I had delayed the appointment for far too long. Very irresponsible of me I know, considering that I could be putting my health at severe risk. Nevertheless, it was still with some reluctance that I resigned myself to inevitable ordeal ahead, wishing to potentially save my life rather than my dignity and so I duly booked my long overdue cervical smear (pap) test.
There's nothing like a bit of intimate exposure to make you want to whip yourself into naked shape, least of all to ensure that everything is clean and free from straggled hair to prevent the nurse from having to use industrial hedge cutters before performing the rather ungainly procedure.
"Well done for coming," the nurse said as I dutifully trotted behind her into the treatment room. I wondered whether she congratulated all of her patients, or whether the operation had become a gruelling experience for which one received praise ("Well done you for allowing me, Sister Slaughter, to assault your reproductive parts with a metal torpedo and cake spatula.")
After the obligatory form filling, she said, "Just step behind this curtain and slip your trousers off." Did she mean socks and shoes too? "There's a blanket there if you feel you want to cover yourself up," she continued. Cover myself up? When someone is going to be peering up your vagina, covering up any other parts to try and maintain a modicum of decorum seemed somewhat futile.
"Make yourself comfortable," she smiled, after observing my white butt spread either side of me like a lump of dough, as I perched nervously on the edge of the bed. Comfortable? Comfortable would be putting my clothes back on and racing home to a good book and a steaming hot cup of cocoa. Does any woman (apart from those with a fetish for Sado-Masochism) feel comfortable before having a cold, metal object pushed into her love passage and having her cervix abraded with a huge lolly stick?
When the nurse re-appeared, she was brandishing a vice-like metal speculum in one hand and in the other an object that resembled a shoe horn, which I assumed was the instrument that she was going to use to batter my cervix in order to obtain adequate cells for observation.
"Feet together, legs apart..........now just relax. If at any time you want me to stop, just say so." Actually, I didn't want her to start, but not wishing to have "difficult and uncooperative" written on my notes, I obligingly put my most precious parts in her capable rubber-gloved hands. It's at this point that you hope you don't smell/look dirty/have private parts that look rather unusual compared to everyone else's, or wonder whether the nurse is thinking, "What an enormous arse she's got!"
I desperately tried not to wince as the abovementioned metal speculum was inserted with the dexterity of a hammer thrower and was wrenched open to afford the nurse a better view. "Just imagine you're having a tampon inserted," I thought to myself as I saw the nurse come towards me with the shoehorn, before proceeding to thrust it into me and exfoliate my cervix.
That's good, you're not bleeding," she said reassuringly. Had she removed my entire cervix or something? "Very well done," she continued, "You were nice and relaxed." I imagine that previous patients had probably kicked or punched her.
"Do you check your breasts regularly? she asked. "Yes," I replied without hesitation when what I actually meant was, "No, but my partner gropes them every day; does that count?" "Good. Well done for coming," she said for the second time, as I was making a desperate attempt to escape before she suggested that she check my breasts for me.
"The results will be sent through to you in about six weeks and if they are normal then you won't need to come again for another three years," she said. Oh, yippee! On that optimistic note, I headed for the door, not wishing to know what other torturous examination I would be subjected to should the results be abnormal.
As I was leaving the room, she asked, "Does your husband regularly check his testicles?" "Do you know a guy who doesn't?" I laughed as I made a hasty exit.
