Up until last week, I thought I had already had the most awkward phone conversation possible with my father-in-law. I was certain that the record had been set in early January 2007, when I was in labour with my daughter. As if the contractions weren't uncomfortable enough, I also had to listen to my husbands's father inquiring about my cervix. "So, ahem, how dilated are you, exactly?"
"Dilated." That has got to be up there in the Top Ten Words You Never Want To Hear Your Father-in-law Utter, right? Along with, I don't know, pretty much any word that is remotely related to anything that occurs below waist level. I am usually far from prude, but it would appear that I have my limits. Never mind the fact that my husband is the (shudder) fruit of this man's loins and he therefore clearly must have some knowledge and experience of the subject matter, I would just so much rather pretend that he is entirely, blissfully clueless. In my personal utopia, my father-in-law is a jovial eunuch Santa Claus who smiles and pours me large glasses of wine, but never EVER inquires about the state of my vagina. Which is why my ears started bleeding last week when I answered the phone and he said "So, how was your smear test this morning?".
The memory still makes me feel faint.
I immediately sent my husband some angry growling text messaging demanding to know why he had felt it necessary to share details about my medical appointments with his dad, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and the record set, hopefully (please PLEASE) for good.
Anyway, I had a smear test. I didn't want to, but I did. It was awful, of course. Last time anyone with some sort of medical degree went near my private parts I ended up with approximately seven hundred stitches. It was traumatic. Yes, I also ended up with a rather gorgeous baby boy, but it turns out that I still remember the stitches. Ouch. Ouch. And also, sob. But I felt I had to have the smear anyway, because you should, shouldn't you?
As it turns out, yes, you should. Because a week later I had a letter saying that I my test showed some abnormalities and could I please make an appointment and come in for a colposcopy.
Naturally, I freaked out. I cannot remember it exactly but I believe there may have been some tears on my husbands's shoulder and dramatic moments in which I threw myself on the floor and sobbingly declared that I didn't want to die.
Then I told two of my friends and my mother, and it turned out that all three of them had been through the exact same thing. Ah. Needless to say, they are all still very much alive. So it turns out that these abnormal cells of mine aren't exactly a death sentence. More of a nuisance, apparently. I need to go back to Princess Anne Hospital (also the location of the Stitches of Pain as well the Antibiotics of Near Death, but more of that some other time), and have some nurse/doctor type poke around a bit more and decide whether or not I need The Treatment.
Nobody seems to be able to tell me exactly what this Treatment consists of, but it may or may not involve a tiny carriage drawn by unicorns, sent into my nether regions to slay the cellular dragons. Alternatively, they might burn something off. Or freeze something off. We'll see.
So, another fun-filled appointment to look forward to. Anyway. Other than that, all is well. With any luck, I will be returning to blogging regularly from now on. So I suppose I will see you around.