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Sitting there with my feet in stirrups, I wished I was riding a hot guy. Even a horse would be better.

Instead, I scotched my chilly buns forward so that the gynecologist could stick a cold, hard plastic thing in my vajayjay.

The speculum, as it’s called, is the easy part. It’s not just a tickle when he starts scraping around up there. Men have no idea and I don’t care if they do have to turn their heads and cough.

But each year I go. I’m glad I do, because this time, they found something. Something pre-cancerous.

I’ve known some women who never go to the gynecologist for an annual checkup.

“It’s icky.” “It makes me uncomfortable.” “I don’t need to because I have safe sex.”

Bullshit. It’s all bullshit. Go.  STD tests and need for birth control aside, the main reason we all suffer this indignity is to screen ourselves for cancer.

And when my pap smear came back last year abnormal, my doc wanted to keep an eye on me. So a mere four months later, instead of 12, I headed back over there, this time for a colopscopy, which means they use a microscope to check things out and then snip off some of your cells (ouch!) and test them.

A couple of weeks ago, I go back for another four-months-later checkup. This time, it was worse.

I was nervous when I called, but I didn’t really worry about it.

Then I heard: “We need you to come in. The doctor wants to talk to you about your pap smear results and set you up for some outpatient surgery.”

My stomach fell past my vajayjay. What? I scheduled the consultation for that afternoon; who wants to sit around in agony wondering what’s wrong?

Pre-cancerous. That’s the word that sticks with me. My cervix has pre-cancerous cells, the doctor said. It’s called dysplasia. I have to have a LEEP conic cervical biopsy next week. That means they’re going to take a heated wire loop to cut out the bad stuff and then stare at it under a microscope. I have to take the day off work so they can drug me and someone has to taxi me to and from the hospital.

Scary? Hell yes. I cried a little, freaking out about it. (Doesn’t help that I had PMS, which makes crying a whole lot easier.)

A friend of mine said she had this exact procedure and problem and it all turned out just fine. I hope mine goes as well as hers did.

No matter what happens, I’ll be fine because I always am. The main thing is, I went in for my exams each year like I’m supposed to. If I hadn’t, I might be telling you a different story.

So ladies, if you don’t already, go in, ram your feet in those stirrups and stare at the picture on the ceiling once each year. Even if you have to pretend you’re riding a horse.

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