Disclaimer: This post may (nay, does) contain too much information. If you have vagina-related squeamishness or are a member of my family, immediate, extended or otherwise, please do not read this post.
I had an appointment today.
One that I eventualy got around ot booking and then had to book more in advance than I like.
A trip to they gynae. Who used to be referred to as My Obstetrician. But he’s not today, because, well he isn’t required to do anything obstetric. More gynaecological. And the reason I’m seeing him is that my lovely GP wasn’t able to perform the job that needed doing.
I asked Grumpy to come along, because a) there was mention of the possibility of a local anaesthetic required and b) I get quite nervous about vagina related appointments and needed some moral support. Clearly, this was an indication of me level of anxiety. His only method of providing me moral support was to ask if I was going to “put glitter on my fanny” before we left.
HIlarious. Actulay, no. It wasnt funny the first time. Much less the 47th.
And old hand at waiting for obstetricians, I rang ahead of time to see just how late he was running. I no longer do the polite “oh, just checking to see he’s running on time” and no go the “Hey, Jan, how’s things? Great. How late’s he running and what time should I come in?”.
Got half an hour leeway, then got to wait a further 37 minutes before seeing him. During which time, hubby and I,surrounded by newly pregnant couples, still in the excited stage, revel in the ability to sit quiety, read some mags and just enjoy not talking to each other. Was nice. Even though everyone kept looking belly-ward, which was a bit offputting. It is a belly that has carried three babies. The more looks I can avoid in its direction the better.
The “Hop up here and we’ll have a look,” turned into “Oh, right. Well come through here,” upon mentioning my GPs concerns.