âœHi, I'm Michael, I'll be your sonographer today,â he greeted me, in a tone not unlike Julie announcing she is your cruise director, though his curls were natural, I'm certain.
I followed him into the dimly lit ultrasound room, exchanged my t-shirt and loose black pants for a stunning cotton gown with blue ties at the back, and the heady scent of bleach issuing from the fibers, and then took my place on the exam bed.
While he squirted my stomach with warm gel, and then took pictures of my internal organs, we chatted about children's literature, and hurricane victims. At the end, he assured me that I do not have appendicitis, and left me with the oddest compliment ever: âœYou have pretty ovaries.â
And I do.
I've seen the pictures.