The call has been made. The appointment has been set.
And in just two weeks, I am going to be heading into what will surely be the most embarrassing doctors appointment of my life.
That’s right friends – PT for my cootchie is a go.
I have to be honest; I hadn’t thought much about it since that first discussion with Dr. Cook. There was just so much else that happened in the days that followed. And after that, I was more than a little pre-occupied with healing.
As much as that initial conversation freaked me out, it didn’t stay with me. I promptly forgot about any future need for cootchie PT. I brushed it out of my mind like a bad memory.
Hoping to never have to think about it again.
In the past few weeks, I've been reminded about the possibility of down there physical therapy only intermittently. Momentary lapses where I’ve remembered “Oh yeah, I’m supposed to…” only to quickly push it out of my mind again. Because who wants to think about that? Who wants to contemplate the future possibilities there? I knew I was supposed to wait until a month after surgery before seeking it out, so I figured I had time to worry about it.
Of course, there is one man in my life who would never dream of letting me forget about something as potentially humiliating and awkward as cootchie PT. One man who, as much as he loves me, will always be a fan of anything that ensures my blatant discomfort.
I’m fairly sure he thrives off of my embarrassing stories.
So, I really should have known it would be the devirginator who would remind me about my impending date with a physical therapist… down there. And sure enough, as he and I spoke this afternoon, it became clear that this was a subject he had been not so patiently waiting to bring up. We were catching up on the regular points of interest (his love life, my lack of a love life, and all the details in between) when out of nowhere he blurts out “So… Have you made an appointment with the vagina masseuse yet?”
“No.” I declared. “I’m not even allowed to start that until a month after surgery. I still have time.” I reminded him (and reassured myself).
“Ummm… I hate to tell you this” he began, as though gearing up for the punch line “But, it’s almost been a month. It’s time.”
I am sad to say that my dear old friend felt no remorse at all in reminding me of the timing of events. He then made it potently clear that he would need details as soon as this appointment occurred. That he would be waiting on pins and needles for a full report.
Because he’s a good friend like that.
I got off the phone with the devirginator and looked at the calendar. I felt the heat rise to my neck as I realized that I really should call and make an appointment soon if this was something I was actually going to try.
And then I assessed the current situation. I have still been getting a lot of cramping and pulling down there. Not actual pain per se, but definitely discomfort. A discomfort that I remembered Dr. Cook informing me might persist even after surgery if I didn’t get those muscle spasms under control.
I don’t want to be in varying stages of discomfort for the rest of my life anymore than I want to be in varying stages of pain. If there are ways to get my body (every last part of my body) back up and running optimally, I really do need to try.
And so, I pulled up my e-mail and dug through some of the recommendations that were sent to me in the days following my PT for the Cootchie announcement. I knew I had saved one name in particular that looked promising, and sure enough – I found it sitting there just a few e-mails in. The name of the woman who I would be allowing to take the state of my lady bits into her hands… literally.
I gulped back as I picked up the phone. Cleary I’ve made doctor's appointments before. There was no reason to be distressed. No excuse for the stomach acids rising quickly to the back of my throat.
But it was there. Stress triggers exploding throughout my body as I listened to the other line ringing.
Causing me to completely freeze up when the receptionist picked up the other line.
“Hi. Um…. My name is…” I stammered. “Ummmmm… I might need some physically therapy. For my, well, ummm….” I was lost. Searching for words and suddenly unable to even remember what the name was of what I needed. All I kept thinking was “vagina, vagina, vagina.”
I hate my brain sometimes.
Finally, I spit it out. “I don’t really know how to put this… I need physical therapy... for gynecological purposes.”
Awkward... Really awkward.
The receptionist didn’t pause. She didn’t laugh or snort or choke on her words. She knew exactly which doctor I needed to see, and then she said “Pelvic wall therapy? Lots of women get that. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Easy for you to say.
I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I know this is more or less normal. I know that plenty of other women have done it.
But I have to admit – I am terrified of the now impending PT for my cootchie. I’m sure much of that anxiety comes from having no idea what to expect. No clue what an appointment like that will really entail.
But with or without the knowledge – I’m pretty sure I would be uncomfortable with the idea of some woman I’ve never met doing much of anything to my pelvic floor. Which is why when the receptionist said she had an opening for tomorrow morning, I quickly proclaimed “Oh no! That won’t work! I had surgery, and I have to wait 1 month! Sorry!”
I left out the part about 1 month actually occurring in just a few days. No need in saying anything that would result in me having to do anything I’m not quite ready for.
No means no, right?
She asked when I would like an appointment, and I told her 2 weeks should be good. From there, she got me scheduled for March 15th. And now I have 2 weeks. Two weeks to worry, fret, and prepare.
Two weeks to rid myself of all the nervous energy I have surrounding this appointment.
Two weeks. Build up some resolve and confidence in the fact that I can endure this appointment without embarrassment.
If only because I know the devirginator is waiting for a truly hilarious report on the events to come.
And I would love nothing more than to be able to crush his hopes and dreams for laughter at my expense by proclaiming that it wasn’t any big deal at all.
If only I could just convince myself that was the truth…
ADSPACE
