Friday, 5 November 2010

Smear campaign

Somehow I managed to get through the whole process of pregnancy and childbirth without ever having anyone poke around in, or even have much of a look at, my lady bits. As my epic, moo-intensive birth story explains, by the time we got to the hospital things were at such an advanced state that the midwife merely flashed her eyes at my undercarriage before running for her catcher's mitt.

I was pretty pleased with this situation, not being a fan of having strangers (or even fairly close acquaintances, to be honest) rummaging around my nether regions. But a few weeks ago I got a letter from the doctor, telling me that it was time for a smear. Well, hurrah, I thought. I've dropped a baby out of there. How bad can a little speculum be?

So off I skipped to the doctors, ready for a good scraping. My doctor (the same one I scared with my jazzy nappy liners) is rather headmistressish, and frankly quite petrifying. Just the sort of person you want coming at you with various proddy and scrapy things while you're naked from the waist down (and while we're on the subject, why does being naked from the waist down feel so much more naked than actually being completely naked? This surely defies the laws of physics in some way. I must consult Stephen Hawking about this at the first opportunity).

After bumbling about doing something lengthy and incomprehensible on the other side of the curtain while I was lying in my hyper-naked state, the headmistress-doctor finally graced me with her presence, and lost no time cranking my bits open and having a good poke about.

"Hmm," she said after some protracted jabbing. "I can't find your cervix."

"Maybe it's fallen out!" I chirruped, because I like making jokes while people are in between my legs. And, you know, it might have fallen out. Nobody had looked, after all. It could have slipped out when Lumpy bungeed out of there. A lot of stuff did seem fall out around that time, as far as I remember.

The doctor ignored me, and proceeded to insert her entire hand and most of her forearm up my vee-jay-jay.

"There it is!" she proudly declared, after a few minutes tickling my tonsils. And then celebrated her discovery by giving it a good scraping with a sharp and scrapy thing.

"Well, no wonder it was hiding," I would have said, if I hadn't been going "eeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyaaaaa!!! Stopscrapingmycervixwiththatscrapything pleeeeeeeeeeasssssssse!!"

And I only get to do this every three years. Life is just so unfair.

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