I Speculum This Might Be Funny

Well, since Ninjanun feels comfortable enough to tell all of you about her yearly visits, I think you'll all appreciate this yarn, or maybe you'll be repulsed, mortified, and horrified. If that's the case, you're probably a man.

At conservative evangelical Christian college of the Midwest, we have a very interesting insurance plan. You see, before one can go to a doctor of her own, she must first see a nurse at the Student Health Center who decides if her complaint is worthy of the doctor's time. Have a cold? Not good enough. Running a fever? Maybe, come back next week. Arm severed? I think we can fit you in tomorrow.

So, this week, I realized that I have an infection of the girlie sort. We won't get into the sordid details of that. Thursday afternoon, I venture over to see the nurse. I fill out the little slip of paper, listing "Reason for Visit" as suspected *insert technical name of girlie infection here*. The nurse calls me back, sits down next to me, and WHISPERS, freaking WHISPERS, while pointing to my slip of paper where I had written suspected *insert technical name of girlie infection here*, "What is that? I've never heard of it." Suppressing the urge to yell, "Look it up on WebMD! I sure did!" I politely explained the ins and outs of the most common girlie infection known to girlies to the nurse, liberally using terms such as "sexually active" and "oral sex", whose face was screwing itself up into a growing grimace of disgust. Then, she ducked her head, and said in the lowest discernible whisper....."Does it itch?" So, I ducked my head and whispered in my lowest discernible whisper, "Yes, like bloody hell." (Really, I said, "No" because it doesn't, but admit it, that was funny).

So, the nurse decides that girlie infections are quite urgent, and that I should see the doctor tomorrow, come severed arms or high fevers. She sure as hell wasn't going to go poking around in there. So she escorts me to lobby, and then whispers in the ear of the receptionist why I need an appointment. I'm pretty sure she was saying, "I'm disgusted by this vile woman, schedule this for the other nurse." Meanwhile, the secretive nature of all of this and the evident discomfort of these so called health professionals is making me want to scream in the lobby to all of these undergraduate students, "I HAVE A VAGINA, and it's INFECTED! I'VE BEEN HAVING SEXUAL RELATIONS!" Instead, I said, "Thank you." and took my appointment card.

Fast forward, next morning. I return to Student Health, sign in, and this time a different nurse calls me back. (I told you that other nurse didn't want to see me again.) So we walk through the entire facility all the way to the very back exam room. Because we must only do things with our privates in private places, where no one else might figure out that we have privates and girlie infections, and some of us might be having sex. GASP!

New nurse asks me how I'm feeling today, are my symptoms any worse? I point out it's been less than 24 hours since the last note was written, and so she reads it. She looks up and asks me quizzically, "It doesn't itch?" (NO! It doesn't itch! Do you want my girlie parts to itch? Isn't it a bonus to not have one's most private and publicly inappropriate places to scratch to not be itchy?) "When was your last menstrual period?" I have an endocrine disorder, which affects these period thingies, so I say, "Eight weeks, but I'm not pregnant, I took a test at home to make sure last week. This isn't uncommon for me. I'm seeing another doctor about it." The nurse’s eyes grow as big as saucers. She says, in slow motion, "Are....you....married?" (No, I'm a whore and your incredulity makes me feel so much better about it.) But I reply, "Yes, nearly four years." The nurse scrawls MARRIED STUDENT across my file, so I can be absolved from eternal damnation by Student Health Services. With that resolved, I take off my clothes from the waist down, retaining some dignity in still wearing my socks, and wrap the plastic sheet around my waist.

The doctor comes in; who I must admit was highly professional. She gives me the spiel on what happens with a pelvic exam*, and then pulls out the speculum. For you men, a speculum is a medieval torture device used to open a woman's cervix. To fully appreciate what happens next, you must see this device. If you're worried about the mechanics of it, here is a tasteful medical diagram.

So, doc pulls out the speculum, and unwinds a cord and PLUGS IT INTO AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET! I'm getting that unsettled feeling, like someone is about to do severe bodily harm and that I'm just supposed to lay back and let her. Then I realize, the speculum lights up! Like a Christmas tree, the clear plastic speculum has a light that is inserted in it that lights it up. So, I do the "Scoot to the end of the table, put your feet in the stirrups position."* She does the exam, and I somehow manage not be electrocuted, and I miss getting to see whether my womanly flesh glows the same way my hand does when I put a flashlight to it.

Doctor leaves, I get dressed. Doctor comes back with diagnosis and confirms girlie infection of a different sort. And somehow the rest of my day is supposed to be typical. Hmmm, and they wonder why women hate going to the gynecologist.


*The Pelvic Exam Spiel is "Scoot all the way to the end of the table, and put your feet in the stirrups. Relax. You'll feel a little pressure." This is code for, expose your self to me with your feet in midair, try not to clench yourself together to avoid this foreign object while I pry open your insides."