WARNING: This post contains the word bunghole. Several times.
Remember that scene in Home Alone where everyone is running through the airport in a complete frenzy as “Run, Run Rudolph” plays in the background? That’s pretty much what it looked like when mom and I were trying to make it to my appointment. We were a few minutes late, which is unforgivable in my world. I can’t remember the last time I was late for anything in my life by my own doing.
Anyway, we get there and my doctor’s office is running behind for the first time since I’ve been there. It ended up being about a forty minute wait, during which time two unsupervised toddlers tore the waiting room apart with squeals of glee. Their mom was there, but was completely oblivious to the distruction they were causing. It was so hard to restrain myself, but I knew that kids who behave like that generally have parents who behave even worse, so it wasn’t worth causing a scene.
Anyway, the nurse finally calls me back and presents me with the dreaded paper butt-coverer. She then mentions, oh so casually, that Dr. Doom will also be performing “a little test” in addition to the internal exam. Because I am dumb enough to care what’s happening with my pregnancy, I already knew what the little test would be. The GBS screening, for those of you not so fortunate to know, involves a q-tip (so far not so scary) and one’s bunghole. That’s right—q-tip in the bunghole.
I’d been dreading the test for months but I thought it was next week. Dr. Doom isn’t one to delay his gratification so I should have known he’d do it today. The results will be revealed at my next exam.
The internal sucked as much as I thought it would. The most annoying part is as he was feeling my unborn child, he was scolding me for not breathing. Who can be bothered to breathe when someone is probing your ribcage with multiple appendages?
All that just to find out that Lenny’s fine, everything’s sealed up tight and there will be no Christmas baby here. Close relatives seem disappointed, which I cannot understand. I’m not supposed to go into labor for another four weeks and I’m the one who has to carry the kid until then. If I’m okay, how can you justify being disappointed? I can only imagine the barrage of phone calls I will be inundated with as time goes on.
After being violated with multiple objects in multiple orfices (oh look, one last chance to say bunghole!) I think I’m due for a snack and a nap.