SEX AND THE O.R.

My gynecologist pushed back the curtain in the Ambulatory Surgery holding area with a flourish. “My favorite line, do you watch Sex in the City,” she asked, then went on, “is when Stephanie is telling Carrie in the car that she has breast cancer, talking about the lumpectomy that she’s having, she says ‘Tuesday we’re going to get the little fucker out!’” she giggled. “That’s how I think you should be thinking about this, get this out, get on with your life, do what you have to do.”

I was not done kicking myself, “Could this have been prevented by more frequent Pap smears?” she and I both knowing I had let four years lapse since having an annual exam. “Yes, could be, could be,” but she was not prepared to join me in the self-flagellation. She then went on with my post-op instructions. The anesthesiologist came in, gave me some Versed, and they whisked me off. I vaguely remember getting positioned on the table.