I went in for a yearly physical (they used to call it ‘well woman’) couple weeks ago. The Nurse Practitioner who usually saw me had been sacked so the Actual Doctor and I met.
Hate when that happens. The NP and I had carved out our 10 minute-at-a-time friendship over years. We laughed, we cried. She was fast and honest and not afraid to listen or call me out on silly bullshit. And isn’t that what everyone needs?
The AD (Actual Doctor) seemed a straight shooter as well. There was no time for chatting or even a bit of nervous joking. She peppered me with questions and I barely had time to answer each before another blitz of both query and data came at me. Of course, by minute 2 she was up to her elbow in me. Now… I’m almost 59 years old and going to the doctor for exams is nothing new… but dadgum! I felt like a Miss Piggy puppet . A strange sensation, really. Of course, she knew what she was doing around the female anatomy, being a gynecologist. Just…strange.
And now we get to the good bits. AD said “Oh, it’s upside down”. Who wants to hear that? “What…???” “Your little uterus tipped over; it’s nothing to worry about. Your ovaries aren’t where they’re supposed to be, of course.”
And there is is: My tiny, unused, good-for-nothing uterus finally gave up and fell down.
And so did I.
The good mood I’d carried for some time dissipated and I became broken again. The one who couldn’t give birth, the worthless one.
This time, I could see the darkness coming, like falling down into a tornado. It’s black and swirling with rage and sorrow and guilt. Though it’s been a few years, it’s readily identified… but this time there’s no fighting, as though I’m due the punishment.
Though writing about it is not my style, I thought perhaps getting it out would help in spite of myself. Maybe it shall.