My first appointment with my new gynecologist got off to a bad start.
"You're overweight. You need to lose fifteen pounds."
Perhaps seeing the stunned look of horror on my face,
or the anger beginning to brew behind my eyes,
he added, "but your weight is better than most of the population..."
There was a bit of awkwardness followed by a long lecture on exercise and eating properly,
before we moved on to safer topics.
After a longish interrogation, he decided that I'm probably simply peri menopausal
(which could explain the middle-of-the-night drenched-with-sweat wake-ups).
However, because of my age and some of symptoms, he does need to rule out uterine cancer.
I then had three options - completely ignore it and do nothing, get it over with immediately
in the office, or schedule a surgery.
After another awkward pause during which I played a mental movie of what my friends would do to me
if I chose option number one, I chose option two (so you can put away the cattle prod, Erica).
Number three was really never an option, because it probably would have morphed into number one.
A short wait, a dash of agony, and the deed was done. Results in a week.
As a walked out the office in my pink cowboy boots, a sly, sneaky voice whispered,
"uterine cancer was Grammy's second diagnosis..."
But just as the tears began to pool in the corners of my eyes,
a loud, clear voice boomed back,
"She is loved. She is approved. She has nothing to be ashamed of.
I am with her. I am with her."
With each tear dried, there was peace in my heart
as I drove to Friendly's for a hot fudge sundae.
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