Losing My Dignity, One Lady Part at a Time

My college roommate’s dad was an OB/Gyn. In addition to some serious period cramp meds, we used to get a lot of fun stories from him.

Some of my favorites include:

The lady who came in with a yeast infection because she misunderstood the type of jelly to use as lubrication. (For clarification: KY jelly, yes. Welch’s grape jelly, no.)
The lady who accidentally sprayed body glitter (it was the early ’90s) on her hooha instead of feminine deodorant spray. (I believe the phrase “Don’t you look pretty!” was uttered.)
The lady who scooched down so far she slipped off the table and landed in Dr. Shield’s lap. (Talk about too close for comfort.)

Thanks to HIPPA laws and Dr. Shield’s professionalism, I don’t know the names of these women. I do, however, think of them every year when I show up for my annual gynecology exam.

Especially that third lady.

Scooching off the table into my doctor’s lap is probably my number one fear when I’m at the gynecologist’s office.

Him seeing my bra and underwear is an irrational close a second, given the fact that I continue to hide them under my folded clothes on the chair.

Finding cancer is a distant third worry.

In my opinion, there’s nothing more vulnerable than lying naked on a table with your feet up in stir-ups and only a thin paper cloth over your lap while a doctor gives you a manual exam followed by a Pap smear using a hard speculum and the world’s biggest Q-tip.

After delivering two babies with lots of people in the room, you’d think this would be a walk in the park for me. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It’s the worst.

But at least I got to keep my socks on. I guess that’s one shred of dignity I didn’t have to give up today.