OB/GYN, WTF?!

May 11, 2018

 


The nurse shuts the door after telling me to get undressed from the waist down.

 

They forgot to cover the tools. great. that speculum has to be the length of my arm.

 

I love the ob/gyn. Honestly. All of the paintings in here are soft and pretty and I only see women. it feels safe in here. Minus the giant speculum.

 

Enter: Doctor.

 

My doctor is so great. She’s so motherly and looks like she smells good.

 

Doctor: “Put your feet up here and scoot down.”

 

How long has it been since I’ve shaved my snatch? I have to take better care of myself. I take far too much solace in the fact that I’ll never have the most unkempt vagina my doctor has ever seen.

 

Doctor: “a little pressure…”

 

Pressure? Why do they always say pressure when they mean “discomfort?” they mean “pain.”

 

This speculum doesn’t feel any bigger. It’s really cold though. I wonder when this is going to start hurting.

 

Doctor: “Little pinch, I’m sounding your uterus…”

 

Sounding means measuring its depth, I’m proud I remember that. I wish she wouldn’t warn me—

 

Blinding pain. My body is imploding. What the fuck is happening to me. My eyes are about to leave my skull, my ears are ringing. What is the doctor saying? Sit still? Am I moving?

 

Doctor: “You’re doing great…”
 

Am I? Fuuuck, this hurts. I want to cry. I want to scream. Keep your mouth shut, little bitch, no one likes a little bitch. Fuck.
 

Doctor: “Okay, I’m putting the device in now…”

 

In? How much further in does she have to go? This woman is elbow-deep in my womb. What has she been doing in there? White-hot, deep pain. It hurts. Don’t be a little bitch.

 

Doctor: “Are you doing ok?”

 

Nod your head. Wait, stop nodding. It’s making your vision fuzzy. How is this not over yet? It’s getting darker in this room. This is some real-ass pain. Is this how first-time mothers feel? I am never giving birth. How could it possibly be worth it? I think I’m going to throw up, i think.

 

Doctor: “Alright, I’m out. Do you need anything?”

 

Say no.

 

My doctor stands up and looks at my face.

 

Doctor: “Oh…will you get her some juice? Jenna, are you alright?”

 

Say yes.

 

“Yes,”

 

You haven’t cried yet, don’t cry now. This is nice juice. It’s probably organic. Swallow the juice. Don’t vomit the juice.

 

How am I already in the car? Did I make a follow-up appointment? I want to laugh at how bad this hurts but I forgot how to laugh. I am delirious with pain. this wasn’t worth it. This hurts. Men could never.

 

I can’t even complete a thought. I’m supposed to call when I get home. Call who? I can’t remember her name. What was her name?

 

Oh, right. It’s “Mom.”

 

I don’t even care about fire hazards, I’m turning this heating pad to high. Level 4. Sleep, dummy. Go to sleep.

 

This isn’t like before. It’s not pain. This is like pain’s cousin. quieter, dull, but the same family. What time is it?

 

I pull out my phone. I look at the time. My alarm should have gone off 30 minutes ago and I feel a familiar cold dread when I realize I didn’t take my pill. But then I remember and I smile because I did it. 

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