“Ten. You have ten years.”

               I hate the flimsy metal stirrups they make you put your feet in at the gynecologist. I hate the cold metal speculum, that I swear, they keep packed in dry ice  for “freshness” or something.  I hate when my doctor says; 

               “You may feel some ‘discomfort,’ for a moment.”

               Yeah, right. Discomfort.  No; let me define “discomfort” as I see it;  Discomfort is when you put on a sock and the little seam is kind of under your toes instead of at the the end of your foot, so when you walk you feel it.  THAT is discomfort.

               Or, when you put on a bra, and then for hours and hours you’re not comfortable because your bra strap has a little twist in it---that’s “discomfort.”

               Or, when you are eating something and there’s just not enough salt on it…

               Or when the nurse smiles, hands you a paper sheet, tells you to undress from the waist down and sit on the edge of the examination table and; “wait for doctor”—that is “discomfort.”

               That’s another thing I find discomfortable, “wait for Doctor,”  not “Wait for THE doctor.”  Like “Doctor” is the physician’s name.   ((Does this mean I’m supposed to call the doctor, “Doctor” instead of say—“Dr. Penobscott” ?? Because I am discomfortable doing that.  I like my doctor, but not enough to just call her Doctor like that’s her name. It’s NOT her name.))  When I was the mayor, people would try to call me “mayor” like it was my name, and I usually corrected them and said, “just call me, Kym. Or knucklehead…I’ll answer to either one.”

                I’m not comfortable being “elevated” to a higher social strata than those I serve…is this weird? Am I weird?  Is this a new thought?  No this cannot possibly be a new concept.

               So, when you tell me you are going to put this cold, metal device that my lovely niece, Erin once referred to as, “a cross between the jaws of life and salad tongs,” inside me—trust me when I say it is MORE than a little discomfort we women feel during this examination.  Taking that, and the whole, vulnerable position we are in, and then the whole “do I call you Doctor, or Doctor Who,” question running through my head…it’s just not good. Not good. Not good.

               So, basically what I’m saying is---there is nothing really comfortable about the whole experience of going to get your PAP smear.  We do it because we know we should. Cancer bad---cancer screenings good.

               Since about age 33, I’ve been sans ovaries because of potential cancer.  Because of this, I’ve been taking estrogen. Yeah, I know it’s controversial, I know that taking it has been linked to cancer, yadda yadda yadda, but hasn’t EVERYTHING been linked to cancer? 

               I love my estrogen that comes in a bottle. It’s like I was broken and now I’m fixed and it’s only been for a little while that I’ve been fixed…

               Last week I saw my “healthcare professional”  (there, I avoided the whole “I saw Doctor” or  “I saw MY doctor,” conundrum.))  She says we need to talk about me getting off the estrogen.  My lower lip quivered and my eyes burned with tears.

                I do NOT want to get off the estrogen. I love taking estrogen. I truly believe it is the veritable fountain of youth. My skin looks great, my hair is thick and lustrous, and yes, sex is quite sublime.

Estrogen has solved all of my problems.

               My whole life, I was kind of a basket case. My entire life, I had absolutely no idea why I was crying or upset or moody or causing all sorts of drama, and picking fights with people, and having that wretched feeling of my blood being on fire as it coursed through my veins.….until I had my ovaries removed and started taking estrogen. 

               My whole life got better. I’m certainly no “healthcare professional,” but my theory is simple:  the estrogen my body was making for itself was substandard, or not enough, or just not a good recipe.  The stuff that comes in the little bluish green capsule is awesome. My life is stable, my moods make sense to not only me, but to other people too. My reactions to things are logical. My thinking is clear.  I can safely say that none of the above was true PRE-prescription estrogen.

               I told her, “Nnnoo, thankyou. I prefer to stay on it thank-you-very-much.” I gave her my best winning smile. “It’s a quality of life issue really.”

               She was just not buying it. She says I can take it for another year, then I have to get off it. 

               Then a day or two later I went to visit my dear friend, Margie. She’s just slightly older than me.  We were talking about men and love and relationships…and of course you can’t talk about any of these topics with the subject of sex entering the fray…      

               Somewhere in the conversation I said, “I’m 50 years old right now---I’m not really sure how much more time I have left…”

               With absolutely NO hesitation, she said with all-knowing finality and certainty:                      

                              “Ten. You have ten years left.”

               I stared in disbelief, and funny thing-- I heard that weird noise you hear when you watch Law and Order---you know, that sound that kind of reminds you of a prison door being closed on you…Yeah. That sound. That’s what I heard.  Ten?  Just ten years?  That’s nothing.  That’s only slightly shorter than say, how long a good comedy show runs on NBC nowadays…then it’s all over. Ten years. Really?  Ten years???

               I tried so hard to act like, “oh heck yeah, I’m totally FINE WITH THAT OH YES I AM.”

               We both laughed—perhaps I was laughing a tad bit hysterically…I believe her.

               This chick knows her shit, dammit.

               Dammit, this chick knows her shit…

               Well, the fact is---I am NOT fine with that. Not one bit. If I can’t enjoy my life for as long as possible, then why do I want to be here?????  Seriously.

               So then I have Margie’s words echoing in my head, and I also hear my doctor saying:  “You have one year left.”

               To me, this means, I have exactly ONE YEAR to find a new doctor.  I’ll be damned if I’m going to be told what to do by Doctor. Hah. I advise all women to do the same. If you have finally found a way to live and are happy, and things are working for you finally---do not go down without a fight. I am a person, not some statistic on an actuary table. 

               Anyone reading this is now invited to comment and give me some ideas on alternative medicine where I can continue to live my life the way I choose to live it and not how conventional medicine dictates I live it. 

               Life is wonderful, life is exciting, life is pain, life is awful, terrible, heart wrenching and courage and passion are what make me want to stay here and enjoy this scary, unpredictable, volatile and lovely sublime ride for as long as possible.

               Well—all of the above and estrogen.