by Selena Templeton (Tue Mar 09, 2010)
The only thing more embarrassing than opening your legs for
a strange man with cold hands, a spatula and a poor bedside manner is...well,
nothing, frankly. But once a year we women are required to go through this
ritual called The Pap Smear for health's sake. This time ‘round, however, the
absurdity of the whole procedure struck me like a speculum into my cervix.
The nurse led me into the room for my annual exam and as she
was telling me to get undressed, we realized that someone was in the room. A doctor
in a white lab coat stood at the counter flipping through my medical record.
The nurse cleared her throat and, startled, he grabbed the folder and squeezed
past us. I wasn't put out, though. I mean, can you blame him for trying to
catch up on his required summer reading about my sexual history? It's soon to
be a best-seller, I am told.
When I finally had the two-piece pink paper ensemble wrapped
around my body and was sitting on the examining table, the doctor returned.
Keeping his eyes strictly on the medical folder in his hands, he asked me all
the usual questions: Allergic to anything? Any unusual goings on in my body
lately? When was my last period? How's the diet? Exercise? His avoidance of my
eyes was so obvious that when he asked if I practiced safe sex I said, ‘Yes,
with all ten partners' just to make him look up. It worked. I realized he wanted
to be professional and to the point, but a little humanity never killed anyone.
I've got a name and it's not ‘Chart 249801-A' for crying out loud.
Finally we got to the good stuff. The invasive, exposed,
vulnerable, humiliating Pap Smear. He slapped the folder shut and announced -
on his way to the door - that he would return with some other people. ‘What,
are you selling tickets or something?' I asked (thanks to a hereditary
hand-me-down from my mom that prevents me from holding my sarcastic remarks to
myself). He let me sit in the cold room (with only the sound of rustling paper
every time I moved) for ten minutes, finally returning with another doctor and a
nurse.
As it turns out, my examining doctor was still in his
residency and was required to have witnesses present when doing anything that
might provoke litigation. The overseeing doctor was like a television announcer
at a golf tournament - describing what was going on in hushed tones. ‘All
right, ladies and gents, this is what it comes down to. First we're lubing up
the labia minora - no, minora; no
need to lube the labia majora. Ok, now gently insert the cold, hard contraption
until you feel it hit the cervix wall. Do you feel it? Do you feel it now? How
about now?'
The resident doctor, forgetting that a living, breathing
person was on the table in front of him, haphazardly slid the plastic apparatus
in and out several times until I asked if he planned on buying me dinner
afterwards. The head doctor suppressed a smile, the attending nurse turned away
for a moment (I'm pretty sure I saw her shoulders shake), and the resident
doctor's face turned even brighter red. I certainly didn't want to be mean or
make him feel bad, but this was just my way of diffusing a terribly embarrassing
and - due to his not-yet-professional touch - uncomfortable moment. As I lay
there in the stirrups, I couldn't help but think of an article I'd read
recently about a woman becoming flatulent in yoga class, had a ‘what if?'
moment myself, and then couldn't stop the giggles from escaping my mouth as my
own face turned red.
At long last he procured his cervical sample and stood up
victoriously. He started talking to the other doctor, who gestured with his
head to my still-spread-wide legs and suggested he remove the speculum from my
person. ‘Oh, crap!' his eyes said as he bent over and quickly pulled it out.
As I walked to my car later I suddenly imagined what it
would be like to watch all this from above without the knowledge of what was
actually happening. I'd walked into a building, removed my clothes, had two
strange men insert their fingers and other objects into me, and then gotten dressed
and left the building. And the only reason I didn't file a police report was
because they were wearing white lab coats. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised to see
this on Comedy Central's new season line-up.
