I left the doctor's office, with an appointment for, among other things, a pelvic scan. From the description, I gathered the procedure would be just like the ultrasound I'd had when pregnant with David: drink 32 ounces of water to fill my bladder and provide a clear window through which to visualize the uterus; lay on the exam table while a cold gelled probe is run across my belly, directing rays of some sort into my internal parts. At first it was exactly like that. Quick and familiar, done fully dressed, with my jeans unzipped. If I craned my neck, I could see my uterus on TV, not as icky as the show I watched when my routine age-fifty colonoscopy was done. The technician finished and told me to empty my bladder. Medical people never say, "Go pee." I thought I was done, but there was part two. She told me to undress from the waist down-- they never say, "Take your pants off," either-- and lie back down on the table. There was an internal scan she neede...
Life is a series of snapshots meant to be recorded in words. A writer and photographer shares hers.