The Sonar Dildo, Take Two

I actually had two ultrasounds this month; the first one was just an abdominal, which doesn't involve the ramming of giant dildos into one's hoohoo. I had the same technician as last time, though, the one I farted for, and I can't be sure, but she might have twitched slightly when she saw that I was her next customer. There was a brief moment when her face registered, "Oh, Fartypants is back," but it was over so quickly, I couldn't be certain.

That ultrasound wasn't at all traumatic, and the results only went on to prove that when it comes to medical concerns, I'm virtually a fucking rockstar. My g.p. tells me I have gallstones and a cyst on my kidney! WOOT! But whereas the radiologists almost always want you to follow up on kidney cysts, this was is of no consequence at all. And so far, the gallstones appear to be silent, so I'm good with that. My understanding of gallstones is that they are hellaciously painful, as in 'lying-on-the-bathroom-floor-crying-for-your-mama" pain. I pass, thanks.

The following week, I had the dreaded transvaginal, to check up on Bryan, the cyst in my left ovary, and the thickness of my cervical lining. This time, I had a different technician who was cheerful and laughed at my jokes and was so pleasant, I considered asking her for "the happy finish". I didn't though, because the whole procedure was just so uncomfortable. This time, the probe looked less like the Olympic torch and more like a Jamaican doobie, only--and I don't know how I missed this the first time--the end of it had, like, the Red Eye of Sauron. And I swear that fuckin' thing winked at me!

Anyway, like last time, I inserted it into my fairy pocket and then the technician started moving it around like she was shifting gears or something. DISCOMFORT! I mean, once I almost sat up and said, "Hey, Dale Earnhardt, that's my vagina, not a transmission, and we're not going off-road here. Take it easy!"

But it was over soon enough and a few days later I was summoned to my g.p.'s office to go over the results. She was thrilled to tell me that, although Bryan was the same size, the uterine lining was a normal thickness and the cyst that had been in my right ovary was gone. Whee! So I told her that the metformin is kicking my ass and giving me indigestion and diarrhea.

"Urgent diarrhea?" she asked.

My first reaction was to reply, "Is there any other kind? I mean, is there indolent diarrhea? How many patients feel the urge and think, 'Oh, diarrhea; it can wait until I'm finished the fucking crossword'?"

But, since she's the one who orders all the tests, I decided not to sass her and said, "You could call it urgent. I prefer to think of it as 'imperative'."

"Sometimes the gallstones can present with those symptoms," she said. "Have you ever had a barium blahblahblahblahblah..."

To be honest, once I heard the word "barium", I just tuned out. My brain shut off.

"You know," I said, when she had stopped talking, "it's not that big a deal. I pop a couple of Zantec and I'm good to go."

"Hmmm..." she said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Suddenly the indigestion isn't so bad, huh?"

"Listen," I said, "my mother lost a good pair of shoes because of a barium enema."

She seemed to sag a little bit on her spine, and J., who had come along for moral support, just sighed and rolled her eyes.

"It's not an enema," the doctor explained. "You swallow it, and it's still chalky and unpleasant, but it's not an enema."

"Does this involve ramming probes into any orifice?"

"No, it's x-rays."

"Okay, I'll do it."

That finished, I wandered off the next week to the gynecologist's office for the biopsy. I was even more nervous about this than the transvaginal sonar dildo. The nurse took my blood pressure (which was slightly elevated, go figure!), and told me to take my pants off and sit on the table. A few minutes later, the specialist came in. I was even further disconcerted, because he looked a lot like my brother, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was discussing my hoohoo with my male sibling.

Anyway, the specialist said, "Dr. Kasha has indicated that you have a cyst in your ovary and your uterine lining is thick."

"Dr. Kasha," I said emphatically, "is an alarmist."

He seemed to take that well, and went on to tell me that what the radiologist referred to as a large fibroid cyst (i.e. Bryan) is not medically "large" at 3 cm. That's golfball size.

"When I talk about large," he said, "I mean this," and described in the air with his hands an object the size of a turnip.

"Furthermore," he continued, "your uterine lining is well within the range of normal, so we're certainly not looking at cancer."

Whee! So he put me on a birth control pill called "Yaz" (which made me want to break out into "Goodbye Seventies, for some reason), which he says is 90% effective against ovarian and uterine cancers. (Not so much cervical cancer, though, so I still need paps and shit). Also for the first couple of months, I will get my period back.

"Oh, come on!" I snapped. "Serious? I was having a good time until now!"

"I know," he said patiently, "but you only have to do it for the first couple of months. Then you can chose not to have your period again."

"Alright," I said reluctantly. "And no surgery? I was kinda hoping to give Bryan his eviction notice and score some time off work."

"No surgery," he said.

So, while there isn't an immediate resolution to the polycystic ovarian syndrome, and the Red Army will invade the summer house again, all in all, NOT HAVING CANCER is great news. And, NO BIOPSY!

WOOT!