’ll be honest. I
was kind of sweating its absence.
The room where it all went down was mercifully dark, but somehow
that didn’t make my situation any better. I was there for an ultrasound. Not
the cute baby kind either.
Before the appointment even got started, there’d been the
typical confusion and panic over the Gown of Doom and the Little Red Button of
Humiliation. For those (i.e. MEN) who may be blissfully unfamiliar with these
Villains of Gynecology, allow me to introduce you.
The Gown of Doom is a starchy, scratchy, pillow case thing
that, at the beginning of a “yearly checkup,” every woman is left alone with to
fight to the death in a battle of wits. The Gown is tricky, see. Most hospital
gowns open to the back, but no! Not the Gown of Doom. The Gown of Doom must
open to the front. I’m probably the only person in the world who has a hard
time remembering that, but even without this complication, the gown is
uncomfortable and evil. Trust me.
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| Via - What comes up when you google "Gown of Doom" |
After frantically calling my best friend, mom, and sister to
confirm the proper usage of the gown, there came the Little Red Button of
Humiliation.
When I was first taken into the ultrasound room, the technician chirpily told me that once I was undressed and gowned up, I “should just press the red button and
someone will be right in!” (By “right in” they usually mean twenty to thirty minutes
later after the Gown of Doom has given you a rash, and you’ve given up all hope
of ever getting out of there alive.)
She made it sound so simple.
I followed her too-happily-announced instructions and
stripped. The room was at least 62 degrees, and it was still January. Chill
bumps popped up to join me in my shame. The Gown of Doom offered little comfort or warmth.
I eyed the Little Red Button of Humiliation, looked back at
the exam table.
The Button.
The table.
They were probably six feet apart.
I decided to try sitting on the exam table, then reaching
back for the button. This seemed feasible. I wasn’t an Olympic gymnast or yoga
master, but even I could manage the little stretch it would take to reach the
button.
Negative.
As I attempted to make the little stretch necessary to push
the button, the Velcro from the Gown of Doom violently protested by ripping
apart and leaving me exposed. Now, if I was telling a made-up story, this would
be the part where the nurse knocks and walks in, taking in all my shame and
full body blush. But alas, nothing nearly that funny happened, and I was left
to readjust the Gown of Doom, hop off the table, and press the Little Red Button of Humiliation.
I somehow managed to rearrange myself and get back on the
exam table with that awful crinkly paper before the Ultrasound Tech Chippy
McChipperton came back in. Thus began the exam.
“This will be a little cold.”
Holy Mother of God!!!!
Yes, she was right. The gel and ultrasound wand thingy were
equally cold as she pressed them along my lower abdomen and made small talk
about the weather and her kids. Intermittently dispersed amongst the small talk
were her attempts to point out various parts of my body. Looking at the gray
fuzziness on the screen, I was reminded more of a geography class as she
chattered on:
“There’s Mozambique, and then to the South of that is your
left ovary, and…
…hmm.”
I took a deep breath, searching the Tech’s puzzled face. “Is
there something wrong?”
“I just can’t seem to find your right ovary. You do have
one, right?”
What the hell kind of question is that? I mean, I guess I
have one, unless unbeknownst to me it fell out! “Umm…yeah.”
She pressed the wand thingy harder into my abdomen, moved it
here, then there…and back again.
For twenty minutes.*
The Gown of Doom bit into my skin. The wand thingy started to kind of tickle. I struggled not to squirm.
Finally. Finally,
she smiled and said, “Oh, there it is!”
Turns out the whole time it was hiding just behind Russia or
some gas bubbles in my colon. Silly ovary.
*Time may have been exaggerated, but it seemed like twenty
minutes. Believe me.
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