So I guess I’m turning this tampon debacle into a live-tweet kind of thing. Only in this case, it’s live-blogging.
A short recap: My Lady Bits are Not a Black Hole, even though I think there’s a lost tampon up there somewhere, and at first I thought I was fine, but upon further investigation I found out My Cervix Might be a Doughnut, and that I’m showing an array of symptoms and might die.
I’m here to tell you that I did not keel over in my sleep. So that’s good.
And I did call that clinic, which is also good, kind of —
“What kind of appointment would you like to make?”
“Um, a gynecologist?”
“Okay, like a pap smear?”
“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure I have a lost, forgotten tampon stuck inside me.”
“Oh! Um, oh! Okay, and how do you, um, what makes you think . . . do you have any symptoms?”
“I mean, not really, but last time, or, ya know a while ago, I went to take one out and I couldn’t find the string so I thought I just forgot to put it in so I put another one in and then when I went to take that one out I couldn’t find the string again but then I found it so now I think I did put the other one in and it’s still there, somewhere.”
“Okay, I see . . .”
“OH and my pee smells weird, and I talked to a few people who had this happen before and they said their pee smelled weird, so I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on.”
“Okay! Let me see what I have. Well, I can’t schedule you for today because I don’t have a gynecologist on duty, but you can come in tomorrow at 11am.”
[Random questions, random information given, random instructions on what to bring]
“You’re all set. And you’ll be seeing Dr. Awesome. She’s really good. Like, really great.”
“Thank you so much. Oh, also my son needs a checkup, could I schedule that as well?”
Why not kill two birds with one stone? I couldn’t actually get him an appointment, but she told me to just bring him in and someone could probably see him, and shots are FREE. So that should be interesting — having my kid run around while someone’s digging in my whoo-ha.
I’m also not quite sure why the receptionist was so adamant about telling me how awesome the gyno was (whose name is obviously not Dr. Awesome, but it’s what I’m planning to call her from now on). Maybe to make me feel better? I feel just fine, thankyouverymuch. Except for the symptoms, but that’s beside the point. I mean, unless I die between now and 11am tomorrow.
This post is part three in the tampon debacle. Read part one and part two for the full effect, and part four for what happens next.
All posts are part of the Confessional Series. Learn more, or submit your own, by going to the Confessional page.
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Have you had an experience like this with a receptionist? A healthcare dilemma? An embarrassing confession you had to tell a complete stranger? Want to just wish me luck?
Let me know!