Pix and the Coconut Oiled Elder Jay-jay

Pix is in love y'all! He has found this magic woman who is selfless, listens, and checks all the boxes I could never check off because I question everything and, according to him, like to "go back and forth," with men. He is on cloud nine and called me to talk about it. I was happy to hear that someone is having relationship success. It's beyond dusty out here. 

I like Pix because he always has a story for me and last night didn't disappoint. He started this story off with a question. 

"Do you think that older women dislike women in their 20's because they can get wetter than them?" he honestly inquired. 

"Uhhhhh..." The question even caught me off guard. I said something about perimenopause and hormone levels. 

"I ask because I have been with young women and older women and sometimes, younger women get so wet that they are wet even outside their lips."

Yes, before you ask, I am aware that this convo is going off the rails, but this is par for the course when you have platonic homeboys that have friend zoned you. 

"I don't think that older women dislike younger women because of this. It is what it is," I offered. "Plus, there is like lube and vitamins for women that need real wetness help."

He then proceeded to tell me a horror story about a past relationship with an older woman who was a resident of the dry side. He snuck and used coconut oil on her and got great results. They were so great, in fact, that they became a coconut couple and the oil was very present in their love life. I shuttered, looking at the container of coconut oil on my nightstand I use on my hair. If I'm ever in a situation where a man has to sneak and oil me up, it's time to hang it up, flat screen. I told you all I am already worried about my aging hands. I guess I have to add my girl becoming a dust pan to the list. 

"Ah, intimacy and its many humiliations," I said, shaking my head. 

He laughed. "It was humiliating until it wasn't. We had a good time!"

I accept that I have to age. I even accept that I will one day die. Just please, let me be close to the end when my coconut oil days show up. Men have embarrassed me a lot in my life, but having one feel he has to covertly baby oil me is where I have to dry the line. 

IUDizzy

Who would have thought that me, who's about as sexually active as dry toast, would have to go on birth control? Sadly, it's not because I decided to have some type of a Hot Girl Winter as I skid on the banana peel toward middle age. Long story short, I have a condition and getting an IUD was the best way to treat it. Sigh. As if Frank, my ever-so-loving name for my vagina, hasn't been through enough. Now I have some contraption inside of me to keep things under control. And yes, my vagina has a man's name, obviously because it has given me nothing but trouble. Not to mention the bad haircut. 

Over the years, I have heard my fair share of birth control nightmare stories. You know the greatest hits. "Birth control gave me blood clots." "Birth control made me fat." "The morning-after pill didn't work for me." "My IUD dislodged and I got pregnant anyway." "The pill gave me a beard." "I missed one Depo-Provera shot and woke up with a penis." 

When I expressed my concern about getting an IUD to my gyno team, they shut me down pretty quickly. 

"No, no, we are doing this," the main doctor said. 

"But I have done online research-" I began. 

"Every doctor on my team has an IUD. I had one when I was young enough to have children."

"What if Donald Trump makes birth control illegal and comes to get it?" I cried. My anxiety was sky high, and I had heard rumblings about how The Donald was coming for contraception since that whole abortion thing was such a slam dunk. 

"He can't," they all said in unison. But I was not convinced. 

"Listen, there are a bunch of women happy with their IUDs that are not writing Yelp reviews," one of the student doctors said. Maybe so. 

About a month later, I have to say that it is clear that there is something inside of me. It's uncomfortable sometimes. I just move pretty slowly. I don't want to piss it off. 

At night, I imagine that it pops out of place and does a soft shoe on my stomach. Then it moonwalks across my kidneys and does the cabbage patch on my liver. I wake up right before it goes to my heart to poke holes in it. 

I guess I am not that great of a patient. I don't even know how long I am supposed to keep this thing in. I am assuming it is somewhere between three months and forever. Or until it gets carried away in my sleep, doing the Wobble in my throat before I wake up and throw it up. Honestly, I am preparing for things to go either way. 

Hysterectomy/Mysterectomy

I called the doctor's office as soon as I got an alert that my test results came back from my biopsy. I don't even think that they were aware that they had come in yet. I was really high strung, seeing that I am not a medical professional and had just been forwarded a couple of pages of things that might as well have been written in Spanish. The doctor went over my results with me, it was good news, but an eye now has to be kept on my jay-jay. He said later on, if there is still an issue, I may have to get a hysterectomy. Of course, this sent me into a spiral. 

In the past, I have said that I wanted one because I could not deal with the stress of worrying about my lady parts. But when I heard the doctor say that word out of his mouth, I lost it. And unbelievably, I was not worried about my body or possibly having to have another surgery. I was not even worried about my ability to have kids, for I have never wanted to be a mom. What I was worried about (embarrassingly) is if a man would want me with half of my plumbing gone. This would make me an old lady! Would I even still be a girl? Would this make my insides feel like razor blades and bottle caps?

Child, do you know what is even more stressful than worrying about your 'gina? Worrying about a man and what men want and never having one and blah, blah, blah. Along time ago, I figured that I was fat and that finding a man that would really, truly love me may be a long shot. And as much as I would like to be partnered, I thought that I was clear with myself about how my 50/50 chance was more like slim to none. Yet, when he said the 'h' word, everything came bubbling up to the surface and guys, I was so, so sad. I have had a minute to sit with this. Now I am mad. 

I am mad that at almost 40 I have not been able to shake off this "What about men?" mentality. It's like a second skin! Whether I want to admit it or not, my whole life has been a serious of failed attempts to paint the peacock to get a guy's attention which is a real waste! I could have spent that time with loved ones, doing something I really enjoy. Or spent that time getting preventative vaginal exams! The other day, I was talking to a doctor about my health, and all I could think about was this hypothetical, may never arrive man. 

I know. Pathetic. 

Dr. Hottie and the Biopsy

I'm not going to lie: when I was dropped off early at the hospital for my procedure, I stood on the steps and cried. I was scared, overwhelmed, and alone. I knew that I was going to cry, but I didn't think it would be that early. 

"Are you okay?" the security guard asked. I nodded, but he walked over to me anyway. I rolled my eyes. If men aren't ignoring me, they are bothering me when I am trying to have a private moment. I wiped my eyes and followed him inside where a man with a crutch was already waiting. We were the early birds, waiting for 6am to go up to get prepped for our surgeries. I sat there listening to Glorilla, praying that things would go my way. I had never had any type of surgery or anesthesia, and I was mortified of not waking up. My fears were not calmed when I was told I was sent to the wrong area and that I had not paid money I had a receipt for paying. By this time, my mind was all over the place. If one more oopsie was made, I was going to make a run for it! 

By the time I was checked into pre-op, I looked a hot mess! Sadness and worry were graffitied all over my face. I looked tired and upset. Looking in the mirror after giving my urine sample, it dawned on me that I looked the worst that I had ever seen myself! But the party was just beginning. I got changed into the backless gown that no one likes and sat still while a woman rubbed by back and butt down with antiseptic wipes. Then Nurse Heavy Hand rubbed my right arm down so hard with an alcohol cotton ball that she bruised me. How hard do you have to be rubbing me to bruise me with a piece of cotton? She couldn't find my vein. My left arm looked like a pin cushion, only for Nurse Tiny Little to find my vein on the right arm and get me with one prick. Thank. God. 

Once my doctor arrived, I was relieved and ready to rock. She came with the resident I had been seeing during my visits, which made me more comfortable. I almost allowed my shoulders to relax a little before a tall, brown brotha with beautiful eyebrows and lashes showed up at the foot of my bed. He was introduced as Dr. Hottie, another resident that would be helping out with the surgery. 

Oh no, I thought to myself. I looked like SH&T! Of course I did. When I was in high school and had bad asthma attacks where I couldn't breathe, my respiratory therapists always looked like they had hopped out of an Abercrombie ad. I was beyond embarrassed. 

However, the humiliation didn't come until I got into the operating room and needed help getting on the operating table with Dr. Hottie right there. I could have died! My butt cheeks were exposed and ashy. They don't allow you to wear lotion on the day of a surgery! I would have done anything for just a squirt of Nivea. 

Once I was in recovery, I looked over at the nurse's station and he was sitting there, working, looking good. I could tell he was fine, even with his face mask on. He even looked like he smelled good. I could feel myself smiling goofily at him and then it dawned on me: THIS FINE MAN HAS SEEN MY VAGINA! If I weren't completely out of it, I would have screamed!

However, once everything did wear off and I was getting ready to go home, I thanked Dr. Hottie and told him I was sorry if I was acting weird. I just wasn't expecting a man in the surgery. He said it was okay and smiled. I have to tell you, I felt something in that moment. But I cannot be sure if it was a sensual connection or post-surgical vaginal pain. All I know is that next time, if there has to be a next time, I am sneaking a travel container of lotion into pre-op in my bra. 

Homecoming Post 9: Cry Me a Gyna- The Girl and the Gyno pt. 3

I was really cranky after the event on the yard on Friday. I was hungry, tired, and just wanted to sit down somewhere. Yet this task was proving to be impossible because three of my requested ride share rides had either left me or dropped the ride. They all claimed that they could not find the University Center. On top of this, my sad excuse for a smart phone kept dying. My anxiety was high and I wanted to scream. Just as I opened my mouth to let out an earth-shaking holler, Happy Face and her friend were about to walk right past me. 

"Hey!" I said excitedly to Happy Face. "You are a gynecologist, right?"

"Yes," she answered, sweetly. It was then that I let out a diarrhetic spew of the nightmare that has been trying to find a good gyno in Atlanta. I especially filled her in on this last experience where the doctor threw out the words endometrial cancer without so much as a PAP or blood draw. I told her how she wanted to put me under anesthesia and give me an IUD. 

After going on and on and on with a dead phone in my hand and no way back home, I took a breath and said, "I just did not feel heard."

She rubbed my back and said, "I'm sorry. I can see you."

I was so appreciative I could have thrown myself around her ankles. If I could have taken my gyna and put it in a bag for her to take back to her hotel room to investigate I would have. Running into her was great, especially since I asked my primary care for a referral a month ago and still have not heard back. 

This is also a huge deal because I have spent my adult life trying to dodge Xavier doctors and pharmacists. I know about HIPPA and all of that, but I just imagine that they all do a Zoom call weekly and talk about all the gross medical issues their Xavierite patients have. And it's not just me. I knew someone that went to the drug store to get a morning after pill, saw the pharmacist was from Xavier and ran out of the store. That would have been my response.

But I won't be running from Happy Face. Fingers crossed that my visit, like the others I have had, won't be a complete disaster. 

The Girl and the Gyno pt 2: Gyno Heaven

Let me just say this: I have come to the conclusion that quality feminine health care is just not in the cards for me. By the time I am 40, I will be carrying my vagina in a freezer bag in my purse. Three weeks ago, I was excited about the new gynecologist I had been referred to. Today, I find myself Googling how to perform my own hysterectomy/oophorectomy at home. This is my story. 

Those of you who know me know that my gynecologist visits are not like that of the average bear. They are very emo and exhausting and tiring. There will be guaranteed tears, no matter how much I pray beforehand. However, I tried to be optimistic about my upcoming visit. I decided to make the change from my last doctor. His exam tables were high, and I nearly disconnected my hip trying to get on them.  My last visit to him was so Stephen King that we both walked away visibly shaken. So, as much as I loved the nurses at his practice, I decided to find someone else. My primary care doctor gave me a referral, and I had high hopes for my next exam. That was my first mistake. 

The office is in one of those shiny high-rise buildings with a security guard at the front entrance. I took the elevator to the office, and it was very much like a gyno office that you would see in a movie. The furniture was gorgeous and sparkly! It was like I was in Gyno Heaven! That didn't stop my anxiety from going through the roof as I waited for my appointment. 

By the time I got to the nurse to get my blood pressure taken, I was already in slow, quiet tears. I was so amped up inside that she couldn't get an accurate reading. Big surprise. So, she dumped me in an exam room and said that she would be right back. We all know that that was a lie. When doctors or nurses leave the room, it's a wrap. You are lucky not to be old and gray when they return. But the nurse did return and began asking me those stupid visit questions that have nothing to do with anything. She seemed nice, and I didn't want to get an attitude with her. But if she asked me one more stupid question about my hobbies, I was going to throw my wallet at her head! 

She could tell I was agitated and ended the questionnaire early. She handed me some Kleenex and left the room again. When she returned, she said we were switching rooms, and when I walked into the new room I gasped. It was a room with a low, fat girl friendly exam table! I couldn't believe my eyes! Two years of playing exam room double Dutch with my old gyno's exam tables and there was such a thing as a fat girl exam table?! I was in shock, and in a good way. 

This visit may go well, I said to myself. 

WRONG! Moments later, I underwent a Pap test that would have made Wes Craven nervous. Well, sort of. 

My Red Hot Diflucan Summer

Do you remember that tiny pocket of time before the Delta strain of COVID chased us back in the house where we were actually enjoying a Hot Vax Summer? I use the word "we" as I refer to the culture. I wasn't participating in any of those brunches or birthday parties highlighted on social media. I was at home whimpering over my throbbing, itchy vagina. 

Many of my friends don't understand how I made it to nearly middle age without ever having a yeast infection and neither do I. I mean, when I was 18 I was wearing thongs to class in 700 degree New Orleans heat and was somehow spared. However, my good luck was no match for being put on an antibiotic for a toothache I was having. 

I'm surprised you didn't hear about it before now. I called any friend that would listen, complaining and whining. 

"Stop drinking cranberry juice!" Jamaica screamed into the phone. "That is for a UTI! Drink more water! The sugar is feeding the yeast!" This she tells me as I literally had a straw in a family-sized jug of Ocean Spray! 

"I know that you took a Diflucan Holly, but you can also use a vaginal anti-fungal," my mentor assured me. "Nothing will happen." I didn't believe her. I was fearful that I could die from some sort of vaginal overdose. In my defense, I was being irrational. It was hard to sleep, seeing that my gyn had a thick, heavy, heartbeat that rung in my ears whenever I closed my eyes. 

To add annoyance to injury, I sent my aunt to CVS to get me Monistat 1, a one-and-done treatment, and she came back with Monistat 7, a seven-day treatment! The treatment comes with these plastic pipe-like things. Who wants to be plastic-pipin' it for 7 days? Not I said the cat! 

"Oh shut up pampered pussy and use the damn cream!" Winfrey hollered at me, irritated by my sobbing into the phone. Tortilla was my only friend that showed me any compassion. She didn't make fun of my irrational fear of anti-itch cream. She's very patient with my phobias. 

The fact that women get these, some even chronically, should be front-page news! But just in case you haven't gotten one, let me leave you with some adjectives: itchy, throbbing, swollen. It's way worse than those treatment commercials lead you to believe. They will have you thinking that a yeast infection is just mildly uncomfortable. NOT! It's hellacious! 

Luckily, I lived through it to tell you about it, but it was touch and go for a minute there. Just know you have a sister in me when you inevitably end up yeasty, your cookie smelling like a medicated piece of toast. Aw, to be a woman. 

Church and the Broken Vagina

Going to church on a regular basis has broken my vagina. At the very least, it has essentially depleted my sex drive, and at the most, has catapulted me into early spinsterhood. I was alarmed by this at first, but Tasia assures me that this is the effect that church should have on you.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," she said over brunch. "How did you not know that that is what church does to you?"
Uh...because no one told me!
As you know, I am a girl that loves to have a crush on somebody. It has always been fun for me to have little secret crushes on men. This has helped my heart to fill full during the lonely times and given me a good list of people to stalk on Instagram. Now when I look at pictures of these crushes, I feel nothing in my lady parts. All I see are brown faces of boys that I once went to school with. My jay-jay is unimpressed.
I want to get to know God. I want to become a better Christian. But no one told me that that would include me putting my vagina on the shelf with an Out of Order sign taped to it!
It is my belief that there's a science to this whole thing. Once I started going to church, my heart started to change. I began to allow the word of God to cleanse it, purging it of lust. Well, everyone knows that your heart and your lady parts are connected. You see, my heart is trying to do better now. But since my vagina truly doesn't know how to do better, it just shut down completely. She is a team player, and she wants my heart to win. So she took one for the team and is now on vaykay for God knows how long. I hope she comes back soon, I miss her.
Her hiatus has shown me that I was giving her a little too much power in my life, allowing her to take the wheel. I think that I have a crush on a man that I met at church, but I can't tell you. My vag is giving me cold silence. My mind should be able to tell me what's up, but it can't. I see now that this whole time, my mind has been in my undies. Not cool.
The plus side is that now that I am no longer fantasizing about running away with that boy from my old sociology class, I now have more time to pray and read my Bible. I guess my vaginal breakdown was all a part of God's plan. Man, He works in mysterious ways.

Holls and the Gyno

Holly, you can not go through your 30s without going to the gynecologist! Bells texted me. I could actually hear her shrill voice yelling at me through the text, tapdancing on my nerves.
Yes, I know that you are supposed to go the gynecologist regularly even though I do not. You see, I choose to treat my vagina with the medicine of my ancestors: soap, water, and prayer.
There is no type of doctor on the face of the earth that I trust LESS than a gynecologist. However, my mentor told me that 2018 needs to be the year when I become proactive, not reactive with my health. So after my primary care visit, I began to look into finding a gynecologist.
Before I even started my search for a gyno, I knew that it was going to be a chore. There is that small, HUGE issue regarding me not being insured so my gyno would have to be cheap. So I am prepared for the doctor I find to see two patients at a time, reuse dirty tools, or operate out of a gas station bathroom. I also would like for my gyno to be a she, and not have a ton of bad reviews online. She would also have to understand that I have self-diagnosed vag shame and am HIGHLY uncomfortable with anyone taking a peek at my goods.
Searching local doctors in Atlanta was hard. I could tell from the location of the doctor's offices that I couldn't afford to be seen there. And then I came across a doctor who was perfect. I was taken by her smile and professional photo. Her eyes were warm. I just felt like I knew her, then I realized I did. She went to college with me.
This doctor is actually one of those upperclassman girls from the bathroom at homecoming which reminded me of my number one gyno requirement: I can't know her! I don't need someone I know looking at my vag and judging me and then telling my business. And let me just say that I know that doctors talk! I can't have my graduating class knowing my stats. They know too much about me as is.
So unofficially, my gyno search is still going on, although, I do think I have found something better: a self-pap kit I came across online. I will keep you posted.

Holly and the Vag

The other night I was talking to Sorta Beau and yes, he is still in the picture. Please, stop yelling. I'm not even sure how I feel about it. Anywho, he requested that I text him a pic of my vag.
ABSOLUTELY NOT!
I've heard too many bad stories. Girl sends vag pic to boy. Girl and Boy have bad breakup. Girl's vag ends up as a Myspace profile pic or as the joke of an email blast. No thank you. As if I do not have enough that I will have to explain when I get famous.
Sorta's request got me to realizin' that I have not seen my vag, like up close and personal, since I was like eleven. Saw it then, didn't care for it. Seen them in some questionable movies and really didn't care for them. But not seeing her since middle school is unacceptable, so I figured it was past due time to take a peak.
Let me just say that my relationship with my vag is very professional. I have named her Julia, a very old school, 1940s secretarial name. I wash her daily, check and make sure that everything is in order, and keep it moving. I am not one of these new generation girls that have gone vagtastic and takes pics of herself to post online! From what I can tell from my Google research, they all look sad. Then there are those weirdos that pierce their love below which, in my opinion, is about as useful as an ugly girl putting on lip gloss.
So the other night I found myself on a date with my digital camera, taking a few quick pics of Julia and in short, she needs work. She is just...blah. NO ONE will be seeing her if I have anything to do with it. She looked just as...off as the ones in the Google pics. Julia could definitely use a booster. Anyone have any spare lip gloss?