As sort of a public service reminder, I thought we’d talk about something that might not be our favorite topic, but is still very important. I went for my yearly woman appointment yesterday. You, ladies, know the one. That appointment where they say “everything off” and then hand you a sheet in exchange for everything you walked in with except your watch. I have to say that the pandemic has, at least, given us some added mercy- now it’s “everything off but the mask”- for whatever that’s worth. 

Well, you get it all off and folded neatly and jump up on the crinkly paper with your sheet- where you wait. You always have plenty of time to get the sheet distributed to the right places and even enough time to rethink the distribution and then redistribute. Sometimes, you may have to standby for as long as it takes a baby to be delivered or for a complicated hysterectomy to wrap up. In some cases, you can have a long time to think about life while you wait for the doctor. Yesterday, I started passing the time by reading the posters. There was one of a very pregnant woman holding her bare belly so lovingly. I thought it was nice and remembered that special feeling, but felt a bit of indignation that there wasn’t a poster of a menopausal woman tenderly caressing her bare muffin top. Sure, it’s not quite as miraculous as pregnancy but we, more mature girls, deserve a place on the wall. I mean, there’s something strangely beautiful about skin that never went back like it was and a pouch of invincible fat that always hangs over the waistline of your pants the way ice cream hangs over its cone. Besides, those younger girls ought to get a glimpse into the harsh realities of the aging woman so it won’t be such a jolt later on. 

After getting over my feelings of hormonal discrimination, my gaze moved over to the color diagram of the ovaries. On one side, the ovary was pictured pink and plump and full of life and, on the other side, the ovary was kind of like a raisin - shriveled looking and lacking healthy color. I thought- well, at least, we, mature girls, are represented on the ovary diagram as I imagined that’s how mine looked- like a couple of prunes hanging on withered branches and not good for much of anything at this point. From there, I was running out of entertainment as I waited. I shifted to get more comfortable on the crinkly paper and made sure my sheet was still in the places it was needed most. When an appointment is running way behind, you may find yourself counting ceiling tiles or trying to decide, once and for all, if those are tanning bed bulbs in that light at the foot of the table. Convinced that they must be, you grab the light by its gooseneck and see that it’s wattage is equivalent to that of a laser beam- just as you suspected.  

Invariably, if your doctor delivers babies, you might be left on the crinkly paper so long that you start having to go to the little girls’ room even though you were very careful to go just before you got there. Knowing that one cannot go to the restroom often induces sudden and urgent feelings of needing to go to the restroom. I’m certain this is quite common at the yearly checkup and should likely have its own syndrome name in the psychology books. This dilemma brings up the process of weighing the pros and cons of telling the nurse you have to go. Will she come back in here? Is it worth getting dressed? Do I really have to go that bad? What is the worst thing that could happen if I don’t go? Could I just dart across the hall in my sheet? 

If it’s a Caesarean birth you’re waiting on, you might lie on the crinkly paper and wish you had your phone to help pass the time. There you are on the tall table with your sheet situated just right and there is your phone- in your purse- on the chair- across the room. Should you get up and make a run for it and risk the door opening halfway through your mission? You start to question your speed. Can I leap off this table, get to my purse, dig out my phone, hoist myself back up onto this elevated surface- all while keeping the crinkly paper between my tush and the certainly germy table below and have my sheet passing the three-point inspection before he gets in here? Sometimes, you feel quick and agile and you go for it and, some days, you decide you better just play it safe and start over with your tile counting. 

If the doctor is actually in the building while you wait, another way to pass the time is by trying to guess how many exam rooms away the doctor is by gauging the volume of his/her voice. The louder it gets and the more words you can make out brings hope that he is getting closer. By the time he/she makes it to the room next to yours, you should be able to hear most of what ails that lady and what can be done about it. This is your sign that it’s almost your turn and there’s no time left to run for the purse or the restroom. 

If the holidays taught us, women, anything at all, it’s that our families need us. Boy, do they need us. Visions of Davis handling Christmas with a bucket of chicken and the distribution of bank envelopes with names scribbled across them, well, it makes me want to take care of myself. Sure, there are things we’d rather do with that time and many, many places we’d rather go, but it’s just a little smidgen of time out of each year to get ourselves checked, so we can stick around as long as possible. It’s really not that bad. Like most things in life, the waiting is the hardest part. 

Take care of yourselves, ladies.

We’ll talk next week. 

Joni