Just Remember- It's Not You- It's Your Fibroid

It doesn't matter how many times you've given birth. It doesn't matter how many times your dilation has been measured. It doesn't matter how many GP's, gynecologists, interns (pardon the pun), nurses, custodians, and their assorted spouses and household pets have donned the ubiquitous latex glove and had their way with your precious life giving internal organs.

You still never quite get used to your annual physical.

So, when you actually do force yourself to go get it done, just for the greater good of keeping the lubricant manufacturers in work; it's never good news to hear that you're gonna have a couple of additional tests.

Not on your finger or toe, either.

Enter... the internal ultrasound. *******Do Not. I repeat. Do Not click that hyperlink if you are:

1. not female;
2. if you prefer not to know what those machines are for;
3. if you are squeamish in any way;
4. or if you are under the age of 41.

I myself had always thought of the ultrasound as a warm gooey wand that got massaged around one's belly and produced the image of a wee cherubic ghoulish looking baby that you would soon become the proud mother of.

Never. Ever. As something that required a latex condom. Never in a million years as something that might tempt you to sigh deeply and light up a cigarette.

I never imagined a test in the diagnostic imaging department that would find me suppressing inappropriate jokes (does that come in ribbed?) and pretending that this was an ordinary Wednesday evening occurrence- just me and a technician in a dimly lit room. And that latex condom thingie.

I decided that my Dr was incredibly thorough. I thought it was kind of quaint that he would send me for a special test because he thought I had "a big uterus". (I've got big thighs too. Nobody ever tests me on that stuff. I also have four big kids. Big kids= big uterus.)

I sort of felt like blushing as I passed through the waiting room on my way out. None of those poor people had any idea of what had just transpired.

I phoned Brian right away. These sorts of things ought not to be kept secret- too corrosive. We decided to put the whole sordid affair behind us and launch optimistically into our future.

The next day, I returned to my Doctor. Like some sort of seedy magazine full of images of the latest celebrity caught on the beach with a cellulite dimple; he already had the report. Hard to be in denial with this sort of expediency.

I never expected that test to produce anything. Just like I never expected that test. I never expected my uterus to grow another thing ever.

But then again, I never expected to get a muffin top, dimpled arms, rolls around my kneecaps, or a tummy riddled with dimples deep enough to hide your toothbrush in.

I suppose I should be glad that the twenty pound weight gain of getting old and dimpley isn't me.

It's my fibroid.