On Monday, I had my bi-annual “hey, take a look inside my vagina”-fest. (Warning: This post talks about girl-bits, in case you hadn’t already noticed.) Roughly every 6 months or so, I pop down to the Bute Street Clinic, get my feet into those ever so lovely stirrups, and think of London while someone pokes and prods my cervix inappropriately. Whee! It’s better than Playland!*
Yes, I get tested every 6 months, regardless of any risk factors — which, quite frankly, are pretty low because … well, I’m neurotic. I don’t care if I’ve been celibate for the last six months, I’m still gonna go get checked. (Celibate? Hey, it could happen. Like if I was in a coma…)
You should, too. Unless you’re celibate, or 100% monogamous and you know your partner is too, and you’ve both already BEEN tested… GO GET TESTED. Often. It’s free! In BC, anyway. Hell, if you’re shy, you can even give a false name. Nobody cares.
But that’s an argument I’ve had before, although I’m dismayed at how many people tell me privately “Gee Donna, you’re right, I totally should get tested more often…” but then don’t. Get the fuck over it, and go get tested already. It’s not hard. I’ll even come with you and hold your pansy-ass hand.
That’s not the point of this post.
This is: So the nurse I had was a delightful, kindly older woman. Older than most of the street nurses there. Not OLD per say, but … not the usual under-40 crowd that you generally get at the clinic. I’d put this woman closer to 65-70ish.
Quite frankly, it was a little bizarre. I sort of felt like someone’s grandmother was fingering me, and half expected her to pull out a deliciously baked pie. From my vagina. Or perhaps some knitting. Oh, so THAT’S where it went.
She was lovely, of course. This is why I love the clinic so much, they’re completely non-judgemental, and hell, HAPPY to see me in there every six months. I jokingly refer to myself as neurotic, but with a grandmotherly admonishment, she told me that I’m simply conscientious, and she wishes the REST of her grandchildren — er, clients would do the same.
She also congratulated me on my new relationship, and of course I assured her that I’m a good girl and wasn’t having any pre-marital sex, because that’s Wrong. It’s hard to lie to grandmothers, but it’s harder to tell them about the near-constant fucking you engage in. She laughed at me. I might not be a very good liar after all.
I hope she’s there the next time I go in. I never get the same nurse twice, but even though there’s a plethora of gay nurses staffing the clinic and we all know how much I love gay men touching my vagina**, she’s my new favourite.
Maybe next time I’ll bring her some cookies. Or some homework with a gold star on it.
*I’m lying. Playland is infinitely more fun than having strangers do medical things to my vagina. I do not have a medical fetish.
**Also not true, especially in this context. As much as I love the clinic, the gay male nurses tend to be a lot more, um, rough. Having one’s cervix poked and prodded isn’t terribly comfortable, but really doesn’t need to be painful or horrifying or tear-inducing. Some of them just don’t seem to understand that the vagina is a delicate flower and HOLY FUCKING HELL, WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE? Are you not FAMILIAR WITH THIS BIT OF ANATOMY? Oh right, of course you’re not. Ok, forgivable, but OW, STOP. I’LL JUST DO THIS MYSELF.
I used to get tested every six months. My last one was over a year ago though. :-( Sadly, mine aren’t free either. *sigh*
I do plan on going next week though.
OMG, I almost peed laughing so hard. You’re something else. I thought of sending you a pair of knitting needles with condoms on them for your birthday but then I realized that if for any reason the package were opened in route I’d probably wind up in jail.
I imagine the nurses at the Bute Clinic have heard it all, but it would be fun to have a real-life story that would freak them out when they ask about your risk factors.