I Take My Coffee Black

I haven't posted here in about two weeks. Incidentally, that's about the same amount of time that I've been having - as my grandmother likes to say - "fee-mayle problems." Not to get into the gorey details, but let's just say that if Jesus were to walk by, I'd definitely try to sneak a feel of his hem.

Not only has this situation been more than a tad inconvenient, but I've been disgruntled, achey, and as fatigued as the dead. So most of my free time has been spent doing what needs doing before slinking off to bed with a handful of Motrin and shaking my frustrated fist at the air whilst cursing Eve. I swear I was more productive when I was in the womb.

But, as with most situations, there's light at the end of the tunnel - er, canal. I made a doctor's appointment last week, and they wasted no time seeing me - good. But then she said I needed a host of tests, including a uterine biopsy - bad. The people with whom I've discussed this have all commented on the pain of the biopsy, though that was never my concern. A little pain I can handle. I just don't like, as a general rule, needing a "biopsy." It makes me need a "drink."

Not to be dramatic. I know I'm far too healthy to have any serious problems. But who wants any problems, much less one that might end in '-ectomy'? The truth is, I look young for my age. I act young for my age. I feel young for my age. But, as my doctor noted, that doesn't actually change my age. I have freckles, not a flux capacitor. So my body is aging despite the fact that I saw a fifth-grader wearing a t-shirt identical to my own. My favorite shirt, in fact (and it looks sooo much better on her).

This morning marked the day I would enter my doctor's office, wrap a piece of paper around my ass (I always feel so huge in those because they never go all the way around), and let her "take a sample with an instrument that looks just like a coffee stirrer."

Well, I suppose it looks like a coffee stirrer if you can smell the blood of an Englishman.

It was more like a coffee vat stirrer, and I swear, it was flipping me off as she was explaining the procedure to me. And her little explanation went something like this:

"Now, Tara, you know you have a retroverted uterus. Which means I'll try to do it with the coffee stirrer. But if that doesn't work, I'm going to have to use this."

"This" looked like spaghetti tongs. So, we were using kitchen items. Okay - pretty nonthreatening.

"Now, because of your uterus, I may have to really work it to get in there. There's a risk of perforation, but I won't take that. If I can't get it, it will be called a 'failed procedure'."

I can fail a biopsy?

"So, scoot down. A little more. More. More. One more. There."

And... the coffee is stirred. Yowzer!!!

My original plan was that since I haven't been able to have sex lately, I was just going to close my eyes and make the best of this little procedure. But once that thing began its journey, I became immediately grateful that I drink my coffee black.

"Okay, Tara, I can't get it where it needs to be. I'm going to have to use the other (thingy). You may feel a pinch."

And Anarctica may be cold. Yowzer!!!!!

"Well, Tara, your uterus is quite tricky. It's not retroverted; it's actually retroflexed (makes gayish-looking Black Power fist to demonstrate)."

"Let me try something..." For some instinctual reason, I knew what was coming.

"Can you sort of...prop your bottom up on your hands?"

I was a step ahead of her. I had a sixth sense about how the coffee stirrer had to reach its destination, and I immediately did a Pilates bridge, completely losing my piece of dignity-sparing paper in the process.

"How's this?" I ask her with my naked ass clinched in the air, my ladies' department reaching for the heavens. I looked like I ought to be staring knowingly at a camera while sucking my finger.

"That'll work. I think."

"Okay. And sorry my vagina's in your face like that."

She worked that stirrer, I'm here to say, like she was kneading dough or changing a tire. For a second I thought she might hop up on the table for leverage.

"Okay, I got something. But again, your uterus..."

"I know. I would have a problem uterus."

"No, it's 'normal' - but I may've only been able to get cervical tissue." Ewww.

Fingers in ears...lalalalalalala...

"Done! Well, that was certainly a team effort."

I tried to speak, but drool prevented 'language' from leaving my mouth. So I just said, "Ooooaaaayyy." I was in so much pain that my thoughts drifted to scalping for my happy place.

But now for the light: she told me that I may be eligible for a procedure that would scar my effed-up uterus (what would it know?) and allow me to scoff at feminine products FOREVER!!!!

I imagined my smugness as my friends complained of their PMS.

"Oh? I remember those days."

I thought of their dismay at having to wear shorts over their bathing suits in July.

"Wow - that must really suck for you."

I could hear them asking me for a tampon in the restroom at the movie theater.

"Oh, silly, you know I don't need those!"

Yes, I thought, rubbing my hands together, yessssssss...

My eyelid began to twitch. My drool turned to excited bubbles. I gestured towards my doctor like I was playing Pictionary, making every effort to communicate, through my pain-induced muteness, "Yes! Me want woman scar!"

So she handed me the pamphlet. And I clutched it to my chest like it was the family Bible I was saving as Union troops burnt my house.

And I limped out to my car. But it was the Limp of Hope and Dreams. Because before me, in the reachable future, possibly lies a lifetime of ease and comfort. Emancipation from my cursed female destiny. Induced... menopause.

Because even though I may look young for my age, even though I may act young for my age, and even though I may feel young for my age - sometimes youth is for suckers.

And coffee stirrers.