Is it just me, or do you also secretly hope that your gynaecologist is going to be a lovely, tender old woman?
My ideal gynaecologist would look and act exactly like Mother Teresa with old nurturing eyes that have seen thousands of vaginas. I was very anxious as I waited to be called into the gynecologist’s office following an abnormal pap-smear.
My lovely friend had accompanied me to the waiting room for support, understanding just how shit-scared I was. Not just about the check-up, but about the experience itself. When my name was called, I died a thousand deaths.
He was in his mid-forties, tall and rugged, with a strong jaw-line and a low gravelly voice.
“Sharni Montgomery,” he uttered as if taking to the stage at a jazz bar.
I looked at my friend, deeply pained.
“You’ll be right,” she said with a reassuring rub on the back.
She knew I wasn’t going to be. This was the stuff my nightmares were made of. Had I been in a restaurant, that dish would have been returned.
“I ordered Mother Teresa!”
With flushed cheeks and a knot in my stomach, I entered his office. He greeted me quickly, gazed over some notes before routinely instructing, “I’ll leave the room now, please just take off your underwear and sit on the chair.”
As the door closed my mind entered what I can only describe as a chaotic state of panic.
“Take my pants down… right, take my pants down… where did he say I have to sit? Oh shit, I don’t know where he said I have to sit! Oh quick he’ll be back in a minute, just hurry up!” My basic instincts said the operating chair, but I second-guessed them.
As I slid down my pants and my underwear I felt instant regret for wearing a cropped jumper.
“He must have meant that chair,” I thought, my mind racing at one million miles per hour. “Where do I even PUT my undies?”