Philogynae. In A Nice Way.

Or, Not A Misogynae At All.

Fact One

Attentive readers – which is all of you, yes? – will have picked up the fact that Dire Rear is currently doing the rounds of the Hairies. We are not incapacitated or in pain, nor is every visit to the toilet a sickeningly liquid one – yet we have a confirmed collective case of the Runnies. A stool sample from Harry – the most persistently affected and whose bottom skin status is hovering at Precarious – has migrated from its very own shelf in the fridge (because… well, just because) to the lab for testing.

Fact Two

I had an appointment with a consultant gynae yesterday in order to assess quite how much damage my dear child’s head actually inflicted during his emergence into the world.

Fact Three

Fact One impinged on Fact Two. 

I was sat quietly in the waiting room, minding my own Twitter, watching the various clinic nurses materialise from various far-flung corners of the building to summon their victims patients, when the unmistakable sensations began. I have 2 uteri shoehorned into a space that is only really designed for one; consequently I am extraordinarily sensitive to the peristalsis of the last half-foot of large intestine that runs behind my uteri. During period-time in particular, and whenever the uteri are feeling sensitive, bowel-filling (I can hear you clicking away in droves…) is a sensation which curls my legs up in pain. 

Having a crowning head stuck half-way out scores a 10 on my personal scale. The worse of my contractions were probably a 8. This is about a 4, and gets my undivided attention. And it was happening in the bloody waiting room. My appointment was at 3pm,and it was already 3.05pm. What to do?! There was no receptionist. I would have to ask a random stranger to inform any nurse hollering my name where I actually was. And they could disappear for their own appointment any moment – so they’d have to tell someone else! It would be Chinese Whispers! Pass it on: Mrs. Hairy Farmer is in the toilet, folks! And it wasn’t as if I could pretend I was just vanishing for a quick wee; I could tell I had serious business – of uncertain consistency! – to attend to that today (a warm day), of all days, should not be hurried or skimped. Or could I actually get away with putting it off? I’d surely not be in clinic long…? I could hold on…

I had just decided that Out was better than In, turned to my neighbour and braced myself womanfully for the inevitable embarrassment – when my nurse rocked up and announced cheerfully that ‘the doctor will see you now’! Aaaaiiiiee! Too late! I walked briskly behind her, sending stern Be Still! messages downstairs. Sensations subsided. Definitely not a liquid offering; I relaxed a little. Panic over.

So, I sat and talked to Gynae-man, who was lovely, gigglesome, courteous, articulate, and clearly knew his didelphic onions. I explained my various symptoms – I shall spare you the details, any of you that are still grimly hanging on – and then it was time for The Examination.

I have never had a exam from… ahem… the rear before. Being asked to lie on my side and bring my knees up to my chin: I could cope with happily enough. It was the subsequent elevation of my leg towards the ceiling that gave me the cringes. It’s not dignified, is it? At least there was a handy bracket for the anglepoise lamp that I could rest the waving-in-the-air leg on for a while before he decided he needed a… umm… wider angle, and Cheerful Nurse had to earn her money with some sterling prop-work.

The difference between a skilled Speculum Driver and an unskilled… sigh. At no point did I squeak, hiss, draw breath, stifle a groan, or let out a small moan of entirely the Bad Sort. I think I did, however, let out a small and silent fart when he, watching the area in question closely, asked me to cough. My feelings on this would usually be a hot mess of shame, but in the circumstances, considering what I was holding back, I feel the man got away lightly.

The only tricky part came when he asked me to really… push. Push hard. Push like I ‘needed a number two’, God bless his euphemistic heart. I gave it as much welly as I could – a fine judgement call, I assure you – but I feel the full extent of my bulgy bits may have gone undiscovered. Which fact, I consider a reasonable exchange for avoiding abject humiliation in front of a very nice man, for whom I felt a vague moral obligation towards of not instilling a phobia of women’s bottoms.

I left the clinic and managed to get as far as meeting my troughing menfolk in the canteen before a leg-wobbling wave of OMG, PROPER DIARRHOEA NOW attacked me and I was obliged to take noisy refuge in the nearest ladies for 10 minutes. These? Good invention.

The upshot: Harry’s cannonball passage from north to south has caused some mild vaginal prolapsing (*Listens carefully to the deafening silence. Yes, that’s my last reader vanished*) but nothing to be concerned about: he’s confident it’ll go the distance if I attempt another. I need to work on my… ahem!… vaginal muscle tone, apparently. He gave me a mark out of 5 (a test! and I didn’t revise! stuff of nightmares!) that I do not feel quite inclined to share. Hubby will read this and clamour to know what it was. He can bugger off.

The occasions when I – literally – piss myself laughing are too rare and minor to warrant his concern; he advised me to ‘finish my family’ and see how my bladder is coping with life then. He is referring me for an ultrasound scan by a consultant radiologist I have seen a few times before (and trust his wanding ability) to see if the mysterious Kraken that appears on some scans and not others is, or is not, a fibroid. And he is also – and this is the one that makes me gulp – surgically adjusting things a little.

The lovely midwife that stitched my bloody great tear up did a conscientious job. Too conscientious. My topography has changed noticeably; in particular I now have a smallish web of skin that never used to be there; it splits open and bleeds a little at every… ummm… leg-opening occasion. Horse-riding type activity can present a small challenge to vaginal integrity. Sex – and you can probably hear Hubby preening – is a large challenge. Philogynae jokingly said that he’d just do it under a local, as he’d ‘heard I was brave’. I promptly winced, and requested that he do it without an injection altogether, and just bloody get on with it quickly. 

No, I’m not actually mad, or masochistic; I find that local anaesthesia needle infiltration often hurts more than the procedure. I had a particularly awful injection in my armpit once for a skin-tag I’d quite happily have snipped off with scissors myself, had I known what their plan was. Dentistry is an notable exception to this Just Bloody Get On With It rule, but I’m buggered if I fancy a needle being mined about in my perineum. Now, freezing-type gel, on the other hand, I will be enthusiastically requesting, plus whatever other topical assistance I can get my paws on. If anyone has any relevant advice for me here, don’t sit on it. So to speak.

He ummed and ahhhed what to call it on his surgery sheet, and we eventually plonked down ‘perineum re-shaping’ because I was too nervous to suggest ‘Designer Vagina’ – which I find darkly amusing, redolent of the increasing global trend towards absurd-surgery-that-you-dont-ever-actually-physically-require.

Anyways, he’ll be approaching my undercarriage with a scalpel. And no drugs.

That’s to look forward to, then!

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Hi-ho!

I was going to kick this off by comparing us all to a different dwarf  – à la Snow White – but as soon as I really began to think about it, I realised that we are actually all Grumpy and Sleepy. I leave you to apply a judgement re: Dopey, yourselves.

John is grumpy because it has been raining on his grass, and some of his tractors are poorly sick. I feel I don’t blog often enough about farming: perhaps I should bring you up to date. His current excuse for not fencing the garden or digging out the steps is haymaking and silaging. This involves, firstly, praying for dry weather, secondly, mowing dry grass (if you are pollen-sensitive, cue: Sneezy), thirdly, tedding it about while praying really hard and meaning it for more dry weather, and lastly, dashing out with your baler mere minutes ahead of the towering black cloud and driving at breakneck speed around your field. Naturally, this injudicious speed results in a bunged-up baler, so you must repeatedly crawl underneath and perform grass midwifery. Off you go again, only to hear a sinister thunk followed by a symphony of tearingly unpleasant machinery noises. The rain begins to fall faster.

If you are the wife of the owner of said machine, this is where you quietly disappear.

The core priority is to remove your stricken object back to the yard as soon as possible; you must, if you value your reputation, conceal the affliction at all costs from your farming neighbours. Apple, let me assure you, has nothing to teach UK agriculture. 

These type of mishaps can presage a lengthy spell parked in front of the workshop. Panels are removed. Exploratory surgeries are undertaken. Hands blacken further in filthy oil. The mechanised equivalent of femoral head pinning is discussed. Dog-eared parts manuals are consulted. Phone calls are made. Wives are dispatched to collect the Vital Transplant Organ.

Of course, if your yard is already populated with agricultural engineers who are repairing the tractors that you don’t actually have time to tackle yourself, then your chances of keeping the latest twist in your machinery misfortunes quiet are pretty much nil. Hubby has, I believe, one key tractor due to be broken open into two halves in order to fix an oil leak, and another yard tractor parked up sans steering ability, awaiting fettling. He came home Friday lunchtime to find that I had given Harry a toy tractor to play with that was a scale replica of a rather swish new model – a distinct improvement on any of John’s current collection. I caught him looking wistfully at the New Holland website a few minutes later (he is a diehard blue-tractor man. Speak not to him of green ones, even if they are the only company servicing the farm-mad toddler market) and sure enough, he has now announced that he wants a new one. These things can cost £50,000+ for a used one. And the farm profit is currently our only income. Yikes.

I am grumpy because I have a gynae hospital appointment tomorrow afternoon with a Mr Sorinola, as opposed to Mr Steven Olah, the other consultant gynae, or Mr Savonarola, the 15thC Dominican monk I initially confused him with. There was a time when I used to whip my undercarriage out for medical inspection with nary a qualm, but this will be the first time someone has looked – I am discounting my GP’s vain attempts  – at my cervi since about 2 hours before Harry emerged from one of them, and I have gone a bit Bashful. I’m also rather nervous about what he will be telling me.

I will be obliged to schedule a lengthy and awkward session with the the razor around my sadly uncared-for pubic area later this evening – lengthy because of the sheer level of neglect, and awkward because, despite 2 weeks of dieting savagely and exercising like a demented thing, I have only shed a measly 4lbs. Hence, I still cannot see what I’m actually doing down there.

Harry is grumpy because he has had intermittent diarrhoea for a couple of weeks which is worsening; he is being carted to the drs tomorrow. We have gone 22 months with hardly a day of nappy rash, but over the course of today his poor beleaguered bottom has gone, yet again, from delivering a turd the consistency of a housebrick, to shooting out spoonfuls of watery squits; his skin has gone from palest pink to abraded and ever so sore. He is a tough little shoot when it comes to bumps, cuts and bruises, but he’s coping badly with this.

I didn’t know my heart could wring itself into such a sad little shape until I saw him waddle towards me, knees bent, clutching his sore little bottom in waily distress. His skin has deteriorated astonishingly quickly: he was left in a dirty nappy while we were at my parents’ house early this evening – possibly for the best part of an hour, because the contents were weirdly undetectable by nose – and that has unfortunately been responsible for his skin breaking open. I have kept his nappy off since and slathered him in Bepanthen once his skin was dry- despite his violent, heart-rending struggles and hoarse shrieks – but the poor little lad kept pooing every 20 minutes and undoing my good work. Sigh.

Hopefully he will have a quiet, crap-free night and I will attempt to sneak a dry nappy onto him when I go to bed, too. Which may not be late, as the little bugger decided that 4.30 was the new 7am this morning, hence we are all Sleepy. And probably Dopey.

PS. John wants me to tell you that he is actually a Brand New dwarf called Frisky. And I am not the only one with a neglected undercarriage, hint-hint.

That is all.

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