When you reach my age, the annual gynecological appointment is a rather ho-hum affair. Centuries ago I gave birth (naturally, naturally—that’s what one did to feel accomplished in 1983) to two daughters who are old enough now to be asking me, “Does labor really hurt?” as they contemplate having their own children.
Fortunately, I’ve had little to be concerned about, as I’ve maneuvered my way through menopause. A few mood swings my husband found rather exciting (“It’s like I’m married to a different person!” he admitted thrillingly during the one where I, the wuss and doormat wanted to beat the neighbors’ dog that nipped at me), and a couple of hot flashes he appreciated (when they washed over me I had to rip my shirt off), but nothing dire enough to require medical intervention. Until I received the phone call after my recent check-up.
“Your pap smear indicated that endometrial cells were present,” the nurse said flatly. “This is perfectly normal if you are having periods, but since you aren’t doing that anymore, the doctor needs to find out what’s going on.”
After reacquainting myself with all those birthing body parts and recalling that the endometrius is the lining of my uterus (isn’t it?), I made the appointment for the biopsy from hell that felt like I was having a hysterectomy without anesthesia. I levitated off the examining table. I hee-hee breathed throughout the procedure, pretending I was having another baby. I nearly fainted while lying down, sweat like a clammy pig, called it a day, and then started the worst part of any such situation: The Wait.
There are never as many seconds in a minute as when you are waiting to hear back from the doctor about your test results. I engaged in all the usual time passers: I took long walks, talked on the phone to every old friend whose lengthy conversations normally annoy me to no end, reorganized my file drawer, cleaned out the closet, and would have redecorated the house were it not made of log walls and wood floors. I waxed them. Yes, even the walls.
The day passed when I should have heard but didn’t. My husband was away for a couple of days, and I’d been on my knees reading a book of prayers to the point where I felt like I’d been on a church retreat, so I turned on Monday Night Football anyway, a futile attempt to become engrossed in the players I drafted for my family league fantasy team. I was getting there, until I heard the not so gentle tap-tap-tapping at my family room window, the one that goes from floor to ceiling and looks out at pitch black and the forest here in Montana.
My dogs went nuts. I reached for the light switch that illuminates the back patio. A turkey! A Tom turkey the size of one of my German Sheperds was pecking determinedly at the window pane, oblivious to anything but its purpose…which was, what?
It’s an omen! I thought, as I scrambled for the laptop so I could search Google to see if a gaggler portended good news. Had there ever been a turkey in the bible? I found nothing, so I began to email my close friends. There is a gigantic turkey tapping at my window! Do turkeys bring glad tidings? Maybe he is saying, ‘Do not fear, Kathleen! Your uterus is fine!’ “
One by one the responses poured in. “He’s saying, ‘Hey you in there! You in that green top! That color looks great on you!’ offered my fashion-conscious New York daughter. Some other day that might have done it for me, but today? That wasn’t the life-sparing answer I was looking for. Delete.
“He wouldn’t risk exposure this close to Thanksgiving unless he had a real purpose!” one woman encouraged. Better.
“When we moved into our house, a huge turkey was displaying itself at our sliding glass door,” my zoologist neighbor replied, “and we’ve never been happier than we are living right here! A turkey is most assuredly a good sign.” Save! I was bolstered by such a buoyant result to my query. That’s when my friend from church typed an email that popped into my inbox.
“I think he wants sex!” she said. “I think he is looking for a ‘friend’.” Sex?
Yikes! My husband was gone and here I was in the dark of night, splayed across the barcalounger in the barest minimum of clothing since the temperature had been 100 all day and it hadn’t cooled much below 90. Waiting for news as to whether or not I might have a condition that necessitated removal of my entire uterus, the last thing I was interested in was sex—especially with a turkey. Lord knows, I’d known my share of those before I finally met Brad.
"I think he wants to have sex!" I frantically emailed both my daughters while Tom pecked like mad, faster and faster. My eldest in New York had gone to bed, but her sister in Arizona answered right away. “Are you okay, Mom?” When I tried to skype her to prove their was, in fact, a sexual predator, he waddled off in a huff, frustrated no doubt by my inattention.
The next morning, the nurse called to inform me that the biopsy came back “normal.” All was well, she said (my youngest daughter was not entirely convinced). But then, I already knew that. Not even a turkey would pursue a sixty-year old woman with a defective uterus.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment