Nearly two weeks ago, I underwent my fourth ultrasound to date; at least, I think it was my fourth.
I arrived at my appointment prepared. I had learned from my previous experiences and had ensured that I had gulped down well over the recommended litre of water. I rolled in to the radiology department 15 minutes early and brought a book to help pass the time before my name was called. What I had failed to consider was that it would be incredibly difficult to pay attention to anything other than my obscenely full bladder. In the twenty minutes I sat in the waiting room, I crossed and uncrossed my legs in an attempt to forget about the force of nature my bladder was waiting to unleash. 
When I finally was called into the back room (I am referring to it as the 'back room' instead of the 'exam room' because 'back room' sounds so ominous), I made small talk with the technician. I told her about my life altering work: selling jewellery at a jewellery store. I silently congratulated myself at a fairly successful round of small talk. "This ultrasound is going pretty well." I thought to myself. 
That, naturally, is when it happened. The technician asked me a question. "How to you feel about a transvaginal ultrasound." she said. 
How do I feel? About a transvaginal ultrasound? I will tell you, ultrasound technician, how I feel about a transvaginal ultrasound; I feel the same way about a transvaginal ultrasound as I do about anything that starts with "trans" and involves sticking a man-made foreign object up into my vagina. 
But instead of repeating one of the many responses that were running through my head, I opted to keep it simple. "I do not feel good about transvaginal ultrasounds." I told the technician. 

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