Damn!

Is what I yelled at the doctor today when he cut a gigantic frickin chunk of my cervix out during a “Colposcopy” proceedure, which is code for: the entire lower half of your body is about to hurt like hell! I didn’t know what I was getting myself into this afternoon. I knew I had some abnormal tissue down below and that something needed to be done about it, but I had no idea it was going to be an instant pain session. For all you guys out there (who most likely won’t be reading this), you should be stoked you don’t have to deal with this seriously unpleasant business! It just about ruined my day.

When you’re lying there, vulnerable as a newborn to the whims of a doctor who you can’t see, lots of thoughts race through your head. I had no idea what sort of pain to prepare myself for, because I had no idea I was even having the procedure until about 5 minutes beforehand. I tried to be brave, to breathe through it, to think about other stuff, to hold my breath. Anything really.

In that moment, a thought flashed through my head: I’d read in magazines and heard on NPR stories of women who have endured horrible suffering at the hands of men. Gang rape, violation with objects, the infections that ensue afterwards, the contraction of STD’s, how they are forever tainted after their assault as unclean women at no fault of their own. These poor women. Virtually unknown. The Congo, Rwanda, India, Thailand. The back streets of NYC on a dark night. I heard of one story where a Congolese soldier, after having raped a woman, shot a gun off up inside her. She managed to survive, although her life was virtually ruined and her health compromised forever. I tried to think of this woman in that moment. I tried to be brave for her, knowing all the pain that she had experienced and I couldn’t. My own pain was too great.

The difference is that my moment of pain was done in an effort to protect my life and to ensure good health. Hers was not.