The pain of being female
Sometimes it doesn’t quite make sense to me. I try and try and try to understand myself and other women, but to be honest, since I do occasionally think more like a man than a woman, it can be hard.
Thanks to recent developments in my medical history, it became necessary to let a doctor poke and probe his way around my uterus with various gear that made me feel queasy just looking at. A preliminary exam by a nurse had led her to recommend they give me something called cytotec before the procedure. So in I go and get this hexagonal pill under my tongue an hour before the procedure. Being nervous, I couldn’t quite tell a difference between the pinching pain caused by chemically induced contractions as my cervix dilates and just general uneasiness about the procedure.
Laying there with a doctor’s head between my legs (trying not to think about it being a grey haired stranger whose Finnish surname translates to “Phobia”(?!) with a moustache that made me think of a walrus poking around inside some of my more private bits), the feeling wasn’t that bad at first. Then the nurse came in with a tray of sterile stainless steel tools that flew my mind to scenes of interrogation rooms and a dark shadow behind me, whose sole intent it is to get information out of me. I wish my imagination weren’t as vivid as it is… I should channel it to something creative more often.
There was a slight discomfort, and the breathing exercise the nurse talked me through was helping, then she suddenly pinned me down and I remember screaming when the doctor poked whatever it was he was poking around at deeper inside me. The pain made me try to sit up and my eyes watered. Soon after, it was over with, they were treating me as if I were eight to ten years younger than I really am, but I guess that’s understandable. My Pippi Longstocking style braids and habit of wearing subtle or no makeup makes me look younger than I am.
A friend of mine was treated as if she were a teenager when she was stuck at the maternity ward waiting for my godchild’s lungs to develop to a point where they could take the (1900-ish grams, healthy but tiny baby boy) baby out and start treating the mother for pregnancy poisoning. Healthcare professionals seem to be used to 30+ mothers as the first-timers, and treat us 20+ women as if we were still so young.
To return to the gynecologist for a second, I was allowed to leave the procedure room and sit down in the waiting room. A glance at the tray with blood splattered tools, my blood on them, made me want to run out, but the nurse was hovering over me like a mother hen, making sure I sat down. Took out my cell, logged onto my IM and then started seeing everything double. The nurse spotted this and after that, I spent the next hour and a half in a foetal position the nurse’s office on a gurney, trying to get myself used to the contractions caused by the drug they gave me before the procedure to be able to walk the about 200 yards to the subway station and get home.
I think my body’s still in shock from it all. I’m in pain and variate between light queasiness to moderate nausea, as the pain comes in waves. They said it would keep feeling bad or worse for the rest of the night, and boy do I hope it’ll be over with soon.
All due to medical necessities, but bloody hell it hurt.
Sometimes I’m thinking I’d have rather been a boy. Boys seem to get through life with considerably less blood loss, if nothing else…