25. When I was 15, I went to my pediatrician for a check up. She did that thing that doctors do when they put their hands down your pants, cup your sack and tell you to cough. I don’t know why they do it, I just refer to it as the pedophile pick-up and people generally know what I’m talking about.
Anyway, she’s got my balls in her hand and I’m kind of a smart ass so I look right into her eyes and say “oh yeah… cradle the balls, stroke the shaft.” She burst out laughing, walked out of the office, and told my mom.
Needless to say, I was displeased.
26. One day my left ovary just starts hurting like a motherfucker. Like this is serious business I’m going to stab someone so they can feel my agony type pain. I go to the doctor and apparently I need an ultrasound. Alright fine. But wait here’s the best part: it’s an intravaginal ultrasound. For you Y-chromosome transports out there what this means is that they take this big cyberpunk dildo, shove it right the hell up your cooter and then sort of root around in there like it’s a fucking grab bag.
So as part of their “here’s how to make this suck less” packet the hospital includes pretty specific instructions to drink three bottles of water an hour before your appointment, without going to the bathroom, so that they can tell which fleshy sack of muscle is your bladder and which is your uterus. Being the good little patient I am I did exactly that. So I go in there, gotta pee like a racehorse but I’m holding it in through sheer willpower. Soon the radiologist’s got her magic wand up my snatch and I hear a “whoa”. I’m like oh hell no what the fuck is there to whoa about in there. She turns the ultrasound screen towards me, points at this enormous black shape and goes “how much water did you drink!?” I tell her I drank three bottles, like the sheet told me to. She gives me this wide-eyed look. Apparently they put ‘three bottles’ on the instructions with the assumption that people would only be able to drink like, one or two and would stop when they couldn’t handle any more. Not me. I powered through that shit because when the guys with PhDs tell you to do something I like to assume it’s because they fucking mean it. We argue about how stupid it is to tell people to do shit you don’t want them to do for a few minutes.
Now recall that the whole time we’re having this discussion I’m lying there with a big damn plastic police baton wedged up in my business and a bladder full of Aquafina. The radiologist has apparently forgotten that I came in to get my ovaries checked out in the first place because one of them has become a tiny cylindrical torture machine, and the stupid bitch puts her hand on my abdomen while she’s talking, pushes the wand further into my downstairs, and in a burst of sudden, excruciating pain I piss all over her. She squeals in surprise and like four orderlies come running in, none of them bothering to shut the door behind them. So there’s a busy hallway full of people with a clear view into the room. I’m still going like a waterhose, the radiologist is drenched in urine, and to top it all off there’s a goddamn ultrasound wand sticking out my ladyhole.
Kodak. Fucking. Moment.
27. I showed up for my annual girly checkup to find out that my usual doctor had been called to some medical emergency – and was asked if I would I mind an OBGYN student performing the pelvic exam (supervised, of course). I didn’t care, so I end up in a room with this REALLY young looking female resident and an older grandmotherly instructor.
So the resident goes through the routine and when she was finished, “grandma” asks me if I minded her checking after the student to make sure nothing was missed. Lady Redditors will probably understand how miserable a pelvic exam/pap is to sit through once- I was a little nonplussed about a second time but whatever, just get it over with.
And as she starts inserting a fresh new speculum, “grandma” looks at me and says: “My, aren’t we just getting tagged-teamed today?”