As a woman in her mid-forties, ineligible for hormone therapy once menopause strikes*, i’m acutely aware of my aging ovaries. They are my friends. i try to take good care of them. Although the eggs nestled within are dwindling in number, and are desiccating and shriveling on a daily basis, the hormones they send surging through my body represent the receding tide of my sexuality…
In other, far less poetic, words: i’m terrified of drying up like so much fem-dust.
As a result, i listen to my doctor and nurture my ovoid parts. This morning, i started my day with a visit to the Gynecological Imaging lab for a routine ultrasound. Normally i can amuse myself during testing by asking questions about the equipment, grilling the technicians on techniques and protocols or just watching things happen on the monitors**.
Today? Couldn’t get past the unfortunate word choice uttered by the ultrasound technician as we began the examination. She hands me a large*** condom-covered probe, and asks me to “introduce the instrument to my vagina”.
Exercising all the restraint i could muster, i followed direction, at which point she takes over “driving”, and i focus on the monitor to keep from succumbing to a terrible case of the giggles. “Vagina? Meet Buzzy McTwatprobe!”
the translator must be quite proud of this bit of work….
* breast cancer. not even the soy-based “natural” hormone replacements are an option. breast cancer likes estrogen, even things that mimic estrogen. [note to self: no more Richard Simmons ‘sweatin’ to the oldies’ aerobic videos]
** my tumor biopsy was done via needle aspiration using ultrasonic imaging for guidance. i didn’t feel a thing because i was mesmerized by the monitor. This helped me detach from the procedure at hand – and pretend i was watching a medical documentary on The Discovery Channel.
*** i’m being generous. it was 6″ – average at best….
Trailer Park Refugee 