Wednesday, April 30, 2003

I'd Rather be at Work

I sat with my feet in the stirrups, knees up by my ears, clad only in one of those gowns they clearly give you to make you feel even smaller and more vulnerable than you're feeling in the first place. Well, and socks, of course.

She stuffed me full of cold metal implements, as I was paying her to do, and poked me with things I'd rather not be poked with. Then she asked, in an almost offhand way: "have you ever had abnormal results before?"

My mind raced frantically, remembering a flurry of doctors and tests and poking and prodding and fear and relief and anguish...and if I say 'yes', will she assume this one will be? Will it somehow bias the cosmos to make this one abnormal? and if I say 'no', will she not examine the results as quickly? Will she not see something that's there if I say 'no'? Will she see something that's not there if I say 'yes'? Does it matter what I say? What if they do it all again? Can I erase it by not bringing it up?

I compromised by stammering something about how I'd moved back on to yearly checkups, how nothing was ever definitive, how I was sure everything was Ok...
She rolled the chair back and looked at me appraisingly and emotionlessly. Exactly the way they look at you when they tell you that they're going to cut part of you out. Which, of course, it's far too soon for anyone to do. But I remember the expression.

And then it's over, and i slid my knees back together and scrambled for my panties, just as if I'd had a bad one night stand. And I left, feeling just as bruised and broken.

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