My contribution to science

I really wasn't sure if I should write this post, because it definitely falls into the category of "Too Much Information".  But, as with most things that have been happening to me lately, this story was too funny not to share.  Just a heads-up though, in case there are any men who read this blog -- this post is about the kind of doctor visit that no woman looks forward to, and I'm going to make mention of 'down there'.  Cool?  Cool.

Yesterday while showering I found a lump in a private area.  Is there anything more terrifying?  I don't think so!  I probably spent a good hour afterward trying to further investigate, maneuvering mirrors and lamps in countless ways, but without success.  (What am I, a gymnast?)  Anyway, time to call the doctor.

Funny thing about doctors.  As soon as you tell them you found something strange crop up in a private place, they can't wait to get you in to see someone.  I called at 2pm and had an appointment for 7.  According to Rose the receptionist, they prioritize the 'down there' cases in an attempt to stem the flow of any sexually-transmitted epidemics.  Honestly, by the time Rose hung up I felt like I was patient 0 of some kind of scary new STI.

In a brief moment of panic I began googling pictures of all the STIs I could remember from grade 10 health class.  What did I learn?  I learned that NOBODY SHOULD HAVE TO SEE THAT.  F*ck you, Rose!  And also, you pretty much have to have sex to catch anything.  So...  Moving on.

I got to the doctor's office and assumed the dreaded position -- "just put your feet up in the stirrups and scootch all the way to the end of the table."  I held my breath as she turned on the spotlight and snapped on her gloves.  Then I let it all out when I heard "Oh that?  It's a skin tag."  WHOOSH.  Then she went on to say that she planned on freezing it off with liquid nitrogen.  Before I could ask why something non-contagious needed removal, she brought out a giant blowtorch, strapped on some safety goggles, and came at my cooch like it weren't no thang.

She was about to fire it up but then said, "Actually, do you mind if we make this a teaching moment for the residents?"  I guess I nodded or mumbled some kind of approval because the next thing I knew she was out in the hall rounding them up.  (The office is part of a teaching hospital, just my luck.)  She trotted them in, three in total, and introduced me while I lay there with my ass to the wind.  I waved hello.

She went on to explain that there was a special technique for removing skin tags from extra-sensitive areas.  I heard her fire up the blow torch.  I looked up between my knees and there were four people standing there staring at my undercarriage.  TAKING.  NOTES.  "Would you mind lifting your hips up and into the light so we can all get a better view?"  I nearly died.  But I did it.  (Had I been wearing face paint at that moment, I would have been a one-woman Cirque du Soleil.)

The icing on the cake was the mini-lecture afterward.  The doctor instructed the students that skin tags often appear along the underwear line, or anywhere friction occurs, and also that the patient (who was standing right behind her) might be advised to wear looser underwear.  I side-eyed my ginormous cotton briefs discarded on the chair and had to stifle a chuckle.

I'm not sure if this experience has taught me anything, but it certainly has supported my belief that I'm living a sitcom.  You guys, I think we need to make this happen.