I’ve mentioned before that I’m not a prudish woman. I don’t give a second thought to communal dressing rooms, beaches of varying degrees of undress, or frank and heated discussions about those and other situations in which one can find oneself exposed. But I don’t like to indulge too much in that kind of chat: I have a theory that those people who talk most about how cool they are with it all are either not getting any, or are very, very bad at it. (Just a theory – but look out for the lady with her baps on perma-display. False advertising.) But every now and again, something happens that tests my supposedly relaxed, laissez-faire nature.
Yesterday, I had to have a cervical smear. That wasn’t the laissez-faire test in itself: I have to have these a lot. Unluckily (luckily?), I had what they call a “bad” smear result in 2001. Actually, several “bad” ones in a row. The day after September 11th 2001 (a day previously known as September 12th), I had a minor surgical procedure and everything was tickety-boo. Well, 99% likely to be tickety-boo, but I still have to have the examination once a year as tickety-boo isn’t a medical term, apparently.
So I’m a dab hand at them now (if you’ll pardon the expression). But – having had the news you don’t want from a previous one – each one is newly scary. I’m apprehensive and have to breathe deeply to calm myself. I’m always hoping this won’t be the 1% recurrence time and that I’m not the 1% recurrence person. I tell myself that it’s preventive medicine, and better to catch these things early. I’m living testament to that. If my Irish GP hadn’t been (a) female and (b) adamant that I not be a big baby all those years ago, I most likely wouldn’t be here now. If you’ve been putting one off – GO. Even the lads. I think you might like it. (Snigger.)
One guy who does know what I went through yesterday is the poor, young, male doctor who walked in just as the actual exam was taking place. Yes, that actual bit. I caught sight of him, framed by my knees; I can only imagine what they were framing from the reverse-angle. The surgery is obviously over-stretched, so the store room was doubling as the exam room I was in: an elderly lady had fallen outside and he needed to come in for bandages. Over-stretched myself at that particular moment, I almost questioned the existence of the old-lady, but for the look of horror and regret on the poor man’s face. It may not yet be Hallowe’en, but he got an awful fright.
The nurse was (rightly) fuming. I’m sure that, once I left, he’ll have gotten a right going-over with a speculum. I was breathing so deeply now that I was almost in a coma and telling the nurse that I didn’t mind, that these things happen, and wasn’t it better than not having the test and not knowing if something was wrong? I’m sure I could have screamed blue murder and maybe even (if I were really horrible person) had some legal standing, but the truth is, I meant all that. It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t the end of the world. It was, I’m certain, the end of his lunch.
Much more embarrassing is that I saw Marley & Me last night. I thought it was rubbish but I still cried like a little baby. I’m a dog-owner; so sue me.
