Hatchet Wound

A week ago, I had to go to the doctor. The special lady doctor who deals exclusively in vaginas, if you catch my drift. Yeah. You know what I'm saying.

But this visit wasn't for my annual invasive swabbing. No, this time around I had something super awesome for the doctor. A doctor I had never seen before until that day, I might add.

Go do an image search for "Bartholin Gland cyst." Better yet, I'll do one for you. Just click here. I'll wait.

Had enough cartoon images of vaginas, mixed in with a few that are just a little too real? Yeah, me, too. First, let me say that what was happening in my nether regions was not quite as extreme as the "real" pictures on that image search I provided. And it's also possible that I didn't have a Bartholin Gland cyst. Could have been just a normal sebaceous cyst. But it was in that exact location, so I'm painting a nice picture for you.

Size wise, we're talking about something that was about as big as a grape. But that's probably big enough, wouldn't you agree? I mean, I like to think of my vagina as a beautiful, wondrous flower. When you have to start factoring in a foreign object and what fruit it resembles, you're probably not having a great day.

This thing had grown exponentially in the previous few days, from a little tiny zit-like thing, to a raging, angry grape. Walking had become a little difficult, what with the rubbing. So I finally made an appointment, packed my lady in the car (not Katie; I call my vagina "lady" because she's a lady), and went off to meet my doom.

But Katie did come with me.

We had to wait over an hour because some patient of my doctor's was "having a baby" and "ready to deliver any minute." Whatever. This woman should really have thought about how irritating it was for me to have a small lump protruding from my vaginal area.



The medical assistant put me in a room, then asked a bunch of questions about my medical history. After I yelled at her (because it's none of her business), she told me she was going to bring in a bunch of tools "just in case" the doctor needed them. And then she gave me a "drape" about the size of one square of toilet paper (one-ply) and told me to get undressed from the waist down. And I did. Because I will take off my pants for just about anyone.

The doctor came in and introduced herself. As I was positioning myself in the stirrups, she informed me that sometimes these things aren't that big of a deal and go away on their own. Then she glanced down at my swimsuit area, and exclaimed, "Oh, I see it." And though I'm sure there are moments when a woman longs to hear that from her gynecologist -- a woman like the one who was currently in labor being ignored by her doctor, for instance -- this was not one of those moments. But at least I felt validated that I wasn't just being a baby or making up a story.

This thing was real. And it was spectacular.

The doctor decided that she needed to get that sucker popped, and she wasted no time getting things ready. A little iodine swab, and she was ready to inject me with a sharp needle full of local anesthesia. I covered my face with my hat, and Katie held my hand as I pushed through the pain. Surely no patient of this doctor's was in any greater agony than I at that particular time.

Once the area formerly known as my vagina ("formerly" because I could no longer feel any part of it) was numb, the doctor got out the scalpel. And before you could say, "cheese!" there was a sound akin to a balloon popping, and the doctor jumped backward.

Because that's how anyone would react when the contents of a vaginal cyst explode all over one's face.

I was not really able to tell what was going on, but when I looked at the doctor, I had a difficult time seeing her eyes because there were, ahem, flecks all over her glasses. I put my head back down, both embarrassed and a little proud, and listened to the cleanup process. The M.A. wiped off the doctor's face, only to have the doctor quietly say, "There's some in my ear."

It's all boring after that. Just a lot of hydrogen peroxide, along with some sort of needle nose tool that opened the wound up so the doctor could make sure everything that had been inside the cyst was now gone. She didn't have to worry. It was all gone. In fact, she was probably finding chunks of it in her hair for the rest of the day.

After the cleanup, Katie and I left to go meet our realtor and look at some houses. But first, we went to eat at a restaurant called "Biscuits." I thought I would always remember this restaurant as the first place where Katie and I shared a meal together as adults. This was a different location, but the memory was still there.

But times have changed, folks. Because now I will always remember "Biscuits" as the place where the feeling returned to my own biscuit. Figuring out how to pee without feeling like my left labium had been lit on fire was not an easy task. But I did it. Because I am a vagina champion.

For the record, everything is fine now. No stitches required, and the pain and swelling are completely gone.

Why am I telling you this story on a blog about Oprah? Two reasons.

1. This story is far more memorable than anything that occurred on last Monday's episode, "Oprah Show Producers' Most Unforgettable Moments."

2. This story, despite its graphic and slightly inappropriate nature, is still less creepy than thinking about a 61-year-old woman giving birth to her own grandchild.


And yes, that is actually all I have to say about those two episodes. No, I haven't watched the last five. And no, I don't know when I'll get to watch them, let alone write about them. Hopefully this weekend, since my intention beginning next week is to watch every episode the day it airs, and write about it each night.

Of course, we all know the chance of that happening is about as likely as you reading this entire post without once picturing my vagina. But I'll try.


For the record: Yes, there are pictures. No, you will never see them.