I like a good probing. There. I said it. What I don’t like? Tooth extractions.
I had my wisdom tooth out yesterday and I was completely unprepared for it. It was my first extraction and I didn’t realise just how unpleasant it would be, even with enough numbing cream to incapacitate an elephant.
First of all, the first lot of numbing cream didn’t stop the pain, but the dentist kept on digging away as though he were trying to win a prize by hitting my throat. When he finally stopped (there’s only so long you can ignore a squirming patient yelling “UNGGHHRRR!”) he gave me more numbing cream and then one minute later dived back in.
Nothing had prepared me for the grinding feeling or the noises of being dug into. I’ve never been scared of the dentist, but that changed yesterday. I was so traumatised that when they’d finished, I had a panic attack. It started when the dentist pushed something into my mouth and because he had an accent, I thought he said that he’d put gold in.
So I went into panic mode. First of all, why the hell is he putting gold into my mouth? And if it’s not gold, then what the hell is it? I think my protest went somewhere along the lines of “UNGRRRMMR! GERRIT OUT!” Along with tears and a lot of shaking because clearly I was being tortured by a gold hunting pirate.
This was followed by the nurse kindly patting my arm and telling me everything was going to be okay. I believe there were a lot of “sshhhs” and “it’s all over nows.” Then she helpfully advised that the dentist had actually put gauze in my mouth, which made a lot more sense than gold, except I was still scared of swallowing it. In the meantime, the dentist looked like he was hiding in the corner as far as he could from the crazy lady.
I left the surgery feeling teary and sorry for myself.
All in all, I believe I handled the matter in a very dignified way.
Now to the important matter of probing. Today I had my pap smear and I need to admit that I find them pleasant. Not a turn on, but definitely enjoyable.
There was a delay in the pleasantries when I got into the nurses office and she demanded my letter of referral.
“I don’t have one,” I admitted, surprised because I couldn’t remember having needed one before. I explained that I had gotten a letter reminding me to have it done and so here I am, ready for the probing.
“But you need a letter of referral,” the nurse snapped.
I felt like shouting at her “but it’s my vagina! I’ve referred my vagina to you, that should be enough!”
She didn’t give me time to shout anything, because she then demanded to know who had sent me the reminder letter, as though there was a black market supply of dodgy pap smear letters and I couldn’t be trusted until I’d confirmed a legitimate source with her.
I had images of some shady looking man in a trench coat standing in a dark alley flashing his pap smear referral letters. “Wanna buy a pap smear?” (Wink)
Then the house raid afterwards with a SWAT team yelling “HUT HUT HUT!” while pulling apart my couch cushions for these highly illegal black market documents.
It turns out that the nurses’ interrogation wasn’t completely necessary since she just had a doctor write a referral for me then and there. Then, it was showtime.
Every two years I get a spotlight on my vulva and by god this is my cervix’s time to shine.
Except it didn’t, it played hide and seek while I lay there thinking about how pleasant it was to have a pap smear done and while the nurse searched around for my shy cervix.
Maybe this is why she demanded to see my referral papers – she sensed that I was a serial pap smearist in the making and those papers are the pap smears equivalent of a passport.
“Legend has it that she’s had so many pap smears, she now has a Golden Speculum.”
“Her Pap Smear Passport has so many stamps she’s able to open up her own post office.”
“She’s had so many pap smears, there’s a constant light shining from her vulva.”
Cue dodgy black market referral man: “She’s my best customer… I brought this Rolex that converts into an underwater house thanks to her!”
Finally the nurse said, very apologetically as though she were wasting my time: “I think I’ve found your cervix, but if they can’t find any cells then we’ll have to send you to a specialist, I’m sorry about that.”
I nodded, pretending to be patient. You can’t find my cervix and I might have to come back again? What a shame!
I’m curious to know how many other women find pap smears pleasant and what your story is. Please, let me live my life through you.
My boss once told the story of how her friend had been making arts and crafts with her kids and was so intent on what she was doing that she suddenly realised she would be late for her appointment and hadn’t even had a shower. So she grabbed one of the cloths she’d been using during arts and crafts and gave herself a quick wipe before heading over to the doctors office. So there she is, legs open, spotlight on her, and her doctor says suddenly: “You didn’t need to dress up for me!” Turns out the cloth she’d wiped herself down with was covered in glitter and her’s would have been the sparkliest vulva her doctor had ever seen.
Don’t stop there – please fill us all in on any funny prostrate exam stories you might have. We’re all friends here.
Feature image Jolly Roger Grunge Flag thanks to Nicolas Raymond, freeStock.ca.