I have an appointment with my new gynecologist next week.
My previous gynecologist was located right around the corner from my old job. Since he moved his practice to the Florida Panhandle and how I no longer work at that old job, which was 65 miles away from home, it was time to find a new doctor. I settled on a man I'll call Dr. P.
Dr. P is a member of my regular doctor's practice - Dr. &. I've seen Dr. Y since I was 12 years old, and I take his recommendations very seriously. He knows my entire medical history - depression/anxiety, TMJ, and now infertility. If Dr. P is good enough for him, then he's good enough for me. On top of that, both REs I've seen in the area have recommended Dr. P. I feel confident that I'll be in good hands.
But I don't feel confident about the appointment itself.
I'm nervous for various reasons. For one, I don't like having to explain my entire sordid medical history to a new doctor. I'm worried that he will ask me questions about why we are bailing on infertility treatments before trying IVF when we're "so young" (see previous post). But mostly, I'm not looking forward to the possibility of something being wrong.
Before February 2009, I was FINE with going to the gynecologist. While other women complained about having someone poke and prod their lady bits, it wasn't a big deal for me. It was once a year, and it was harmless. I would get my clean bill of health and went on my merry way.
Everything changed last year when my gynecologist diagnosed me with cervical dysplasia, endometriosis, and infertility - all in one visit.
But even after that and subsequent appointments, even after the referral to an RE, even after numerous tests and infertility treatments, going to the gynecologist still wasn't that bad. I had confidence that my next annual would get me back on track to a clean bill of health - minus the infertility and endo.
Imagine my surprise when instead the doctor found a tumor in my breast. HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?, I wondered. I went from being a healthy 23-year-old newlywed in 2008, to a 25-year-old with failing lady parts - talking to my doctor about my chances of needing a pre-menopausal mastectomy and hysterectomy: high.
With all of this, you can guess that I'm not looking forward to Tuesday's appointment. Not that I care about spreading my legs for some new guy. (Because let's face it - I'm pretty confident that the number of people who've seen my vagina at this point is far greater than the number of people who've seen Paris Hilton's bits.) But because I'm scared of the other shoe dropping. Because I don't want another surgery. Because I don't want to be the 25-year-old woman with yet another part of her body dying. Because I am TIRED of being broken.
I already have a broken uterus, broken ovaries, a broken cervix, broken breasts, and a broken heart. Isn't that enough?