Now on to the story.
A few weeks ago I had a mole removed from my Special Purpose. I have not been able to see that area of my body first hand - that is to say without the help of two hand mirrors and a set of tongs - since September 2008. I noticed a small mole after I scared off a family of Martins that had taken up residence down there.
It was time for my annual (that's the word for every five years, right?) dermatology appointment anyway so I decided to get it checked out. I have the intention of going every year because I'm a poster child for why you should wear sun block. Although my Irish half does give my Swedish half a little color.
Transparent is a color, right?
Now, I've had three kids. Pretty much everyone who has worked at St. Luke's from the years of 2007 - 2012 has seen all or part of my Special Purpose. Including the janitor, though that was just a big misunderstanding when I was all drugged up and thought the cafeteria was my bathroom. When I was recovering from Lila it must have been field trip week because at one point I had a team of students gathered down there as one tried (unsuccessfully) to stick a catheter in. It wasn't her fault, though - who can insert a catheter with a family of birds pecking like maniacs at your hand because you're invading their nest? They're very territorial, you know.
And I happily laid there, splayed out frog legged for all to see, while about a dozen students cheered her on. I didn't mind because I know they look at them all the live long day and I'd put money down that mine isn't the worst they've seen.
But my dermatologist... he's not lucky enough to get to look at vaginas all day. I have no idea how many people de-underwear in his exam room so I had to make sure everything was tip top because with such slim exposure I didn't know who he would be comparing mine to.
As I lay there on the table, I had second thoughts. I told myself it was probably fine, and just to forget it. We're all going to die sometime, right? I mean, I could die on the car ride home.
And hey! Maybe it wasn't a mole after all. Maybe it was just a stray turd spec that lost its way. But as he finished his exam and told me everything looked good I knew I had to put my big girl pants on.
"There's one more thing," I said, lifting my butt up and pulling down my underwear as his lips curled over his teeth and he backed toward the door. "I noticed this tiny mole on my bikini line."
He exhaled. "Well, if you say so. I guess I'm legally obligated..." he said, putting on a pair of woolen mittens. "How long has this been here?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't seen anything below my nipples in four years."
"Well, hmmm. Yes, I'd like to biopsy that. I'll go get the syringe."
I immediately regretted my decision to bring it up.
"What does that mean?" I asked the student standing next to me. Oh, I forgot to mention of course there was a student in there. Because that's how my luck rolls.
"Well, I'm sure it's fine..." she started to say but he was quick with the syringe.
"This is going to sting..." he said, jamming a needle into the mole. On my Special Purpose. And yes, yes it did. It stung like a bitch. But not as much as the sting that accompanies waiting for test results. As I've said before, you can be an ugly ass virgin nun and you'll still sweat out the two weeks it takes for you to get the results of your AIDS test.
On the drive home I began planning my funeral. "I want fancy napkins," I told Nick. "The kind with my initials on them. And a video montage of pictures of me looking hot. Maybe we should schedule a photo shoot in July after I've had a chance to tan a little bit."
"You're not going to die."
"You're a doctor. That's what they train you to tell people who are going to die."
Well, you'll be happy to know that I'm not going to die. Not from this, anyway.
I'll live to see another cheese tray.