Report on Junk

There's no hiding the fact that the Women's Health Centre is part of a hospital. No flowers or floofy interior design. Just a lot of hard edges and a whole lot of signs. We're not here to make you feel loved, the building seems to say. We're just here to give you kick-ass medical care, if that's okay with you.

The admissions lady had mastered the tone of voice that sounded kindergarten-teacher-friendly as she was telling you to piss off. I bet she spends the entire day fielding these two questions: 'Can I park where I just parked?' and 'Where is Mammography/Breast Health/Colposcopy Clinic/the bathroom?' Listen. She's the admissions lady. Not the parking patrol lady. Not the shopping mall information booth lady. Do not mess with her.

Scottish Nurse Jo was also a tough bird, but her job was to educate me and answer my questions. A whole new concept. See, I have been getting PAP tests since I was 18 years old. I have had four or five colposcopies and one surgery. In all that time, no one has told me what they are looking for and why. The letters H, P and V have never, y'know, come up in conversation. In almost 15 years.

Everything I've learned about cervical cancer and HPV has been from the internet, waiting room magazines and whispered conversations that begin with "Did you know..." M'kay. I have a Masters degree. I was raised in a family of physicians, surrounded by medical knowledge my entire life. And I'm finding out what is happening in my body using Google and gossip?

I wonder how Hippocrates would feel about that.

This is what I was thinking as I stared at a ghastly-looking diagram of nice, round healthy cells progressing to big, blotchy cancer cells. Jo went through a definition of terms. She pulled out my results and I (gasp) was allowed to see them myself.

I read that I have high grade intraepithelial lesions. Which sounds terrible. But is only bad-ish. Because the 'high grade' classification includes moderate and severe cell changes. Severe is one bus stop away from The Big C. Moderate (where I am) is two.

The nurse asked me a total of four times whether or not I smoke. Smoking is a sure way to cancer if you have this HPV stuff. Smoky Ladies of the World, please quit. Quit or I'll write a scathing missive on smokers next. Which I might do regardless. Why not quit so you can laugh along smugly with the rest of us!

Jo told me that up to 80 or 90% of people have HPV. Dudes, every time I research this virus, I get a different number. But Nurse Jo was a stone cold fox and I believe her. Besides, knowing that everyone has this thing makes me feel less like an STD-laden skank! (Smiles brightly. And cue dimples.)

Boyfriend and Mom went a little pale when I explained my high grade situation. But I was happy as a clam. Why? Because my own body was no longer a mystery to me. I knew exactly what was going on and what they were going to recommend.

Although I did wish that I had waxed or something. Which is what you think in moments like these...when a specialist is about to rummage in your junk. But, chances are they've seen hundreds or thousands of cooters in their careers and it probably all blends into one. Same cooter, different day. You know.

Dr. Best in the City reminded me of my mom, but more relaxed. Dr. Mom is high strung, just like me. Dr. Best? Totally chill. 'Hey Sister, we're just gonna check out the scene and then I'll rap with you about the plan. Cool? Cool.' Her confidence put me way more at ease than Doogie 'Phone It In' Howser.

Because this was a high-tech medical centre of excellence, they had leg drapes instead of stirrups. Which are actually less humiliating because no one asks you to 'just open your knees a liiiiiiittle wider' to the point where you are splayed out like a biology class frog.

Got the visual? Good.

So, here's the deal. They want to cut out the bad cells. Or moderately bad cells, rather. I knew they were going to say this because I have the same brand of bad cells as last time. Only this time they are in the birth canal. Which creeps me right out.

"You've still got good volume to your cervix," Dr. Best said by way of reassuring me. What the hell does that mean? Well friends, it means there's still lots of cervix to cut out yet. She told me that the cerv is three centimetres thick and most gals can deal with three of these surgeries before childbearing becomes an issue.

And for me, formerly basking in the glow of patient education, this was too much information. "Don't worry," said Dr. Mom afterward. "They can always stitch it closed if you get pregnant." Cold. Freaking. Comfort. Mom.

"So, when do you want to come in for your surgery," the Nurse asked after Dr. Best had left the building. "Next Monday?"

Are you kidding me? I can't even get in to see my hairdresser next Monday.