The Sonar Dildo

Well, it's been almost three days now, and I think I've recovered enough from the trauma to talk about it without losing my mind and going off on irrelevant tangents.

The appointment was for 2:15 and the lady from the clinic told me to be there for 2:00 and to make sure my bladder was full. So I hammered back a litre of water in 45 minutes I(I shoulda made it beer) and had J. drive my nervous ass over to the clinic.

And I was nervous. I'd been hearing all kinds of horror stories about the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound. Someone told me they used a speculum to prop you open. Someone else said you inserted the sonar dildo yourself. Others said they would do it for you. One chick told me it was a little probe. Still another made it sound like they were going to insert something the size of a city bus into my va-jay-jay.

My doctor had, the week before, done everything to allay my fears by scrunching up her face and saying, "It's weird."

"Weird" is probably one of those technical terms she trained many years to learn. All I knew was that, by the time 2:00 came around, my bladder was screaming like the claxon on Star Trek when the Romulans are off the starboard bow and my bowel wasn't very happy either. It was making all kinds of weird gurgling noises and I thought I sensed a certain familiar pressure, but since I had to pee so bad my eyes were crossed, it was kinda hard to tell.

I was shown into a dark ultrasound room ("What is this? Mood lighting?" I thought), and the technician asked, "Is your bladder full?" To which I said, "Jesus, YES!"

She did not laugh. She did not even smile. I could tell right away, it was going to be one of those experiences.

She told me to get up on the examination table and lay down on my back. She yanked the waistband of my pants down to my squishy bits like some impatient high school boy and told me to lift up my shirt. My belly was so distended from all the friggin' water that I looked like Snoopy lying on top of his doghouse. Not sexy.

But it's hard to be sexy when your bladder is making sounds like a latex balloon being rubbed, or--waitaminute, is that my bladder? Maybe it's my bowel. Well, anyway, in order to distract myself from the "weirdness" that was moments away, I watched the images on the monitor as the nice warm, gooey paddle (or whatever that thing is called, I should google it but fuck it, I can't be arsed) glided over my Snoopy-belly.

I tried to ask questions, but the technician wasn't interested in establishing a relationship with me. And I'm sure it's safer for her this way: it must be emotionally draining to ram the sonar dildo into the boxes of various women everyday, trying to convince yourself that "each box is special in it's own unique way", only to have those boxes walk out the door at the end of the procedure, never to be seen again. Eventually, you just shut yourself off emotionally, and remind yourself that you're just there to provide a service, just you and the sonar dildo.

And when I say, "I tried to ask questions", of course I mean about what I was seeing on the screen. I wasn't like, "So, do you come here often?" or "Do I know you?" or "How big is your sonar dildo, hawt mama?"

It was more like, "Is that my kidney?"

"Yes."

"That black spot in the centre?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Is that an ovary?"

"Yes."

"Neat. Can I see my fallopian tubes?"

"No."

"Oh." Pause. "Is that because I'm not permitted, or--"

"We just can't see them."

"Okay."

So, rebuffed, I just laid there, trying not to piss the table, and hoping that she couldn't hear my gut rumbling like a monster truck engine. When she was finished using her nice warm, gooey paddle to press on my kidneys, she told me to go empty my bladder and, when I came back, to take off my pants and get back up on the table.

Finally, we had come to the horror portion of the show.

Resignedly, but compliantly, I went off to the public washroom and drained my clam. SUCH RELIEF! But, as good as it felt to finally relieve the pressure on my bladder, my joy was shortlived when I realized that my bowel was going to be a Nazi bastard.

Fuck.

So, back I went to the dimly lit ultrasound room, dropped my drawers and got up on the table. She was back moments later, and appeared at my ankles, brandishing something about the size of the Olympic torch.

Immediately, my body cramped like a fist. My box sent a message, special hot-shot courier service to my brain: "You're fuckin' kidding, right?"

Brain: "Uh, stand by for further developments."

The technician said, "I'm gonna need you to insert this."

Box to Brain: "UPDATE! She's not fuckin' around!"

Brain: "Uh...hold on...we're...um....I...oh, shit..."

My bowel, out of nerves, started jumping up and down like a Jack Russell Terrier.

"Actually, maybe you could do it," I suggested.

She gave me a look as if to say, You wish, honey, but said, "Give it a shot. Only the tip needs to go in."

I gave her a look that said, Yeah, right. That's what they all say.

So. I sat up, grabbed the dildo cam and, just as I was weirdly penetrating my pissflaps with the Olympic torch while a complete stranger watched (and not for $3.99 a minute this time), I farted.

It was the finest moment of my adult life.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," she replied.

At that moment, several thoughts occurred to me. On one hand, I thought, "Splendid. Can you explain that to my wife? She doesn't think it's okay." And on the other hand, I also thought, "Oh, good, cuz there's more. LOT'S more."

But instead, I sank back in utter humiliation, betrayed by my treacherous colon, and she proceeded to move the dildo cam around like I was some kind of popsicle and the exam table was a giant mouth. There was considerable pressure on my pelvic bone and it was, as the doctor had promised, "weird". I concentrated mostly on breathing and trying to relax.

It seemed to take forever, because the technician couldn't get a good look at my left ovary. Apparently, it's camera shy. Or maybe it had heard the messages sent to my brain from my box and was hiding out behind my liver, waiting for the dildo cam to leave. I pictured it peeking out from behind the appendix like a homeowner on a Sunday morning when the Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking: "Are they gone? No, don't go look, they'll see! Then they'll never leave!"

"Can you tilt your hips?" the technician asked.

It's not easy tilting your hips with the CN Tower stuck in your twat, and your asshole threatening to unleash a Weapon of Ass Destruction, but I did what I could. It wasn't enough, though and she had to remove the dildo cam (insert cork popping sound here) and go back to using the nice warm, gooey paddle thing. But not before she reamed me good.

Eventually, she got the Sears Family Portrait series of Mama Uterus and the two Ovary Girls that she wanted, and said, taking off her gloves, "Your doctor should have the results in a couple of days. Have a great day."

And that was that.

Next on Gynacology Weekly, a Pap Smear and Internal Exam!