Chapter 18 #2
“Yeah, trying to make it ‘more manageable’ definitely sounds like the basis of a satisfying sexual experience,” Jo huffs, her voice fiery.
“Jo—”
“That’s the best advice you have for dealing with her medical condition? Do you have any tips to, I don’t know, actually heal her instead of drinking it away?”
“Jo, please. It’s fine. I’m already working on it.”
Dr. Alvarez raises an eyebrow at Jo, then focuses her attention back on me.
“Ms. Rogers,” she says, her tone cool, “my official recommendation is to continue physical therapy. But if physical therapy doesn’t work for you, it’s probably because you haven’t gotten over the mental blocks that play into vaginismus.
I’m assuming your physical therapist explained that vaginismus has both a physical and a mental aspect? ”
I nod, trying to avoid looking at Jo.
“And are you seeing a therapist or a psychiatrist now? And have you talked to them about this?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve talked to her about it some.”
“Great. And if a glass of wine helps you feel more, let’s say, uninhibited, then yes, that is also part of my recommendation. If what you’re doing now doesn’t end up working, some other treatment options in the future could include vaginal numbing cream and vaginal Botox.”
Jo and I are both silent.
“Do you have any other questions, or should we go ahead and get the exam started?”
If my mind were working faster, I might be smart enough to come up with some questions to delay the inevitable.
For example, Did you say Botox? But, unfortunately for me and my vagina, my mind is completely blank save for a few words floating around (Wine.
Trust. Vagina. Painful. Botox. Take it slow.) and the image of Jo’s eyeballs about to pop out of their sockets.
Botox? Jo mouths.
My deep breathing keeps me focused and relatively calm while Dr. Alvarez starts the exam, feeling my abdomen and breasts.
And much to my surprise, when she puts medical lube on her gloved fingers and feels the walls of my vagina move as I take deep breaths, I’m not in an extraordinary amount of pain.
Is it uncomfortable? Sure. But that’s just as much because of the situation as because of my pelvic floor, I think.
I actually might be able to get through this unharmed. At least, that’s what I think until she pulls out the speculum and my heart drops.
“Wait, can you use the smallest size you have?” I ask again, eyeing the speculum, which is at least the same size as Key Lime. And I hate Key Lime’s manipulative ass.
Ha, Key Lime says in the back of my mind. I hear Cobalt snickering. For once, I don’t engage.
“This is the smallest size we have. But I’ll go slowly,” Dr. Alvarez says as she applies lube to the cold metal death trap.
Jo leans forward and squeezes my shoulder. “Breathe. You can do this.”
Dr. Alvarez wheels her chair between my legs again, holding the contraption in her hands.
“Ready?” she asks, her tone perfectly calm, as if she weren’t essentially asking me if I’m ready to be impaled.
I nod and close my eyes as tightly as I can.
There are white dots in my vision as I prepare myself for battle.
At first, the speculum is just cold. But as she slides it in farther, it turns to pain. My muscles are unbearably tight, locking down around the speculum as if squeezing down on the tool could stop it or even push it out.
I let out a whimper of pain. “Breathe,” Dr. Alvarez commands. “You’re doing great.”
I am not doing great.
In fact, I want to scream. That doesn’t do it justice, actually.
I want to bellow so loudly that I break the sound barrier, then kick Dr. Alvarez in the face until she removes the speculum.
But, to be honest, that’s going to be painful, too, so what I really need to do is get her to evaporate the tool into thin air.
And then she opens up the speculum.
The world comes to a halt around me. All I can think, sense, feel—that pressure inside of me. That all-encompassing, unbearable tightness that threatens to rip my muscles apart from strain.
And just when I think I can’t hold on any longer, she slides the speculum out of my body, causing one last spurt of pain.
“Breathe, Emma,” Jo whispers from behind me. I finally take an actual breath—in, out. My first full breath in at least sixty seconds.
Good to know that several weeks of focused physical therapy have gotten me approximately nowhere.
“Great job,” Dr. Alvarez lies, as though my insides haven’t just ripped at the seams like a fast-fashion garment. “I was able to get the sample we needed.”
Dr. Alvarez says some parting words that I do not even remotely listen to. A few minutes later, Jo helps me onto shaky feet and guides me back through the waiting room. Stay Salty! a sign announces on our way out. I will, thanks!
When we leave the office, Jo senses I need some time to collect myself before speaking, so we walk in silence to the nearest T station. We have five minutes until the next orange line train arrives, so we take a seat on an empty bench.
“I can tell that hurt more than you let on,” Jo finally says, quiet despite the rumble of conversation and footsteps and public transportation around us.
My silent nod is the only answer she gets.
Three weeks of physical therapy were enough to allow me to get a Pap smear, but my body is still freaking out and shutting down.
Will that get better with time, or is my body responding this way because of fear?
Sure, I’ll keep doing physical therapy, but how far is that going to take me?
And, more important, how quickly can I be done?
In a rush? Key Lime asks. Good luck with that.
Jo sighs, stretching out her legs. The train going in the opposite direction arrives, and we watch as people load off and on. As it pulls out of the station, I feel the bench shake.
“No one should have to go through what you’re going through,” Jo says, taking my hand in hers and resting her head against my shoulder. “I’m glad I could be here today. At the very least, I hope it’s easier when you don’t have to go through that alone.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. She squeezes my hand in response.
So much for Doing Better. I’ve accomplished—or at least made a good faith effort to accomplish—almost all the steps on my plan, and somehow, I feel worse. And I certainly don’t feel more ready to date.
Step one: get a new job. I did accomplish that one, but my paychecks cover my rent and groceries and not much else, and I was hired because I’m friends with the owner. It’s a great job for now, but not a great long-term plan. Great job, Emma.
Finish setting up the apartment within the next month. It’s been nearly four weeks since I moved here, and my apartment is still littered with Assorted Shit <3. I’m getting close, though?
Find a new therapist. Done, although we’ve only had one call, so I wouldn’t say it’s doing much for me.
Go on a date. I almost laugh out loud. Great plan on my end.
Start doing pelvic floor therapy. Done, although the phrasing of that goal was obviously a cop-out.
And, finally: Go back to the gynecologist.
Check, partial check, check, check, check, check.
Am I Better now? I sure as hell don’t feel like it.
I did everything I thought I needed to, and I put it all on the line and kissed my best friend, but I still feel like I’m teetering on a ledge and everything I want could go falling off the cliff at any second.
I’m starting to wonder how slow Taking It Slow is. Because I might need a snail’s pace to make this work.