Thursday, June 20, 2013

My Vagina Hurts: The Speculum Diaries

Because I am ovulating today (what what!), Heather agreed to take a gander at my cervix.  It fucking hurt.

The first time someone made a move on my vajay with a speculum (a nurse, you dirty-minded a-holes), muscles that had never before been put into action shrieked with anger, swiftly expelling those hellish duck-bills.  The nurse was surprised to see the speculum returned to her hand so soon, and I was proud.  I can barely lift a toddler, but my speculum-defense muscles are mighty.

When we initially sought out Heather's cervix, it was a disaster.  Heather and her vagina seemed straight-up stubborn (not to mention angry) when her cervix hid from examination.  Why wouldn't her knees fall open?  Why did she need so many pillows under her hips?  Are you seriously telling me that we have to flip this equipment upside down for her crazy-ass, tilted uterus to cooperate? 

She hated it, no matter what, and I enjoyed the sweet glow of condescension.  Once my first vagina-invading medical professional realized that a smaller speculum was in order, I never had much of a problem.  When Heather checked my vagina to see if it cooperated any better, my cervix popped right up like an over-eager restaurant hostess.  I made it look easy.

Reader, it is not.  It has been two full hours since Heather attempted an exam, and I'm wondering if they make vaginal painkillers.  The only reason I'm not trying to shove a handful of Aleve up there is that, if things went awry, the doctor would have to use a speculum to get them out.  Also because it would probably hurt to shove a handful of Aleve up my twat.

Heather told me that the small speculum was inadequate to the task of cervix-finding, insisting that the larger one was in order.  (Because, like everyone, we have a medley of specula.  Variety is the spice of life.)  I have not stopped disputing it yet.  Still, I was on my back trying to breathe deeply, so I gamely tried to manipulate my body and the tool, which I had snatched (Get it?  Snatched?) from Heather after her first attempt at insertion.  I felt certain the two were incompatible, while Heather told me it was totally possible.  Fuck her.

But it was possible.  I managed.  And then she couldn't find my cervix.  She was flipping the speculum all over the place, and then we'd have to re-insert at a different angle when my ferocious vaginal muscles drove out the invading technology.  In the end, it wasn't even certain if she saw my cervix.  Familiar.  We comforted ourselves with the approval of the fertility monitor and the quality of my cervical mucus, but nothing else is comfortable.  I need some ice.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Day 1: The Pregnancy Diet Begins

Today marks the official end of our vacation free-for-all, and I am drinking water.
Goddamn it.

There's never a good time to give up caffeine and junk food, so I put it off until after our trip.  After all, you can hardly concentrate on lean proteins and broccoli when surrounded by prosciutto, red wine, and pasta.  And you can order all the courses you want on a cruise ship, so why not get dessert at every meal?  The trick, of course, to making those deals with yourself--"The diet starts Monday"-- is that eventually Monday comes, or the trip ends, and you have to face the ugly part of the arrangement.  In this case, water.