Last week, in a sea of what can only be described as Hormone Soup, I had an appointment to go to my OB, for all of my least favorite pregnancy treats. Not only did I get to do the 1 hour glucose tolerance test, but I was also given a shot in my ass, AND (this is where it gets TRULY AWESOME) a repeat Uncle Pappy.
Back when I was about 5 minutes pregnant with Amelia, right after my dueling chemical pregnancies, I got the results back from my previous Uncle Pappy. And for the first time ever the results indicated that my cervix was now growing some pretty interestingly abnormal little critters. Being full of the Hormone Soup back then, too, I promptly lost my shit for about a day and a half before I reminded myself (and the Internet bitch slapped me with love) that this was a pretty normally abnormal experience.
It was recommended that I get something done called a “colposcopy” after I hit Week 12, but when that rolled around I decided against it. I mean, if there wasn’t anything the doctor could do until I delivered anyway, why go through the pain and cramping and general Reign of Worry? Shit, I told The Daver at one point, they can take the whole bad boy and throw it the hell away once this wee one is born. Otherwise it’ll be sitting there with a Vacancy sign lit and humming slightly until I go through menopause.
So last week at around 29 weeks, when I trudged off to the OB’s office, high on sugar and sick to my guts, I really wasn’t concerned about my normally abnormal self. I was far more concerned with not passing out while getting my blood drawn (not something that normally bugs me) and where and what I would be eating after I left.
But yesterday, buoyed by my anger towards doctors in general, I decided to be the World’s Worst Patient in the Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease category, and harass my OB’s office into prescribing me some pain killers where my GI would not. I wasn’t even thinking about my cervix and the State of Things Down There when I began my Rampage of Terror.
Which, for once, worked out to my advantage: not only did I find out that a prescription for codeine had already been called in for me, but my newest Uncle Pappy WAS NORMAL.
Dude, between the clean bill of health for at least one part of my body, and the prescription for painkillers, I’m a happy damn camper. Happy Thanksgiving to my vagina, indeed.
What are you thankful for today, my homies?