When you drop an F bomb to your physician, it should be for a good reason. Like say, the feeling of having your uterus stabbed. My nonexistent threshold for pain hit a new low yesterday when the speculum went one click too far.
“That f—king hurts!”
It just flew out of my mouth, involuntarily, and hit my doctor square in the face. I had been trying really hard to stay casual by asking her about Folic acid in prenatal vitamins while ignoring my vagina walls being spread apart. But I think this backfired because the pain caught me more off-guard than normal. Hence, the involuntary cursing. Like getting a paper cut. Or swinging a hammer against your thumbnail. I’ve known my physician for quite awhile. She’s pretty young and probably hip to dropping F bombs herself, but this didn’t stop me from immediately feeling shameful and apologizing probably more than was necessary.
She wrapped up the exam pretty quickly after this. But I obviously haven’t seen the last of my nemesis: the speculum. These exams are only going to become more frequent once we conceive. So what’s a girl to do with a pint-sized vagina tunnel and gynecological anxiety? My friend Suzanne, who has three gorgeous kids of her own, put it this way: “the good thing about giving birth is that its less about you and u get a tiny prize at the end.” I’m not confident I’ll be able to subscribe 100% to that when I’m in all that pain, but I like the idea of a getting that tiny prize.