Chapter 18
The plush seat of the waiting room chair is a little too comfortable, especially for a sleepy Monday afternoon, and combined with the calming ocean paintings and seafoam-green wall color, I feel myself being lulled into a false sense of security.
But nothing about this appointment is low stakes, especially after what happened with Harrison.
I mutter a curse toward a sign above the door that reads, “I Can SEA Clearly Now.” I will remain strong.
I am on guard. I will not allow this calming environment to distract me from my primary goal: accomplishing another step on my plan to Do Better, then getting out of this gynecology office as quickly as humanly possible.
Maybe this appointment will go so smoothly that I can never speak the word “vaginismus” again. After all, pelvic floor therapy has been…going.
“Emma?” a voice says. I turn to the left, and there she is—red hair and a messy bun, cutoff jean shorts, and Birkenstocks. A soft smile.
She walks over, plopping down into the chair next to mine.
“Oh my god, Jo,” I whisper, breathy with disbelief. “You came.”
“Obviously,” she says, amusement in her voice.
“You don’t hate me?”
She whips her head toward me, scowling. “I might be mad at you, but I still love you. Get it straight. I wasn’t going to let you do this alone. We’re here to support each other, remember?”
I wrap her up in a side hug, burying my head into her shoulder. “I love you, too. I’m sorry I was mean to you. I promise I’ll be better.”
“And I’m sorry I was pushy. If you don’t want to be with Harrison, you shouldn’t be with Harrison.”
I stay silent. Taking it slow. I’ll tell her when we’re not…right here. When I’m in a better head space. And when I’m prepared to get yelled at for not just telling him about my vaginismus.
“Anyway,” Jo says, pointing at a sign above the reception desk. “Life’s a Beach.” She turns to me, whispering conspiratorially. “So are gynecologists.”
I offer half a laugh. Unfortunately, neither Jo nor my big secret can distract me from the fact that I’m (hopefully) about to get my first Pap smear, and I’m only about 20 percent confident the speculum will fit inside of me.
I’ve made only minimal progress with my dilators in the last couple of weeks.
But a little progress is better than no progress, right?
I’m not worried. I shouldn’t be worried.
But maybe I’m a little worried, because there’s only so long I can go without either solving this problem alone or telling Harrison about it.
We’re too much for you to handle, Key Lime says in the back of my mind.
I’m the size of an average penis and yet you still can’t fit me inside that ridiculous vagina of yours, Cobalt says. You’d better hope you never want to date someone with a larger-than-average penis.
I ignore the comment and absolutely do not wonder about the size of Harrison’s penis.
You’re a dick, I respond—a little too on the nose.
You wish dicks were this small, Key Lime says.
Stop making me think about dicks. I don’t want to think about dicks right now.
Maybe that’s your problem.
Shut up, I think, rather than admitting they have a valid point.
A nurse appears from behind a white door that’s painted to look like shiplap. “Emma?”
“Thar she blows,” Jo murmurs, standing up. My stomach murmurs in response.
Inhale. Exhale.
This is not that first gynecologist, nine years ago, where I tensed up so horribly I thought I wouldn’t survive the pain.
This is not that gynecologist, where I cried before the word “vaginismus” even came out of their mouth.
This is not that gynecologist, where the doctor’s exam ended after less than an inch of index finger.
Inhale. Exhale.
The nurse leads me down a winding hallway and into a room decorated with posters of smiling women and illustrated ovaries.
A little replica of the female reproductive system sits on the counter.
I want to throw it in the medical waste bin.
Waste of counter space. Waste of my time. Waste of my emotional energy.
Jo settles into a seat behind the examination table as the nurse runs through the intake questions, most of which I vaguely remember from the gynecology appointment I went to as a freshman in college.
“Are you sexually active?”
“No,” I say, giving Jo a pointed look over my shoulder. In response, Jo smiles and shoots me a thumbs-up.
After a few more rounds of questioning, the nurse closes the computer application and faces me. “You’ll need to get a Pap smear. Is there anything else you’d like to talk to the doctor about today? Birth control, maybe?”
I force out a shaky breath before answering. “Birth control won’t be necessary right now. If you could make a note in my file—I have vaginismus, so if the doctor could use the smallest sized speculum, that would be ideal.” Jo gives an encouraging nod in my periphery.
“Sure,” the nurse says, jotting a note in my file.
“Doctor Alvarez will be here in a few minutes. Go ahead and put on the robe I left on the counter.” She gestures toward a hideous piece of fabric encased in plastic.
I mutter my thanks as she leaves the room, pulling a curtain in front of the door to protect my privacy.
God forbid the gyno enter too early and see me naked.
Jo puts her hands over her eyes as I start to undress.
“The first time I went to the gynecologist, I told her I didn’t want any birth control, and she spent three full minutes explaining to me why the pill would be good for me so I don’t unintentionally get pregnant before she realized I wasn’t dating a man. ”
I let out a small laugh even though my stomach is turning to lead. “Why didn’t you just tell her from the get-go?”
“She was being presumptuous. And she needed to learn to be better.”
“Fair enough.” My hands shake uncontrollably as I attempt to tie the strings at the side of the dress. “The first time I went to the gynecologist, we got three seconds into the exam, and I started sobbing so hard that she told someone to bring me an apple juice box.”
Jo snorts. “Did it help?”
“Honestly, a little.”
After a pause, Jo adds, “It’s going to be different this time.”
“I know,” I whisper, folding my clothes into a neat pile.
“You doing okay?” she asks, her voice muffled by her palms.
“Not particularly.”
“Deep breaths, please.” I let my chest expand and deflate, breathing loudly so Jo knows I’m listening to her instructions. Inhale. Exhale. “Good,” she says. “Keep doing that.”
“I’m decent,” I tell her as I settle onto the examination table. Jo leans forward and reaches out a hand, giving my shaking fingers a squeeze.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says.
“It’s like a concrete wall down there,” I mumble, eyeing the thin piece of fabric covering me.
“Well then.” Jo’s voice drops as she adds, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”
After a few more minutes of deep breathing, there’s a knock at the door. I manage to squeak out a “come in” as I press my thighs together, self-conscious.
Dr. Alvarez is an older woman, gray hairs pulled back into a bun so tight it tugs at her temples and leaves her face looking hollow. I would bet money she despises tattoos and doesn’t believe in second ear piercings.
I shake my head forward and let my hair cover my cartilage piercing.
She is not someone I want to discuss my vagina with. But, to her credit, her face does warm slightly as she smiles and introduces herself. And, to my credit, I manage to smile back and remember my own name.
She hums quietly as she scrolls through the notes the nurse typed up. “Here for moral support?” she asks, vaguely in Jo’s direction.
“Yes,” Jo and I answer at the same time. I shoot her my best I’m sorry I’m talking for you, I’m nervous look. She winks in response.
“I see here that you have a history of vaginismus?”
I clear my throat. “Yes.” When I don’t elaborate, Dr. Alvarez looks in my direction.
“I was diagnosed about nine years ago,” I stammer out. “I only started going to pelvic floor therapy a few weeks ago.”
“And how is pelvic floor therapy going?” she asks, typing a note in my file.
“Uh, I just started about three weeks ago, so I haven’t made much progress.
But I wanted to try to get a Pap smear anyway.
Because I know it’s important, and also because I want to be brave.
” I sound like a three-year-old about to go to daycare for the first time, but Jo gives me an encouraging nod.
“So, I’m hoping you can use the smallest speculum you have.
And go super slowly.” Not a crazy request by any measure—and yet I still feel like I’m asking her to move mountains for me.
As if by requesting she be patient with me, I’m being disrespectful of her time.
“We can do that,” she says, still staring at the computer. Inhale. Exhale. “Physical therapy is a good step, even if it’s going slowly. Have you also tried having a glass of wine before attempting penetration?”
Jo’s eyes widen in shock, but Dr. Alvarez’s back is turned—so thankfully, Jo’s facial expression is hidden from view.
“Sorry?” I stammer out, praying my face doesn’t mirror Jo’s.
“Well, having a glass of wine will help you relax, whether before intercourse or before using your dilators. Some patients find it keeps their muscles from tensing up as much.”
Before I can open my mouth to respond, Jo makes a small scoffing noise. Dr. Alvarez turns around to look at her, and much to my dismay, Jo takes that as permission to speak. Because why not make this situation harder?
“I’m sorry, you’re suggesting she get tipsy before having sex, so she doesn’t feel as much? That feels rather counterintuitive, don’t you think?”
My face heats as I widen my eyes furiously at Jo, begging her to stop. Unfortunately, Dr. Alvarez seems inclined to engage.
“I’m not suggesting she get drunk and then have sex.” She, as if I’m not sitting two feet away while they discuss my sex life. “But yes, wine may help her muscles relax, which would in turn make a sexual encounter more manageable.”