Twat Tales

When you’ve taken an $8.99 pregnancy test from Target or the one from a Ninety-Nine Cents Store (Which I have bought and used before) and it comes out positive, your next step is to get it professionally done. By, like, you know, experts in the field of pregnant humans.

Since I didn’t have any medical insurance in 2002, I chose a free clinic in Union City, California. After filling out mind numbing paper work, I was handed a plastic cup to fill up with the Arizona Ice Tea with Ginseng I had just consumed.

The last time I had to partake in this activity was 8 years previous at the age of sixteen, for a drug test during the hiring process for Sears. I didn’t remember it being so difficult.

Perhaps it was the circumstances surrounding the task this time, but god almighty I could not pee.

It really didn’t help that the nurse kept coming in the bathroom every minute and a half. Every time knocking on the stall door, “Are you done yet?”

If I was done dumbass wouldn’t I be out there handing you my greatest accomplishment of the day.

“Um, no, not yet, I seem to be having a little trouble. Sorry.” What I’m apologizing for exactly, I’m not sure.

“I’ll bring you a cup of water.”

She comes back and slides a paper cup of water under the stall, and leaves. I stare at it for a minute thinking that seems kinda gross, even though logically I’m not drinking water touching the bathroom floor. Then I think about how absurd this all seems and how I just want to kick that stupid cup and leave.

I drink the water and continue to wait for my ticket out of here. I’ve been in this faded brown stall surrounded by the smell of Clorox for about fifteen minutes. The nurse returns with another cup of water, and this time leaves with words of wisdom and comfort.

“Just relax, you have a shy bladder.”

Thanks, I feel so much better. Oh crap. I really do feel better.

With that professional diagnosis, I finally have sweet relief. All it took was for someone to understand her.

The precious has feelings too.

(Shy bladder can actually be much more serious for some. People who can’t go in a public restroom at all. What I actually suffered from was either, “stressed the fuck out bladder,” or “can’t pee on demand bladder.”)

 

“I’m sorry, SAY WHAT now?!”

That is exactly what I said to my obstetrician when I got my first examination.

First of all the whole scene is odd and uncomfortable. You’re laying on an examination table made by the devil, or a minion of similar design. I’m mean, c’mon, we can send people up in space, but we can’t have cushy, inviting exam tables when are lady parts are being medically violated and scrutinized.

When I laid down the nurse asked if I wanted the father of my child to come in the room. I told her absolutely not. Why the hell do I want anyone in here while my legs are spread for a sixty-year old male so he can inspect my precious cargo. Who is this fun for? Who wants to see this? No one.

If this wasn’t so vital to the well-being of myself and unborn child, I would have taken a power dump on that table so I could be excused, and run my preggo ass out of there.

In reality, I lay there feeling awkward with not only the knowledge of a stranger all up in my little “Ginny”, (pronounced Jenny) but when I close my eyes I can still feel the stare of the nurse, as if she was a deer and I had a headlight in my ovaries. Good grief.

As I’m praying this is almost over, the doctor begins to make some inaudible sounds.

Not knowing if these sounds are a good or bad thing I say, “What? Anything I need to know?”

I was expecting him to say, oh, what, no, no, nothing.

Instead he says, “It’s nothing to panic about, it’s just this is only the second time I’ve seen this.”

Regardless of being told “It’s nothing to panic about…” who wants to hear about a rarity when the VAG is trying to get a passing grade.

All I can say is, “Uh, huh.”

“You have a double vagina.”

“I’m sorry, SAY WHAT now?!” My first thought was, this guy is an idiot, and I need a new doctor. Wouldn’t I have noticed another opening on my body?

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Inside, it’s split in two by a layer of skin. Now, what might happen is the baby will come through one side or the other, but most likely it will rip the layer of skin, and then it will no longer be doubled.”

I’m still waiting for him to start laughing and say, “Oh, I’m kidding, it’s a joke I play on all first timers.” But he never said that.

However, the more I found out about it, the less bizarre it seemed. But really, who expects to hear such things. Actually, I do expect such things. Life is a kooky hoot.

F.Y.I. – Only one twat survived. Two twat enter, one twat leaves. It was a good day in more ways than one when my daughter was born.

Fun Fact: Some women also have two cervixes and uteruses. Knowledge is power.

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8 thoughts on “Twat Tales

    • I don’t know anyone else that would describe this post as “lovely” I love it! It might make you feel better to know I was on really nice pain meds when that happened. The next day though when they forgot to give me pain meds for after the fact…EEK. We will never speak of it again.

  1. Gosh! you are a blast! tho’ ignorant of the word twat, i enjoyed the piece of writing and then i googled the meaning and reread for more fun…am i wcked or what?

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