Lady Parts: The Prequel

I'm sorry about the obsession with girlie bits. But my HPV rantings have attracted media attention, so I hafta keep reaching out to the people. (For real...Val Fortney from the Herald is interviewing me today for her column.)

I need to tell you the horror show that was Surgery #1.

I was in my mid-twenties and totally clueless about what was happening. With the amount I've now read about how terrible smoking is for your cerv, I suspect it was my I'm-a-cool-smoking-arty-type phase that did me in that time. FYI, staying up until 5 am in Montreal dance clubs smoking your face off may seem like one hell of a party, but it can lead to devastating results. Including hangovers and cervical surgery. Play safe.

You quit smoking yesterday, right? Good.

I was dating Ex-Husband at the time of CervSurge #1. He was the kind of guy who came to the gyno appointments. The kind of guy who came into the examining room. The kind of guy who passed out during my colposcopy. Good thing we never had children. Imagine him in the delivery room.

Supportive Ex was with me all the way. (Until the intersection of Push and Shove, but that's a different story.)

My surgery was a Wednesday morning. I was to proceed to the Day Surgery Unit to enjoy the thrilling sensation of an electrically charged metal loop searing off a chunk of my womanflesh.

But we got kind of lost. We stumbled around and finally found an information desk. We asked the nurse-looking lady behind the desk for directions and her eyes got wide. Her voice dropped to 0.25 decibels and she said, "Oh. Are you terminating?"

Ex-Hub and I stared at her, thinking this was some kind of advanced medical code. I stammered about how I was getting a LEEP. Which is what the procedure is called. The nurse-looker now looked at me as if I was speaking in code. There was clearly no chemistry happening here.

We got the directions and lurched on our way.

We followed her directions and came to what looked like an empty waiting area. We drifted in, looking confused. The linebacker-sized nurse there watched us flail for a moment before barking bitchily, "So. Change your mind?"

Ex-Hub chuckled and assured Nurse Ratched that no, we had not changed our minds about this important preventive procedure. Ratched was decidedly not amused. In fact, she looked disgusted with us. "Across the hall," she grunted before shaking her head and turning back to her bad mood.

Ex and I pushed through the intimidating yellow doors and sat in the waiting room. As we sat there, the strange behaviour of the nurses began to come clear.

They thought we were here for an abortion.

Both of them. They simply assumed that a couple wandering around looking for Day Surgery on Gyno Wednesday was obviously terminating a pregnancy. And since said couple was so clearly terminating a pregnancy, it was absolutely A-okay to invade the couple's privacy about it and, as a cherry on top, judge them for it.

Pardonez moi, Judgment Squad. We just wanted DIRECTIONS.

Regardless of what procedure I was having done in the Day Surgery Unit, it was and never will be anybody's business but mine.

I won't judge those nurses, or Doogie Howser for that matter. I won't start ranting against The System either. But I think this does illuminate, even just a little, the experience of 'health care.' As soon as you enter the process, your own body isn't yours anymore. It becomes property of fallible, imperfect human beings who control the information. Who disconnect the body from the person because that's easier for them. Who operate from a perspective of 'sickness management' rather than health and care.