My favorite day of the year!

I so wish those were my legs.

Fill in the blank:

“Every time I go _________...”

“You fall more deeply in love?” Dan asked, correctly finishing my thought.

A) out to dinner with you
B) to the mall to visit that sweater I can’t stop thinking about
C) to the gym to visit that meat head I can’t stop thinking about
D) to get a Pap smear

I think you know the answer. Seriously, who walks out of a Pap smear appointment feeling this happy? I do, that's who. It's better than Christmas. I honestly walk out of the office smiling (and sometimes I even do that up-in-the-air heel clicking thing).

The reason for all this speculum-induced joy: my Nurse Practitioner, Jodi. (There are a lot of letters: CNM and MSN which I think a nurse practitioner, these make.)

During my many pre-marriage and uninsured years, I paid out-of-pocket to see Jodi---my only medical appointment of the year---because I loved and trusted her so implicitly at a time when I loved and trusted nobody implicitly. She is, quite simply, everything you would ever want in the person who will know you so intimately (and almost biblically). She is earthy and wise, she is kind and smart, she is respectable and respectful, she exudes peacefulness and compassion, and her hands are almost never cold. She can also take a good yoni joke (should you awkwardly and compulsively make them in times of unease) which is more than I can say for my dentist. Jodi is the reason I will only ever see Nurse Practitioners for any health-related issues (if I can help it) for the rest of my life. I feel a deep sense of gratitude, admiration and abiding warmth for her that I certainly never anticipated feeling for the person who brought stirrups into my life. In the beginning I had a crush; what I feel now, the majority of my twenties and a miscarriage behind us, is adoration.

After waiting for her in the exam room yesterday---fully dressed, no unnecessary nakedness or awkward paper gown time on her watch---we greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek and the warmest of hugs. One of Dan's most poignant memories of the day almost two years ago when an ultrasound told us that the baby I was carrying had stopped developing, is of the tender and lasting hug that Jodi gave me after we got the news. I hadn't even hugged Dan yet---I was in shock and unready to concede the circumstances hug-worthy---but I sank into Jodi's arms.

We sat down to talk yesterday as we always do at the start of these yearly appointments; both of us in chairs so there’s not that swinging-my-feet-off-the-exam-table, child-like feeling that sitting high up on deli paper always elicits in me. It felt like we talked for almost a half-hour---my life, hers; marriage, sex; IUDs, diaphragms; lumps, lymph nodes. I've never sensed a minute of condescension from Jodi despite my anatomical ignorance and naiveté. She listens and guides with warmth and calm.

"We've known each other a long time now," she said.

“10 years,” I said, though I realize now it’s only been eight. (My Jodi and Danniversary are the same. Coincidence? I think not.)

I was 20 when I first went in for an exam after a dear friend insisted I do so. She was stunned and a bit hostile about my not having had my gynecological cherry popped (sorry…couldn’t resist) despite the fact that I’d been having sex for a few years and was over 18, two of the markers which usually bring a girl in for her first lady-bits appointment. (Most girls who came of age in the 90s, as I did, made their way to the gyno or clinic early on because of the chance to score free condoms and hear an adult say 'oral.' The only time I had ever even heard the words Pap smear though---and by the way, doesn’t that sound like zit yield a Midwesterner wipes on the mirror?--- was during a strange interaction with my high school guidance counselor who asked me if I had had one yet. I was so freaked out to be having a conversation pertaining to my vagina on school grounds---not quite the stuff of college applications---that I just squirmed out of her office and hastily returned to class. After that, nobody ever brought it up so I figured I could just go about my business without anyone going about my business.)

I thought Pap smears were one of those things that you start doing after 40 like mammograms and anal. As far as a below the waist exam, my plan was to go when I…never. My plan was to go never. Nakedness (other than in the instance of airbrush spray tanning) is not good for me for so many reasons. This has always been and will probably always be. (In third grade, my mom told me that she would be taking me to the doctor to have a cyst on my chest looked at. My response was to cry hysterically and hide in my bedroom closet.) I honestly thought I could get through life without ever having a pelvic exam.

But, maturity and responsibility (and my bossy, loving friend) having their way with me, I ended up making the appointment because---why else?---I wanted to get on the pill. Jodi was recommended to me (as strongly as one would recommend a brownie sundae or taking a Latin lover) by my friend, Jenni, who had her as a midwife during her pregnancy. (She, too, was in love with Jodi and told me that although she would give me her number, “I’m still Jodi’s favorite go-go.” Jenni no longer sees Jodi, having left the immediate area, but I often call her after my appointments to rub it in express my gratitude to her for having shared Jodi with me.)

I sat in my car for a while before that first appointment, my stomach and chest sick and stiff with tenseness. My limbs were heavy and I felt anchored in my seat. I almost didn’t go in. I almost called from the parking lot to cancel. I remember being on the phone with Dan and getting totally irritated with him for wishing me good luck before the appointment. ‘Good luck’ is for lottery tickets and foot races, not for wishing someone well who is about to be invaded in the most personal way possible by a stranger. I truly thought that I would not be able to part my legs---like they would be stuck together in some sort of rigor mortar-esque way---or that if I opened them and Jodi started in, I would close them quickly, catching her hand between my knees like a bear trap. I didn’t think I would make it. I was fighting tears as I walked in, deeply fearful.

And then I met Florence Nightengina. Jodi was so gentle and sensitive to my obvious discomfort; so warm. She talked me through the whole thing, told me exactly what she was doing before she did it, and repeatedly asked me how I was doing. She has children around the same age as I and (being the mother-lover that I am) I immediately sensed and so appreciated her maternal vibe at a time when I felt so vulnerable. In the middle of the examination, my feet in the stirrups, Jodi needed to leave the room for a minute to get something. Rather than leaving me there exposed, she took my feet down and made sure I was well-covered. That care and seeming protectiveness pervaded the entire exam.

“Jodi, I’ll never forget the first time I came to see you,” I told her yesterday. “It was my first time. I was so terrified. So horrified. You made me feel so comfortable and safe.”

“I remember that day, too,” she said.

(Love. Her.)

That day and for years afterward, she sent me off after my visit with a small brown paper bag full of birth control pill sample packs, knowing that I didn’t have health insurance. A couple of years ago when I was thinking about becoming a mom and looking for ways to break through anxiety in preparation, Jodi introduced me to the work and ideas of Jon Kabat-Zinn. A year after that when I needed to get out of my head, she told me to take a hip-hop class, something I’ve always wanted to do (and still haven’t). Yesterday, she reassured me that I was making a wise decision when I told her that I wanted to wait for a firmer sense of readiness before having children despite the (mostly self-imposed) pressure that I feel about it. Though I rarely see her more than once a year, Jodi's effect on my life is rich and far-reaching.

I’ve often thought about becoming a nurse practitioner or going into midwifery because of my experience with Jodi. I would love to be in the position to pass the guidance and care that she has given me, on to other women. (Ultimately my strong sense of smell and the fact that I don’t really like touching people dissuaded me.) Still, I hope to live a life that allows me to comfort a scared 20-year-old now and then. Maybe for me, the pen is mightier than the speculum.

Maybe not…

Mellowsky Spew:

The Bookish?

Fuckish.