I’m canceling my gynecological exam. Scheduled for my check up tomorrow, and I’m just not in the mood. Why would I not be in the mood? For one, I am lacking child care today, and hanging my arse out of the tissue paper gown with my feet in stirrups gives me some difficulty in effective child round-up and discipline.
For two, the whole event just bothers me. I know it’s necessary, you know it’s necessary, everyone knows it’s necessary. But what is not necessary is the annoying attempt at small talk intended to make me feel more comfortable. To engage me. I’m not going to be comfortable, I do not want to be engaged, and no amount of verbal drivel will change this. Hey, how are we today, great weather we’re having. I’m just going to put my fingers on your breast right like this…I’m not terribly modest. I don’t even wear underwear for Pete’s sake. My children see me naked all the time, and if a friend came in the house, as I was getting out of the shower, I’d probably only be embarrased at my saggy post partum belly. But to chat about the weather like he’s not fondling me in this clinical manner is absurd. So, I see from your chart you just moved. Are you liking Greenville? I’m just going to roll and squeeze this nipple, here, right like that, and now the other…Good. Can you put your arm over your head? In this position, flat on my back, I’m supposed to wax on about the merits of living in the small town south. How commerce is booming, what restaraunts I like. I give it a try. Um, well (wince at nipple tweaking), I really like that there’s so little traffic. Oh yeah, me too, now I’m going to go around the areola, that’s a great part of not being in a big city. Yeah. That’s grand.
Then it’s the OK, we’re going to have you sit up, and do the pelvic now. Are you comfortable? Hell no, I am not comfortable. I’m about to put my girly bits 3 inches from his face, and pray I showered well enough. Again, it’s not really the exam that’s so unnerving. It’s his insisting we have a little chat all the way through it. I’m thinking of questions I can ask him. So, um, how was that last vagina you took a look at? Blonde? Redhead? Yeah, those labias can be tricky when you do the speculum thing. I get settled in, spread eagle. And then get a can you scoot your bottom down just a bit more? Like I’m not already feeling his breath? I can tell what he had for lunch, and on what side of town. And somehow, that spread eagle scooting is the most humiliating part of the whole visit. It can’t be pretty. I know. I’ve seen what it all looks like. I mean, I’m all for the beauty of the body, and God’s creative wisdom in creating all sorts of things, including vaginas, but that is just not a flattering view. And I’m always wondering just what sort of person wants to get this view, like, 19 times a day? Can he be normal?
And then, this is going to be just a bit uncomfortable, gonna feel a little pressure. That damn shoehorn with the mini jack attached. And has he cranks, cranks, cranks (how wide can it go already?) he’s jabbering. You know, I saw a movie the other day with my kids…my eyes are closed, I’m practicing transporting far far away, and he’s doing a movie review while loading up on the KY. And really, it’s not that I’m embarrased of my girliness. Or my not so tight anymore body. It’s just that it feels so vulnerable, I don’t really want to wholly engage and be in that moment. I’d rather it just go on and pass, shoo, shoo, get away from here. But he won’t let me! Now, you’re going to feel my finger, and my hand pressing down from the outside. He’s trying to get his fingers to connect, one from in and one from out, through my skin. And going on about that movie. Yeah, it was about some spy, no wait (what else can I do), a family of spies. Yeah, they were undercover. OK, that’s good there. Now I’m going to feel for your ovaries. I’m transporting, I’m transporting…So anyway, yeah that feels right, this family has to capture this kid’s show guy, who’s nabbing all their friend spies, and threatening the security of the country. Did you see it? Wasn’t it a good one for the whole family? The guy is literally tickling my ovaries, and asking my opinion on a movie at the same time. I’m not here, but give a feeble effort. Um, well, OK, I think I remember that one. Yeah, very (wince again) funny. OK, Mrs. Captain Mom, I think that all feels good (really? according to whom?). Seem to be perfectly healthy. We’ll let you know via postcard the results of your pap.
As I get dressed I think about that last statement. Isn’t it sort of callous, maybe a bit crass, to probe me such and drop a postcard? It seems awfully impersonal for what we’ve been through together. At least a personal phone call, maybe? A cup of coffee? Nothing. Just a postcard, and a box of personal wet wipes left on the gurney. On to the next vagina. And the next. And the next. I wonder, what will he say to the others? Will he tell them about the great weather, the movie? Does he use the same lines on all the girls? I didn’t ask for this. I tried to transport. But he just had to go and make it personal. All his interested-in-me chatter. Damn him.
As I leave the exam area, I see him entering another room. That reassuring smile, offering his hand. I feel like chattel. Used and discarded. Replaced. And then, I go pay $180 for it. The check out lady smiles knowingly. What does she know? Does she know that he makes no disctinction from one out-stretched vagina to the next? That he tries to make us all feel comfortable with his incessant meaningless banter? That somehow, we feel, well, intimate, but we’re left with only a stupid postcard and the instructions to clean ourselves up? We’re left just hanging out to dry (so to speak)? Or does she just know that we all loathe that yearly exam, and feel helpless to do anything about it, and after all, she’s one of us, too.
