After a three-year hiatus, I returned to my gynecologist's office last week. I know, long overdue. Tsk, tsk. And as much as I want to play the “monogamous lesbian” card, there is really no excuse. Besides, I L-O-V-E my gyno—who we shall refer to from this point forward as “Dr. G.” Our ten minutes together feels like two old pals catching up over holiday break, except instead of sitting across from each other at Starbucks, our heads are on opposite ends of an exam table, with Dr. G’s face hovering over my fully exposed hoo-hah.
Knock, knock.
“Come in,” the door opened and unveiled the familiar black curls, as those bubbly brown eyes sparkled with an enthusiasm that only special humans can exude at 9 AM on a workday.
“I saw I was seeing you so I went back to my office to get something,” Dr. G revealed white silicone bracelet I had gifted her during our appointment three years prior.
The bracelet—which I have gifted to over a thousand human beings (and two cats) to date—has the following message inscribed in yellow print: Let Go. This moment needs you.
These bracelets have graced the wrists of friends, family members, Uber drivers, Sean Kingston, Betty Who, and, most importantly, the woman who scrapes cells off my cervix.
As the lab notes from my last visit with Dr. G on July 15, 2022 read:
“I keep it on top of my desk,” The bracelet dangled from her fingers like an ornament. “I see it every day.” A warm, magical potion stirred in my gut as I glanced down at the matching Let Go bracelet around my left wrist.
“So what’s new?!” Dr. G settled into her rolling stool and clicked into my patient profile.
“I’m engaged!” I wiggled my fingers as Dr. G’s eyes abandoned my medical records to marvel at my new bling. “My partner Lucy and I started dating a few days before my last appointment.”
“Also,” I paused for the excitement in the room to wind down, “my stepdad Stu passed away a few months after I saw you.” My eyes landed back on my wrist. “He wore this bracelet every day when he was battling cancer.”
“I’m so sor--”
“The bracelet helps me feel closer to him.” The words wriggled out of my mouth, the way words often do between two old pals at Starbucks.
“I left my consulting job and wrote a book.”
“What kind of book?” My insides cringed as if I had just gotten cold called in a lecture hall.
“A memoir, with a focus on my life in 2022.” I felt it coming…glossy forehead, droplets of perspiration dotting my face. I avoided eye contact so as not to draw attention to my sudden onset of sweat. If you ever want to see me sweat on command, just ask: What’s your book about? To me, this question eclipses the pressure of any corporate elevator pitch and carries the weight of what is the meaning of life?
“I started a new job about a year ago.”
“Consulting?” Dr. G studied the pre-visit forms I had procrastinated and completed just five minutes earlier.
“Yep.”
“Do you still exercise regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“What’s the red bracelet?” Dr. G funneled her focus on the second silicone band around my left wrist.
“I made this one for my partner’s grandma.” The white print read: Moly Hoses. We love Granny Goat. “Lucy’s granny used to famously say ‘Moly Hoses’ instead of ‘Holy Moses’.” I had made them for Granny’s birthday, but she passed away a few weeks before turning ninety-two. I wear both the Let Go and Moly Hoses bracelets every day. Two angels wrapped around my left wrist. I may never get a tattoo, but I will be sporting silicone bracelets to the grave.
“This has been the most transformative three years of my life,” I processed out loud. Dr. G let my words hang in the air before swiveling out of her stool.
“Okay I’ll step out so you can change,” she handed me a medical gown. “Make sure the opening is in the front, and the sheet can go on your lap.”
The sanitized, chilly air prickled my bare skin. As I awaited for Dr. G’s return, I scanned down the body I currently inhabited. Feeling bloated and exposed. Will Dr. G notice the four pounds I’ve put on since 2022? Is that why she asked if I still workout regularly? At least my mental health is way better now…that must count for something! Even the physically fit are not immune to the mind’s body-shaming ways.
Knock, knock.
“All good.” I lay across the exam table beneath the glow of the silvery fluorescent lights.
“So do you have a date picked out for the wedding,” Dr. G asked while examining my chest.
“September 26, 2026!” Mark your calendars family, friends and fellow wedding crashers.
“How exciting,” Dr. G pressed against my lower abdomen, then pulled out the stirrups at the end of the exam table.
“Now scoot all the way down.”
“So what’s new with you?” My feet landed into their respective metal confinements, my legs spread out, hips wide-open, as I imagined going into labor.
“I started playing the drums,” Dr. G’s voice rose twenty decibels. “My 10-year-old son plays the guitar so I thought we could play together.”
“What kind of drums? Like an entire set?”
“A whole set!” Dr. G blurted into the cave between my legs. “It’s funny; when I went to pick up my electronic drum set, it had belonged to an 11-year-old.”
As if coming up for air, Dr. G lifted her head out of my leg cave. “I know I’m old, but I figured why not.” She smiled before diving back into the land down under…
“My dad is currently relearning how to play the banjo!” It’s true. Pops had played back in the day (circa 1970s). About six months ago, he was gifted the banjo of my stepmom Patricia’s deceased ex-husband, because that’s just the cosmic way my blended family works. Since then, he has invested in a new banjo and plays so much that I once received a frantic call from my Aunt Mary because she hadn’t heard from my dad for a while (in his defense, it was only a few hours). Turns out, the man was banjo-ing. Pops reflected on his very disciplined banjo regimen to me once, “When I’m doing my training I think: this is how Lena must’ve felt about basketball.”
I held my thoughts as Dr. G’s spatula sifted my cervix. For those who have not had the pleasure of experiencing a pap smear (lookin’ at you, Banjo Boy), imagine a COVID nose swab except instead of up your nostril…
“All done,” Dr. G ascended from the stool. “I’ll step out so you can change back into your clothes.”
Dressed and off the exam table, Dr. G returned, briefed me on lab work, and then sent me on my way.
“I won’t wait three years this time,” my smile hid behind Dr. G as I followed her out of the exam room. “I’m so glad you kept the bracelet.” We paused in the hallway as the time came to part ways. “You made my day—my week.”
Today marks four years since I had the unexplainable impulse to create and purchase the first batch of silicone bracelets, reading: Let Go. This moment needs you.
When I reflect on that precise time—September 6, 2021—my belief in life’s magic soars to an all-time high. Eight days prior to said bracelet order, I met my now fiancée, Lucy. Eleven days after ordering the bracelets, I found out my stepdad Stu had cancer. And one year to the day—on September 6, 2022—I did one of my biggest “let go’s” to date and left my consulting job of five years to write a memoir (just don’t ask me what it’s about). And if that’s not enough to make you appreciate life’s synchronicity, I will add that your dearly beloved Sidebraid Stories was birthed on September 6, 2016.
As my stepdad Stu often said, “There are no coincidences.” These bracelets have become lil reminders for me that life has a flow—a connective tissue of sorts—that can happen at any moment. That does happen at any moment, if only we keep our eyes and imagination open.
Dr. G’s story is one of many—I could write a book about these bracelets, and maybe one day I will. For now, I want to raise a drum roll and a banjo bang to Dr. G. If joy and connection can be achieved inside the walls of a gyno exam room, then there’s no limit to the alchemy of our moments.
And in case you don’t have a bracelet, remember: Let go—this moment needs you. 💛
P.S. I just placed an order for 300 Let Go bracelets—if you or a loved one would like your very own silicone band, please email me (lenamunzer@aya.yale.edu). 😊