Let me start off by saying that nurses are the most wonderful human beings in the world. When you think about it, what kind of person would want to be a nurse in the first place? Don’t get me wrong. I love people! They’re some of my favorite beings in the universe. But do I want to spend all day, every day taking care of someone who treats me with anything from distaste to indifference, with the occasional bout of appreciation thrown in to ensure good treatment? Wait! Isn’t that the definition of being a mom?
While it is true that many nurses are moms, it is not true that many moms are nurses—that is, in any professional capacity. No, it takes a very special person to be a nurse.
It is in this frame of mind that I show up for my annual visit to the gynecologist. Don’t tell anyone because that might ruin my reputation as the Prevention Queen (a title I guard proudly), but I HATE going to the gynecologist.
‘Slide down.’ Perhaps the ugliest words a woman can hear, as she is lying naked in a flimsy, cotton robe with her feet trapped in stirrups set wide apart at the end of a modified hospital bed. But wait, it gets worse! And then it’s over for another year. (So, go already!)
Something memorable actually happened at this year’s visit. I met Via. Via is the health professional assigned to do all of the scut work before the exam. As usual, I ask Via not to tell me my weight as I step backwards on to the scale. I tell her that although I lost weight earlier in the year, somehow it all recently came back.
She is surprisingly philosophical as she agrees to my conditions. She also neatly summarizes the female human condition when she says: I’m never satisfied with my weight and how I look. Even when I’m at my thinnest, I feel fat, that is until I actually get fat again. That always happens.