It's been a while, but I got penetrated

"As I reappeared from behind the curtain, with my jumper still on and my bottom out, I tried my hardest to dissociate"

If you have been with this Substack from the beginning, first of all, god bless you. Second of all, you may remember one of my very first posts, about a caravan, my supportive friendship group and my menstrual cycle.

Essentially for the past 6 months I have been having regular periods, which would normally be great for someone with PCOS. But, when these cycles are combined with periods of heavy, need to sit on the toilet or stuff yourself like a build-a-bear, bleeding, it’s not as much of a reason to rejoice.

After a particular heavy couple of hours when I was meant to be playing with my niece, but couldn’t leave the bathroom (“Auntie Laura’s doing a big poo”), I decided to call the doctors.

I’m sure any of you with PCOS or other period related issues will have had similar experiences as mine. It took me to my mid twenties to actually get a diagnosis and after a particularly dismissive experience with a doctor, I saw little point making further appointments.

Thankfully, this time, the GP I spoke to on the phone was incredibly understanding and supportive. In fact, I made a point of thanking her at the end because I wanted her to know how appreciated it was.

After explaining my symptoms, she referred me for a blood test, an internal scan and prescribed me tranexamic acid - a pill which stops heavy bleeding.

Now, as someone with health anxiety, just making that call was stressful enough, but that’s for another post, I’m sure.

After first being offered an appointment on Boxing Day (what a way to spend Christmas), it was finally time for me to be internally probed and yes, it was as awkward as you expect.

Expecting it to be like a smear test with a GoPro, I was taken into a tiny room and immediately told to get undressed from the bottom down.

However, unlike a smear test, there were two people in the room and the smallest blue curtain to change behind, which left little room between me and the biohazard bin.

As I reappeared from behind the curtain, with my jumper still on and my bottom out, I clutched the sheet of blue tissue to my fupa and tried my hardest to dissociate from my uncomfortable reality.

The way the room was laid out, meant the only way you could get onto the bed was to sit at the end and shimmy down. Turns out the vagina GoPro is actually a massive machine, not just a head cam.

As I attempted to shuffle back, I could hear the blue toilet roll, that lined the bed, ripping from underneath me. I clutched my fupa flannel for dear life as the nurse told me, “Don’t go too far”.

Somehow, in my pant-less frenzy, I hadn’t realised that the goal wasn’t to propel myself all the way to the end.

With the limited power left in my upper body, I shimmied forwards. Only further disintegrating the tissue.

If you want more of a visual reference. When I told this story to Lucy P, her response was that she imagined me looking like Winnie the Poo.

All tiny t shirt and no pants.

Skiddy bum tour of the bed complete, I was then instructed to rest my feet on the stirrups, which were either side.

Think of this as the dental equivalent to, “Open wide”.

I barely even had time to wonder what I must look like, before one of the people in the room - I didn’t make eye contact to ascertain which one - made a statement.

“Cold gel”.

Just as it felt like someone was blowing their Trebor Extra Strong Mint breath down there, I was told to breath in and the GoPro began its treacherous journey.

As it travelled around me, an image came to mind, of that scene in Titantic, where they go in the sub to explore the wreckage.

The signs in the waiting room were clear that I couldn’t ask for results there and then, but I kind of wished there was a bit of commentary on how my ovaries were looking.

What else was up there? Did I have my own heart of the ocean?

As the prodding made me grimace, I stared at the impressionist painting on the wall to my left and began worrying about the results.

Seconds later I was instructed that it was all over. Not only that, but my fupa cover up was actually a double agent and could be used to remove myself of any unwanted lube.

Lovely.

Thankfully getting off the bed was much easier than shimmying up it.

As I wiped myself with haste and pulled my pants back on, I felt so chuffed with myself. In the absence of a sticker, self-praise is incredibly important as an adult.

Like, my GP, I made sure to thank the intrepid explorers for making me feel at ease. As I left the room I heard them say, “She has a lovely smile”.

I just hope they were talking about my mouth.