by Abby Normal

I feel myself up quite regularly. It’s quite natural, really as most medical resources say I’m supposed to do a monthly breast self-examination starting after the age of 20. Granted, there was few-year period where I neglected my cancer detecting duties, but I can officially tell you I’m back on track.

I also regularly visit my gynecologist, which is not nearly as much fun as feeling myself up. in fact, the sight of that little three-by-five reminder card can downright put a damper on the day.

It’s not that I don’t like my gynecologist. She’s funny, color-coordinated and talks about sex like she’s deciding which shoes to wear. I’ve never been afraid to tell her if I’m feeling weird or have been having symptoms of anything.

I chose her for very specific reasons—the first being that she’s a she. actually, that alone might be my top five reasons when I think about it.

I’ve tried the whole male gynecologist thing, and it just wasn’t for me. Contrary to the infinite wisdom of rush Limbaugh, most women aren’t sluts, and the fewer men we have to show our hoohah off to, the better—even in a clinical setting. Not to mention, there are the fat days, the I-haven’t-shaved-anywhere-in-far-too-long days and the God-dammit-I-just-got-dressed days that can be downright uncomfortable sharing with a man you only see once a year.

And then there’s the actual pap smear test itself.

There really aren’t words to describe getting a pap smear?or the Babe?-Papanicolaou test for those of us with absolutely no life?but I suppose we can start with the name. I could be wrong, but I don’t think it’s possible to come up with a more disgusting and off-putting reference. When I think of my nether regions, the word “smear” doesn’t really have a place.

Then there’s a cold, stark room sporadically wallpapered with labeled diagrams of the human body and pamphlets about all the various types of STDs. And since doctors are so rarely punctual, there’s always plenty of time to reflect on what life would be like if those pamphlets applied to me. of course, I’m already naked and cold while I’m contemplating all this loveliness because I was told to undress and wrap some tissue paper around my body that has the same softness as a toilet seat cover and might as well be the same size.

Next is a knock on the door and a stern-looking old man walks in. a cold handshake and brief, joyless introduction leads to sterile, papery hands that poke and prod my breasts before he tells me that everything looks fine in that department.

It’s now time to get a sample from down below. Can I get a “Yippee!”?

Up my feet go into metal, cloth-covered stirrups, and a million thoughts go through my head: Jesus, I really should’ve have shaved this morning. do I smell? Does mine look “normal”? There’s a certain amount of freak out that occurs before I’m forced?for sanity’s sake?to detach myself from the situation. I lay my arm over my eyes and wait for it to be over.

Long before the end, though, there’s the infamous speculum—a tool I’ve fondly started calling the Jaws of Life. Under normal circumstances, the speculum is used to open the vaginal canal in order to swab for cell tissues. But by the time that shiny, metal beast is unveiled my vagina has clamped shut for business and I can actually hear it cussing me out.

For the record, the speculum is beak-like and unyielding in design, and applies a kind of sharp, pinching pressure that isn’t unbearable so much as it is truly uncomfortable. If you were to, say, see it on display as an accessory in the Museum of Torture, it wouldn’t require that much of a stretch to the imagination.

Since the biggest complaint we seem to get from our on-the-fence readers is, “Why? why so much detail?” let me address that now:

I have written this to share with you what it’s like to be a mature, sexually responsible woman. I have sex because it is pleasurable and I love my partner. (That’s right, my darling Rick Santorum, I have yet to have sex for procreation purposes.) As a result, there are things I must do to take care of myself and him. It’s not exciting. It’s not fun. It’s not as carefree as they portray it in the movies, and it’s certainly not as happy-go-lucky as the porn industry has made it seem. this is real life in all of its awkward glory.

Anyway, I went through above routine for about three years. cold handshakes, pokes and prods, feet go up, awkward silence, pressure, swab and then?at long last?it’s over. Let me be clear: I don’t think my doctor was a bad man; I simply could never get comfortable, emotionally or physically. And given that this is something I’ll be doing for the rest of my life, I didn’t think that was right.

I’m not sure why it took so long for me to look for a new gynecologist. mostly, it was the perceived ordeal and a bunch of excuses that turned me off of the search. after all, the one I had was so close to home and it was only once a year—couldn’t I just deal?

The more I thought about it, the answer was no. I came to this conclusion after contemplating what it would be like if I actually ever had a problem “down there” one day. would I be able to talk to this man openly and honestly about my symptoms? definitely not.

After searching high and low, reading reviews and asking friends, I eventually found a female gynecologist that I could relax around. for those out there considering a change, right here is a good place to start the search.

My lady gynecologist isn’t perfect. There are times when she talks louder and longer than is preferable, or when I have to wait wrapped in tissue paper for 30 minutes.

But at the end of the day, there is never an uncomfortable silence that fills the air, and I’m no longer looking for patterns in the ceiling stucco, imagining I was anywhere or anybody else. I can ask her anything without fear of judgment, and I don’t ever think, “Damn, I should’ve shaved” anymore.

Instead, I can focus on the real issues at hand—any abnormalities or bodily changes I’ve observed, or how the pill is affecting my sex drive, weight or mood. Basically, I’m there to check up on the health and wellbeing of me, and that’s it.

I acknowledge that some women simply don’t care if they’re seen by a male or female gynecologist. But if you’re dreading your appointment you might want to take a look into the reasons why. There are so many options available to us today, and there’s no reason to endure unnecessary stress if you’re unhappy.

Sex in San Diego, a column appearing every Friday here at The OB Rag, explores topics related to sex in America’s Finest City. to encourage openness while still respecting privacy, most authors will use pseudonyms.

To those of you who are of the male persuasion, please don’t call this bulls/t. What I and many other women went through/go through is real.

I was never able to take any birth control (yes, I too am one of Rush’s sluts!) that contained estrogen. I could however use a progesterone only bill (more confirmation that I am a slut!). When I got pregnant, I puked 24 hours a day for the ENTIRE pregnancy. I did IV’s for 32 weeks. I had a healthy baby but he almost killed me!

After I had our son, the doctor warned me that another pregnancy might kill me, thus we never tried to have another child. the one we had is a gift, but another wasn’t worth my life – or theirs without their mother.

When our son was 3 years old, I got hit with PMS that was debilitating. As I look back now, I realize that even back in college, I was showing signs of PMS, although back then it didn’t exist officially. in 1999, I got so tired of fighting a monthly battle that started 5 days after my period ended (when I ovulated) and ended several days after I started my period again. I never thought about suicide – would never have put my son, husband and family through that – but there were times that I wished that I just wouldn’t wake up. I could not….did not….function.

I saw doctors and psychiatrists, and they all said it’s just PMS and put me on a variety of anti-depressants. It wasn’t until we moved back to our home state of Wisconsin that I found a great psychiatrist who looked at all of my records (I had kept detailed records and journals) and the first thing he said was that there was a pattern and it had to do with my monthly cycles. he referred me to a reproductive endocrinologist.

Within 5 days I had an appointment with a woman named Dr. Elizabeth Pritts (her husband is also a reproductive endocrinologist). although her specialty was infertility, she listened intently as I cried my way through my story, and then she looked at me and said, “We can fix this.” she explained about the procedure and together my husband and I decided that doing nothing was not an option.

What was the procedure? It was a shot every three months with a drug called Lupron Depot. It was originally a drug used in men with advanced prostate cancer, but they found uses for it in women who suffered from endometriosis, uterine fibroids, and many other female-related problems. she warned me that the first two weeks after the shot would be worse than anything that I’d been through so far, but that if I could hold out, I would get my life back.

The shot (in my butt) was mildly uncomfortable, and the next two weeks were exactly how she described they would be. my body was saying MAKE ESTROGEN….MAKE ESTROGEN, and the Lupron was saying STOP MAKING ESTROGEN, STOP MAKING ESTROGEN – MENOPAUSE IS WONDERFUL AND IT WILL END THE PMDD.

Dr. Pritts was right on! On day 14, I got out of bed, showered, and all was well. Yes, the shot put me into a drug-induced menopause, and I expected the hot flashes and night sweats, but never had any! for the next ten years, I got a Lupron shot every 3 months. A year ago, given my age, we decided to see if I was in menopause and it was basically a waiting game. Blood tests said I was in perimenopause, but to this day I have not had my period, and the PMDD is no longer a problem despite the fact that I am no longer on Lupron.

Just a warning….if you check out Lupron Depot online, you will find many who think it’s the worst drug on the market. I have to disagree because it gave me my life back. When I was offered the drug 10 years ago, there was no question that I would give it a try because life was no longer worth living. Dr. Pritts and Lupron gave me my life back. my son is now almost 16 years old, and consider myself a two-time survivor – first from the hell of PMDD and second from the sometimes hell of having a teenager!

I owe my life to Dr. Pritts. she is my savior and I will be forever grateful for what she did for me. No, mine was not a typical case of PMS or PMDD, and no, Lupron is not normally prescribed for conditions such as mine, but when you’re at the end of your rope, you’ll try just about anything.

I’m very lucky. I have a wonderful family, and my husband is a gem. Unlike some of you other guys who have responded to this article, he never once called me a bitch or questioned whether or not I was faking it. he loved me, he supported me, and he comforted me. to those men responding critically about this issue, I feel sorry for your wives because they’re married to real idiots and creeps!