You know that toddler?

The one who drops her towel as soon as you lift her out of the bathtub and heads straight for the great outdoors? That was my left ovary this afternoon.

Ultrasound has changed since I was birthing babies. Significantly so. What I remember is a mouse(ish) object, body surfing across my belly on a tidal wave of KY jelly.

Not today. There was a wand with a camera, and it was following the Star Trek injunction to boldly go where no man has gone (in something over a year). My rebellious ovary was taking evasive action and generally managing to stay out of camera range. Presumably my right ovary was sitting primly in its chair, knees together, socks pulled up, reading Jane Austen and munching on an apple.

I don't know how long I was there, staring up at the holes in the acoustic tile and wishing for a poster of Sean Connery. Possibly as little as fifteen minutes, but it felt like the song that does not end. It didn't exactly hurt, but I've had more fun getting my teeth cleaned.

While I was getting dressed, I looked at the images on the monitor. They might as well have been written in reformed Egyptian. Little grainy truncated cones. Random dots of blue on a handful of them.

I'm dreaming of a blue cervix, just like the ones I used to know. (The cervix of a woman who is pregnant for the first time, turns blue because of all the new blood vessels.)

After I left the facility, I was tired and felt a little violated. So I called a friend to see if I could get a drive-by hugging. I could. And I did. And I feel much better. Dinner helped, too. Leftovers from Empty Nesters. And a single square of Ghirardelli, whereas if I could still eat anything I liked, dinner would have been a pint of Ben and Jerry.

I should have the results in a few days. In the meantime, I'm going to knit and make music.