Can't find my cervix

So, we are going on a week of not knowing why my spell check on blogger is on strike, and I am too lazy to ask my hubby to proof all my blogs.  Therefore, you are stuck with crap.  Crap that is grammatically incorrect and run on sentences that run because I write like I talk.  Sorry about all this.  However, today was one of those days that I thought, "This is rich.  My blog has written itself and it's not even morning yet."

So, my day started last night.  Geoff and I didn't want to go to bed early.  We wanted to read.  He finally conceded to go to sleep around 12:30 AM.  I went to bed at 1:30 AM.  At 1:45, I decided it wasn't a good idea to sleep in the bed anymore.  Mostly, because, I was unable to fall asleep.  If you have a snoring, restless leg person sleeping beside you, there is no way you can justify sleep.  The restless leg thing is like chinese water torture.  Every few seconds, sometimes 5 seconds, sometimes 15 or more seconds, their legs swish back and forth.  Then, you count, waiting for it again, and this time, you think, "Maybe the episode is done."  You relax, and try to block out the sounds of the snorting beside you, and then the swish-swish is back and it makes me as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rockers.  (Thank you to my goy friend.)  Really, I thought, I will hit up one of the kids' rooms.  I have Shay in a queen size bed, and Charlie has an extra bunk.  Hmmm.. Shay's room has a fan.  Think that would be cooler than the top bunk.  So, off I went, and found a half of bed waiting for me.  I got there about 1:45 AM, and listened to her grind her teeth and kick me for the next hour.  My thought at this time was, might as well go back to my room- at least Geoff wasn't kicking me.

I walk in at 2:45 AM, exhausted, and I see Geoff is face down beside the bed.  I had my phone and my pillow in hand, tap his shoulder with my toe, and said, "You need help, or are you good there?"  He mumbled and grumbled, then told me he needed help.  (I know this.  We are all kinds of afflicted, but I didn't think the middle of the night was the appropriate time to address those sorts of issues.)  Geoff thinks he got up to go to the bathroom, but fell with vertigo.  He doesn't know if he was asleep or not when I came him.  Okay.  So, I got him into bed, and he ordered me to turn on the air conditioner in the room.  (The same one we just bought, and turn off at bedtime because my hearing impaired hubby can't handle the noise it makes.  True story.) I turned it on, and less than an hour later, he stumbles out of bed and I yelled, "What are you doing?!"  He told me the air conditioner was too loud.  "F" me.  Okay, so, I do fall asleep, but he then tells me later in the morning, while he is at work, that the thunderstorm woke him after that.  All I know is, I slept until about 9:AM and then slept some more in the afternoon because my girlie bits are jumping ship.

So, the vaginal suicide has yet to cease, or actually happen, and I call, a second time, to my primary care doctor and leave a second message, from the previous one, on Friday.  It is now Monday at 4:30 PM, and I decide to call and see if they have phone service, or if the phone nurse has been taken for ransom.  Here's how the conversation went....

BridgeMill Family Practice (BFP)-  BFP,  this is (so and so), how may I direct your call?

Me- I was wondering, what is your office's policy on returning nurse line calls?

BFP-  I don't know.  You would have to direct that question to so and so.  Would you like to be connected to her voicemail?

Me- Is so and so the same said person on the nurse line, because if so, then no, because she has lost the ability to remember how to dial a phone since last week.

BFP- Yes.

Me- No thanks.  I'd like to speak with your office manager.

Five minutes pass, and someone comes back on the phone, and asks if I am holding for someone.  Yes, the office manager.  And that's when they asked for my name.  7 minutes later, someone gets on the phone, and asks why I was calling.  Was I calling for lab results?  I told them no.  I was calling because I was seen last week and felt my situation was worsening, even on the prescribed treatment, and called last Friday and today, and had yet to get a call back instructing me what to do next.  She asked me my name again.  Now, my names, first and last, sound similar.  However, it confused the f out of this girl who had two braincells that were fighting.

Finally, right before 5:PM, the office manager picks up the phone.  She apologizes for the long wait, but they had difficulty locating my file.  Why is that I wonder?  Oh, she tells me.  My file was put on the nurse practitioners' desk Friday.  The nurse practitioner was out Friday and today, therefore, it was sitting there until tomorrow, Tuesday, by which time I believe I will have testicles in place and my woman hood merely a distant memory if I do not address the flesh eating bacteria that is consuming me like it's getting paid by the mob.  I swear I was very clear in my concern for the practice, and that I understood accidents happened, however, I was unimpressed with the last two, the only two visits I have had at this practice, and would like my medical records prepares for pick up.

So, I then wait until Geoff gets home tonight, and head off to the urgent care to get a second opinion and hopefully, some more meds that  fix this.  Quite honestly, I have four women who text me, daily, asking how my vagina is coming along.  Technically, Stacey only asked how my "who-ha" was.  I think that was vagina lingo that my mom never shared with me.  Along with "kitty," but luckily, I had an old lady as a patient once tell me about her "kitty."  (It was all I could do to not vomit, but luckily, what she told me about her "kitty" made me laugh and I was free to go after I got her onto the table, which I did with rapid speed since I might have peed myself with laughter.)  Then there is a new YMCA friend with that child that plays with both of my kids like it an art form.  He is well mannered, sweet, smiley, and both kids love him.  So, his mom has been texting to see if we could meet them up for some fun in the sun at the out door pool there.  Then, there's my mom.  She even shared this info with the rest of the family.  How do I know she is talking behind my vagina's back?  She told me.  She said both my brother and my father sympathized.  Lovely.  A man that won't speak to me, and a man that just tolerates me, is more sympathetic the skin on my vagina than to me.  Nice.  (Obviously, I am not the least bit shy about this.  If I was, my dying vagina would not be the topic of at least three blog entries, and a meal shared between the rest of my family.   Suppose that was awkward dinner convo, but aren't they all in my family?)  And Lisa-- she wants me to get my vaginal skin back to normal so that I can come back to do water aerobics with her.  I finally realized that even if I could get back to the pool, I have to wait on exercise until the vascular surgeon appointment, later this month.  Isn't it nice to have so many people so concerned about me?

So, I go to the urgent care.  And I pissed off the doctor.  While I am in the the stirrups, I think to post pictures of it on Facebook.  I do.  And while I have the phone in my hand, I get a text from one of my friends asking what the doctor said today.  I explained that I had a horrible experience with the office, and that I am actually at urgent care.  She further questioned, and she thought I had gone to the gyn.  No, I actually had gone to my PCP.  (She and I both use the same GYN and the same PCP.)  She asked why I hadn't gone to the gyn, since we both love that office.  Quite honestly, it is like a circus show there.  Long wait times, and my kids would probably cause havoc there.  The bathroom in one office is like saloon bar doors, or remind me of what I assume would look like the inside of a British telephone booth.   Small but with lots of character.  The idea of spreading my legs for anyone, is not so horrible, but sitting on a table that LOTS of women do it on kinda' creeps me out.  My thought is, there is less usage at an  urgent care or at a family practice.  (I need to see if someone can prescribe me some pills for mental health.  It appears that my thought process on choosing to not see a specialist for a special kind of problem has flaws in it.)

The doctor gets ready to do the exam, and upon seeing the largest speculum was on the tray, he asked the nurse to switch it for the green one.  The green one is for normal sized vaginas.  I didn't tell him that I was grateful that he wanted to switch from the one usually reserved for whales.  The only other one they had was for virgins he said.  (His words, not mine.)  I told him I was a huge fan of Mary's and maybe he could make an exception.  He gave in, but I think he regretted it once he got in there.  So, I am in the stirrups, the doctor goes down, gets in there, Johnny Bench style, and he pops his head up and over the sheet, and asks, in all seriousness, "Do you have a cervix?"  I looked at him, trying to make sure I heard him correctly, then to the nurse, who is expressionless.  I guess it was the pause that caused some concern, since at the point the stoic nurse decided to jump in to someone's rescue, I'm not sure whose, and asked if I'd had a hysterectomy.  (All I kept wondering was, "Did they see the beginnings of a testicle or something to cause him to believe that I might be sans cervix?)  Grandma grew a testicle.  And I was just wondering, was now the time to share this little nugget with the doc while he can't find my cervix?  Sometimes genetics play a vital role in health care.  At which point, I think, "I'm so fortunate to not be adopted.  How lucky I am to know my medical history."  Well, not really, because if I came from normal people, there might not be this threat of growing a sac or having to deal with facial hair like I'm the freakin' wolfman every day.  Whatever, but I begin to have a nervous laughter episode, and here is where the doc started getting pissed.

He chuckled for an appropriate moment, then stopped.  I couldn't gather myself, and he asked me to stop laughing.  I couldn't.  My daughter shares this horrible trait as I do.  It makes me laugh to when she is laughing nervously.  (If you could be a fly on the wall when I have to spank her and the two of us are in the bathroom laughing.  My son surely does not understand why her discipline sessions seem like so much fun.)  Anyway, here is where the doctor said, "If you can't stop laughing, I can't finish the exam."  This was his version of, "If you don't quiet down, I am turning this car around and we are going home."  I then laughed at that, and he did what he needed to do and left and came back and changed my meds and said I'd hear back from the cultures soon.  In the mean time, he put me on a med that I can't drink alcohol with, and now I'm not laughing.  

See you at the pool!  I'll be the one with a codpiece, but sans drinks.