cervical slam redux

Because of a vaccine I can't afford and don't trust yet,
my fear of waiting rooms and mono swabs,
chest rattles and skin rashes, a city that won't talk
while it silently breaks out in hives and track marks, because for
all my rainbow flags I'm still afraid to tell the doctor,
we rustle elbows with the viral infections and wait for Pap smears
like we're on a date. Taking deep breaths like a couple
in a prenatal class while we inhale everyone else's pneumonia
and fear so I can hear someone tell me I don't have HPV....or cancer.
And this is how I know you love me: because you wait.
Because your face turned white in the car on the way downtown when
I told you I'm sure I'm clean, unless my ex really did cheat on me with that guy who
had herpes, and/or this time it isn't just a bladder infection.
But we're both sure I'm fine, and we're both lying. I am knee-deep in denial
like I'm wading to the shore of a city that isn't the chlamydia capital of the Canada.
I am so busy counting everything that's been inside of me since my last check-up --
tampons, ex-girlfriend, diva cup, ex-girlfriend, yeast infection, ex-girlfriend -- that I
don't even hear the doctor call my name.
This is how you prepare. Count the hands and mouths that have neared you like a
rosary. Put on your favourite dress and mascara because this should not but could
make you feel ugly. Take deep breaths. Practice saying "vagina" in the mirror until
you stop blushing. Remember that what feels red and fragile is muscle tissue strong
enough to birth watermelons even if you never, ever want to think about it. This is
how you prepare.
Now, you might wonder what's the big deal about lying back to stirrup your feet
while they do a little basement inspection, a little undercover investigation. What's
the big deal about unfolding yourself like a map you still can't quite read with names
you can't quite pronounce, where you don't let your lovers go with the lights on.
This is a big deal because I was eighteen and it was a first time like every bad movie
and Judy Blume novel:
Me: ouch and she: sorry until she: oh god and can I go get another doctor? who's like "Hide and go cervix?" and "oh look, you're retroverted," and I'm like "Oh hi, I'm Leah."
This is a big deal because I rolled up to the clinic determined to be a responsible user of my uterus and she's like "Lesbian?" and I'm like "Yeah" and she's like "Well, I can try....if you really want. " Like I really want a Pap smear. Like I'm sewn up. As if lesbian meant eunuch, as if all we really do is hold hands.
And I'm like "HIV?" and she laughs
And I'm like "Tattoos, piercings, dirty needles," and she's like "Pssssh,"
And I'm like "Hep C" and she's like "Nah"
This is a big deal. Now who do I have to blow to get a Pap smear around here?
This is how I know you love me: because you listen to me cry about health care as if my dog just died. Because you frog march me up all three flights of stairs to the clinic downtown.
Because this time, the doctor offers to hold my hand. Lets me skip the paper gown and keep my dress on. She says I have a pretty little cervix, and it's actually just off to the left. Two things I've never heard before. She tells me to go buy myself a Slurpee. But I smell like a hospital and there's cheap lube leaking out into my underwear when I walk (Wear your good underwear, the ones you reserve for first or third dates, or the doctor).
This is how you recover: go home and sweat in the bath until your apartment smells like an orange grove. Pretend nothing has ever reached inside you. Sweat until you get your results back. Sweat until we can get this without fighting, without a waiting room full of tears, without second thoughts. I don't want second chances for HPV or cancer. I want some results.