GASH! Aaaaaahhhhh!

So, this post is going to be complete TMI. Don’t read it if you are eating your tea (not dinner, or supper. In the North we say tea), because it may make you sick in your mouth a bit.

I am (over)sharing because as women, we shouldn’t be ashamed to discuss this sort of thing! Guys talk about their dicks often enough (I presume, anyway, my Husbands have been a bit quiet about cocks recently).


Vaginas. Clunges. Axe wounds. Hairy clams. Yawning hippos.


You get the gist? Then I shall begin.

(Note: it won’t get less childish and gross).

A couple of weeks ago, I found a lump.

On my cervix.

Stretch Armstrong here was finding tampons uncomfortable and decided to find out why. If you have an image of caving helmets and bungee ropes here you will be disappointed, that didn’t come until much later!

Instead, a quick feel and there was a lump where it shouldn’t be.

Being the sensible girl I am, I immediately presumed I had cancer and was gonna die. I freaked out for a few hours which was not productive in the slightest. Then I made a phone call.

I called the doctors and had to explain to a ‘specially trained care navigator’ (Read: Receptionist) that I had definitely had my fingers in my frangipani. I didn’t say those exact words, but that is what she inevitably heard.

The appointment was booked for 35 minutes time, just long enough to have a quick splash of the gash and a change of pants. A girl has gotta dress to impress!

Long story short, she ‘examined’ me.

It was obviously awkward, it is always gonna be awkward to have a stranger making eye contact with your insides. But my flan is nothing spectacular (it is, though). She isn’t gonna be telling her grandkids about it. She hasn’t, so far, taken out ad space to tell everyone about it. It really isn’t THAT big of a deal.

Doctor number one wanted me to see someone else who has more experience in the field.

I was referred to another doctor a week later, so she could make a human hand puppet out of me too.

“Ooh it’s a slippery thing” was remarked of my cervix, “Where have you gone?!”

It was actually funny! I won’t say I enjoyed it, because it was still just as awkward and weird, but no one died out of embarrassment.

Another day, another fanny for Doctor number 2!

So then I get referred to a specialist gynaecologist at the hospital for ol’ Lord Lumpington, nestled down in the tunnel of love.

The whole week’s wait was torturous. I was still convinced I was going to die. Anxiety through the roof, planning my funeral, you know that happy go lucky kind of mentality?

Hospital day came around yesterday and I practically scrubbed my labia off through my thorough spruce up of the basement. It was spick and span and ready for the third round of guaranteed fingering!

What did we not expect though?


Doctors 1 and 2 both had the same anatomy as me, which made things less awkward. I figured all women have smear tests, so they knew EXACTLY how it felt to ‘flop your legs to the side’ when instructed to by a stranger.

But this….this was unknown territory.

Did I mention he was a bit of a dish too?!

HotDoc was going in! But not before I had opportunity to make jokes about not needing contraception due to ghost penises. Obvs.

Whilst he was elbow deep (with a female nurse in the best seat in the house, propping up the light and passing the LONG speculum), I took the opportunity to ask him when he decided that gynaecology was his calling in life. I also let them know that the pictures on the wall needed replacing. They were uninspiring in the distraction department.

It was, again, awkward.

And again, no billboards announcing anything about my oyster to the world!

Turns out that Sir Lumpsalot is a cyst. An attention seeking little fella that just wanted to get me a little summatsummat!

The point of me writing this? Don’t be embarrassed.

Know your body, and get checked out if something isn’t right.

It might be awkward. You might make TERRIBLE jokes to try and avert attention from your sugarpuff, but it could be the thing that saves your life.

Doctors don’t care if you have a Mighty Boosh or a buzz cut down there, they don’t care if you have wonky flaps, they really really don’t care if you wear brand new navy coloured knickers that turn your thighs blue (that happened), they just want to make sure everything is ok.

You are welcome.