Open Wide and Say OUCH!

Before I make my brave return to the magic of voice mail to listen to the rest, it is the weekend. I pack up the stupid shelves Bill made and take them with me to Scott’s to mail back to Mom. Now that I know they were not given genuinely, I can not accept them. I don’t even want them in a box in the basement. And I won’t burn them in my fireplace because I am sure the fumes will choke me with their vileness. They are hateful talismans that will do nothing but inspire hateful thoughts and bid my blood to boil.

Clearly I am hormonal. I have an extra good reason to be.

Earlier in the week, I’d gotten a call from my Gynecology office. They’d called before and I’d called back and we’d been going round and round for some time. I secretly wished they’d just say “Your results are normal, call if you need a refill on your pills.” But they don’t. So one day, I just call back while it is on my mind.

It was not at all what I’d expected.

My results weren’t normal. I need more tests. And by the way, if you are in any way able, we’d like to see you tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Things like this do not happen to me. My life is crazy. My job is a madhouse. My family is a never ending saga. But my health? Never was there a more steady ender than my health. I do not get abnormal test results. Ever.

I call Charlotte. Boo hoo about the whole thing. Mention the name of the tests. Of course she’s had one of each. No biggie.

I tell her my worst fear (or one of two, anyway) is that something heinous will happen to me and my children will be left to be raised by their insane father. They are doomed.

Without a missed beat, Charlotte says, “No. That won’t happen. God is not mean.” And to her, it is as simple as that. Gotta love Charlotte for that. I decide for my sense of sanity that she is way smarter about these things than I, and I will play by her manual.

The next day, at the appointed hour, I strip from the waist down and put on the paper dress. The lovely assistant comes in to ask me to sashay across the hall to pee in a cup. Of course I have peed just before the appointment and I tell her I have doubts. She insists. They need a pregnancy test before the real tests.

A what? Pregnancy test? Now THAT would be God being mean. The candles on the cake. I compliantly hop off the table and will myself to pee. Negatory, Big Ben. I privately thank God for not being mean this time.

And what follows that little painless task is 90 minutes of excruciating poking, jabbing, scraping, snipping, sampling, prodding and otherwise agitating all of my most tender girly parts. And you could not convince me that it was not being performed with farming equipment.

Two weeks. I have to wait two weeks to see if God is mean or just joking around.