Processing. Part 1. Gynaecologist.

Okay, so it’s fair to say that this last week, I pretty much lost my shit.

I had a gynaecologist appointment on Tuesday, which was started off normal.

Tell me what you’ve told your doctor. Tell me about the pain. Tell me what seems to help or hinder it.

Then it got expectedly intense.

Do you consent to a pap smear? 

No. Like. No. I’m still feeling triggered from the ultrasound – where the doctor didn’t tell me they would be doing an ‘internal’. Shitty doctor. And with all this shit about Trump and Brock Turner (yes, still a thing even if it’s not on our front page news anymore), with the rise of aggressive angry white, cis, men… and the bullshit of rape culture being an actual thing. Still. No, I don’t want you going into my vagina with forceps and plastic shit. Taking swabs and whatever the fuck else.

Tight jeans. I just want to discuss what is wrong with me and why I am not pregnant, and why I have these pains, and are they going into my other ovary. Is that what that tingle is? And I want to stay in my tight jeans.

I am so grateful that I had a moment of insight that popped ‘pap smear’ into my awareness. I had a few extra moments to process it.

I had the pap smear.

And don’t get me wrong, the gynaecologist was beautiful. She asked for permission every step of the way. She told me what she was about to do, and what I should feel as a result. She asked me repeatedly if I was okay to continue, how bad was the pain etc.

Then it got unexpectedly intense.

So we’ll book the surgery in, and you need to go to the hospital in the meantime, and we’ll address this issue from both angles. Go now, the receptionist will help you. 

Wait. What. WHAT?

Then things got worse.

Consent forms. Permission slips. Emergency contacts. And if I’d just hurry up, they really need to log this stuff in with the hospital.

Everything happened SO fast. I was already not processing life properly. I couldn’t understand if surgery was urgent, important or even necessary. And the receptionist certainly didn’t help.

I had commitments and work for the days I could choose from. This was going to be an intense financial thing. The fun of being casual is that I don’t get paid if I don’t work. I had also signed up for catch up yoga lectures, which was just more expenses.

You think you have inherited your mother; but you are shedding all inheritance.
[according to misunderstood channeling].

There was a person I knew that arrived at the surgery. She could see me from her location at check-in. I had no privacy as I decided if I wanted to consent to a surgery I didn’t understand. No privacy from strangers. No privacy from past acquaintances.

I told the lady that I would go home and think about it.

I really needed to have this done right now. Or so I was told.

I started going through the paper work. Can withdraw consent at any time. Okay. Self. We’ve got this. Get through this shit, and we’ll consent later. Breathe.

I am not sure why, but my time with the receptionist was up. I had to fill in forms and give them back to her, but over there. I have understood the procedure. I have understood the purpose of the procedure. I have understood the risks of the procedure. I stopped ticking boxes. I have no fucking idea what is going on here. No. I don’t understand this shit.

I took the forms back to her. Ironically, the past associate was now with the receptionist. No fucking anonymity here. I walked up to the receptionist. She pointed me to another receptionist because like, now she was busy. Second receptionist looked at the paper work. Great, that’s fine. Thanks. But it’s not fine, I explained to her. I haven’t ticked these boxes. I don’t know what is going on. I don’t understand.

But you had to sign consent to book the surgery. We actually have what we need. You … 

I was done. I apologised, that apology that you say before you do the thing that you’re apologising for. I can’t do this right now.  And I left.

With all of my questions. With all of my confusion. With all the fear and lack of power. In my tight jeans, that hadn’t protected me from feeling violated.

This is about my fucking uterus. My vagina. My ovaries. My god-damn child-bearing options and my fucking life.

Once I had driven away from the surgery, I called my husband.
After I had more blood and urine taken, for more fucking tests.
I just needed to leave.

I cried.

For confusion. For fear. For not understanding what was going on, and knowing that I can’t fix it. For feeling completely powerless to change that one thing that means so much…


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