Trying to find the hospital in the city is like running through a maze in the dark. The directions were wrong. The traffic was moderate and there were lots of people that looked important running around in suits. When I finally arrived, valet parking was delayed so I hightailed it for the garage. The second floor was kind enough to provide my large vehicle with a space.
After I cleared security and adjusted to being in a place where people die, the elevators took me to the fifth floor where the gyn’s office was. An 11:00am appointment had been scheduled for me. After a weekend of violent mood swings and cramps before dawn, it was time for me to seek medical intervention. My abnormal behavior disturbed me.
There was an interview in a separate room prior to being seen for the main event. Am I sexually active. Why am I here. What was the date of my last period; I have an app for that. As my body settled into the second room, pictures of birth control suddenly popped before my eyes on the walls. There was a T looking contraption in a uterus. The sight of that drove me to tears. It looked simply awful. As the stinging tore at my skin, I wondered why there was such a heavy emphasis being placed on women to pop children out as their sole function in life. Before the door opened, the tears were washed from my face.
There is not a woman on earth that enjoys a vaginal exam, myself included. Between the insertion and the pressure, there is simply no relief until you are away from the office. The polite conversation fell on my sexual practices. One is supposed to feel free discussing this with a complete stranger but then you remember that it is a medical individual; you carry on. The results of my last pap were requested and there I was on my way. It took me over thirty minutes to locate my car but after crying in the office, I figured that it was right in line.
As the hospital faded into the distance, a Jamaican beef patty crossed my mind. So did my 3:30pm appointment.