Chapter 4
Celeste
It’s never fun to go to the OB/GYN. Ever.
I’m happy I made this appointment not long after I got released anyway at the infirmary nurse’s insistence, because the pain is getting to the point where it is starting to interfere with my day to day life.
The over-the-counter meds are not helping as much as I need.
I’m hoping against hope this new doctor can provide some relief.
After waiting for half an hour, I’m brought back to the examination room. It’s not long after that when the doctor walks in with a warm smile on her face and her hand outstretched.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Naraya,” she says in a smooth, low voice.
“Celeste Martino,” I reply, shaking her hand.
“What brings you in today, Celeste?”
“My period pains have become more severe over the past few months, even hurting when I don’t have my period. The nurse who first saw me about it is convinced it’s endometriosis and urged me to get seen by an OB/GYN,” I explain. She nods and takes a bunch of notes.
“Were you given any medication for it?” she asks.
“Just over-the-counter pain meds,” I tell her. She nods and makes more notes.
“On a scale of 1-10, 10 being the highest, how do you rate your pain?”
“On a better day, maybe 3 or 4, during my period, a 5 or 6,” I say.
“What about family history? Does endometriosis run in your family?” she inquires without looking up from her notes.
“I’m not sure, I never really knew my family,” I tell her baldly. She looks up then, concern creasing her brow. She runs a hand through her dark ponytail, bringing it over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she replies quietly. I shrug it off the way I always do when it comes to talking about my birth family.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, I know these are standard questions. I wish I knew if I have a family history of anything. If it helps, my periods have always been painful, it’s just become worse in the past few months,” I say. She nods again, making more notes.
“Has there been any additional stress or potential triggers that coincide with the pain getting worse?” I lift my chin, preparing to get judged by her. I need to be honest though, if it’ll help her ease this pain.
“I was incarcerated for a few months before I was released about five weeks ago. It was the nurse at the infirmary who urged me to make this appointment. That was when the pain started getting worse.” She nods in understanding.
“I’d say that’s a stressful trigger,” she murmurs, flipping a page to scan my paperwork. “What about hormone treatment? It looks like you’ve been on a relatively low dose birth control pill?”
“I was afraid to switch to something stronger while I was in prison in case I had bad side effects,” I explain. “The nurse mentioned getting a stronger dose or a hormone IUD could help the symptoms.” She nods decisively.
“I’m definitely going to prescribe you a much higher dose to see if it helps, or we could do the IUD if you’d prefer.”
I wince.
“I have no health insurance right now, so I think the pills will be the cheaper option.” She makes a sound of agreement.
After making more notes, she asks me to get into the papery gown she hands me and leaves me to change.
When she comes back in she has me get onto the exam table, and then it’s that awful, vulnerable moment of putting my feet in the stirrups.
Is there anything more awkward than having a complete stranger examine your lady bits?
The paper gown and the paper underneath me on the table rustle as I shift uncomfortably. Bright overhead lighting beats down on me and makes me feel overexposed. It’s a woman who wants to help me that’s going to be touching me there, I say in my head over and over again. She’s not going to hurt me.
I tense anyway as she starts her exam, but I manage to breathe through it and will myself to relax. She’s gentle and efficient, and before I know it she’s done.
“I’m not seeing anything out of the ordinary, which is good news. We’ll have the pap smear results back soon and you’ll get a call. I’m going to get the ultrasound machine to take a much better look at what is going on, ok? Sit tight and I’ll be right back in.”
I nod before she heads out, quickly returning with the machine.
The ultrasound is slightly more invasive than the exam, but not completely uncomfortable.
I’m trying to read her expression, but it’s pretty impassive as she works.
When she finishes and cleans up, she leaves to let me get dressed.
After a couple of minutes, she knocks to come back in.
“What’s the verdict?” I ask her, nerves shooting through me like tiny lightning strikes.
“There is tissue on your fallopian tubes, and I spotted a few lesions. I would put you at six points, which is the beginning of Stage II. You’ve probably always had it at a low Stage 1, but it’s progressed due to your recent stress,” she explains, her warm eyes empathetic.
“Will a higher dose of hormones help when it’s that stage?” I ask.
“The hormones have been shown to help at the stage you’re in, yes, but there are no guarantees,” she says gently.
“If they don’t help? I don’t want to keep popping pain killers.” I hate how small my voice is, the fear and anxiety I’m feeling tightening my throat.
“Minimally invasive laparoscopic surgery to remove the tissue is also a good option if the hormones don’t provide enough relief,” she tells me with the air of someone who knows their idea is about to get shot down.
“I would get the surgery tomorrow if I had insurance and could afford it,” I say with a self deprecating laugh. “It probably won’t be feasible anytime soon unless I want to go into severe debt. Here’s hoping the hormones can do the job for now.”
“No sense in getting surgery until we see how the hormones do,” she agrees.
We finish up the appointment, and my eyes water with dread at the bill I’ll be receiving soon for simply getting diagnosed.
The ultrasound alone might drain my savings, let alone the exam and pap smear.
Healthcare in this country is an absolute joke, especially for women.
Dr. Naraya did mention that I could potentially work out a payment plan with her billing department, so that might ease the burden.
She sent me home with the higher dose of hormones, which I’m hoping against hope will help.
I worked the morning and lunch shift before my appointment, and now the day is shifting into the tired haze of early evening, complete with the lovely horn honking and bustle of commuter traffic.
Tania and Carlo are going out for a dinner date after work, and for some reason I don’t feel like going back to an empty apartment before I have my court ordered anger management class at eight tonight.
It will be my first one after my sentence was reduced since it meets once a month, and on top of everything else today I’m nervous about how it will go.
I’m feeling completely raw, like an exposed nerve, between the doctor’s appointment and the upcoming class.
As if on autopilot, I end up pulling into El Abrevadero.
It’s been two weeks since I walked in to find Gage on his knees in front of me, and I feel a bolt of heat at the memory.
Having him on his knees for me in another setting is something I’ll probably think about way too often when I need some self care inspiration.
I’m having the pathetic revelation that it’s been over a year since I’ve had a man’s attention where I need it.
More than anything though, seeing Gage always soothes me when I’m having a rough day.
When I park, I quickly pull out my ponytail to fluff up my hair, running my brush through it.
Then I touch up my makeup a little with the mascara and lip gloss in my purse.
Feeling a little better about my appearance, I get out and make my way to the front door of the bar.
As soon as I walk in, my gaze meets Gage’s behind the bar, our eyes snapping together like attracting magnets.
His face lights up with a smile as I walk toward him, and I answer it with my own.
My nervous system instantly relaxes at seeing that handsome face.
I don’t know what it is about him that sets me at ease when I am normally incredibly skittish with men.
He has this very specific mix of charm, earnestness, and calm whenever we talk.
Maybe it’s that my intuition says he doesn’t seem to want or expect anything from me, in spite of our harmless flirting.
He just listens and talks to me like I’m a normal human being instead of the angry, damaged woman a lot of people see.
I can simply be myself and know that he won’t be offended or act out.
It’s a weeknight, so it’s not as crowded and loud as on a Friday or Saturday.
There is still the completely wonderful assault on the senses as I wind my way through the tables.
Upbeat cumbia music is playing through the speakers, I can smell the mouthwatering pork from the arepas, and the air is redolent with tequila and cologne.
The lighting is low, sending a latticework of colorful beams across the floor.
When I reach the bar and sit on a high back chair near the end, Gage comes right over.
“I was getting worried you forgot about this place,” he playfully pouts in greeting. I theatrically bring my right hand over my heart.
“I could never,” I say in mock offense. His already broad smile widens.
“What can I get you?”
“Just a glass of pinot grigio tonight, please.” He nods and quickly pours a glass for me before sliding it into my reach.
“Not a margarita night for you?” His head is tilted with curiosity.