Chapter 3- Doctor Who?
2360 Words
EMILY
My hands are shaking as I step out of the cab. Appointment day has arrived, and I have no choice but to face it. The best mom in the world, who's with me now, set this up without my approval.
Turning around, I stare at the large, white, and red building now in front of me. The words "WOMEN’S ROYAL HOSPITAL" that are located on the top right side were boldly assembled in light red, sending chills down my spine as I read it. Everything about the hospital seems so spotlessly clean, as almost all hospitals do, yet my stomach churns when I step inside its premises, as I can smell the antiseptic disguise of all the sickness in the world. It’s depressing.
The last time I went to a hospital was when I got my braces off. Our family dentist’s office was situated in the outpatient department. I was around twelve then, and I remember bringing my favorite stuffed toy, a panda, with me in excitement. Having a metal fence on my teeth for three years doesn’t give you a favorable experience especially when you eat. When they finally came off, it felt better than taking off an underwire bra after a long day. I kept licking my smooth, straight teeth for days, enjoying freedom.
If I had a choice, I wouldn't go inside this building. But I have to. My mom's hand grabs mine, her smile and soft brown eyes calming my nerves.
I let out a puff of air, realizing I had been holding my breath. With determination, I nod at her. The smell of rubbing alcohol and disinfectants fills my nose as we enter. My mom walks to the information desk, and I glance at the list of doctors on the wall.
My intestines twist when I see my doctor's name.
"Dr. Samantha Jacobs, OB/GYN, Consultant."
So, she will be the one seeing my most intimate parts…
We walk to the closest elevator and press the UP button, my finger lingering on the red light momentarily.
"Do you think this is serious, like serious serious?" I ask, my eyes fixed on the closed elevator doors. She chuckles softly and squeezes my hand.
"Don't be nervous. Just think about getting better after this," she whispers. I feel a familiar light-headedness as the elevator swiftly catapults us to the third floor. The doors then open into a large lobby, and we approach the reception area. I try to smile, but the nurse behind the glass window isn't exactly welcoming.
"Good morning, I have an appointment with Dr. Jacobs. My name is Emily Maxwell," I say. The pretty brunette hands me a clipboard with paperwork.
"Just fill this out," she instructs, not exactly friendly.
Mom hugs me from behind and says she's going to the powder room. I sit in the waiting room, filling out the paperwork with my shaky hand. I struggle with the menstrual history questions, not remembering the exact dates. Maybe I'm just a freak of nature and went into menopause at twenty.
I look around for my mom to clarify the family history questions, but she's still gone. As far as I know, no one in my family has had any gynecological diseases. I hope it won't matter anyway.
I scrunch my nose at the s****l History portion. The embarrassing questions make me sweat.
Do you have a s****l partner? I put a big, bold, and pretty circle around "No" for emphasis.
How many s****l partners have you had? Uhm, can you give me one?
When was the last time you had s****l intercourse? Why don’t you give me a s****l partner first, then we can talk about that stuff?
Goodness gracious. I swallow hard at the questions. My circles get a little less perfect or bold as I answer "No," "None, "or "N/A" to almost all the questions. I know the doctor won't judge, but it's still embarrassing.
Zero experience—you're a prude. Got some experience with more than two partners—you're a slut. That's the reality.
So what if I'm still a virgin? I'm only twenty. Someday, I'll experience s*x, but I'm not ready yet.
I bite my lip as an image of someone enters my mind all of a sudden. Swimming through my thoughts are vague images of his masculine torso with all those tattoos...
Why in the hell are you remembering him right now?
Fine. I admit he had had an odd effect on me, even with such a brief encounter. I walked home that night with my thighs gliding smoothly against each other. Friction was nowhere to be found, and I swear I felt something down there having a heartbeat of its own.
A red tinge crept across my face. I shake off the unholy thoughts and quickly finish the paperwork. I return them and sit back down, still no sign of my mom. My knees bounce as I look around the waiting room. Everyone seems calm. They're probably here for routine checkups, unlike me, who's dreading not only my first vaginal exam but also the fear of a serious disease or ovarian cancer or something.
And the Over-reacting Award goes to…
"Emily Maxwell?"
The same "friendly" nurse calls out my name as she pokes her head from the hallway where all the exam rooms are located. I can feel my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest; I can literally hear it.
Leading me through the entrance and pointing at a door, the nurse hands me a plastic bag containing a specimen cup with a red cover.
"This is the restroom. We need a urine sample. Just follow the instructions on the back of the door."
Ugh. I hate peeing on or in anything but toilet bowls. But I nod obediently and step hesitantly inside the restroom. It’s relatively small inside, and the harsh orange-ish light is straining my eyes. I quickly scan the instructions and then pull my leggings down and start to pee. I shudder with the hissing sound of my urine going first into the bowl, then the cup.
After finishing, I put the cup on the window ledge and took a peek through the small window. The bathroom is adjoined with a small laboratory. Before going out of the restroom, I take a glance at my reflection in the mirror. Oh my, who is this beautiful fairy?
Fairy? More like, a single 40-year-old teacher who lives alone with her 22 cats.
Enough with your hyperboles already!
But that’s how stressed you look, hunny.
My eyes look sunken above my eye bags – or, rather, luggage. The faint freckles scattered on my nose bridge seem more prominent today, and my lips are as dry as a barren desert. My hair is a total mess, with random strands sticking out everywhere. I pointlessly scoop them up into a messy bun.
I step out of the restroom and Nurse Friendly’s annoyed face welcomes me, appearing as if she had been waiting for me for three hours rather than three minutes.
I follow her back to a small room with medical equipment. She measures my height and weight, noting them down. Five feet four inches and fifty kilograms. Great, I lost two kilograms in two months.
My heart is pounding as I sit in the chair, and she wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm. I can already tell it's going to be terrible, considering my pulse has been racing before I even left home. I cringe as she pumps the cuff over 200 mmHg. I feel like my arm is about to burst. My hand turns pale and tingly, which is another reason why I hate hospitals. They always have these uncomfortable monitoring procedures.
"Nervous?" Nurse Friendly asks nonchalantly after deflating the cuff and removing her stethoscope earpieces.
"A little bit," I reply.
"Your blood pressure is a bit high, but probably just from nerves. Relax, Dr. Greene is great. You'll enjoy the experience," she says with a mischievous grin.
Wait, Dr. Greene? My mind reels. "Uh, I think my mother scheduled me for an appointment with Dr. Jacobs."
"We sent a message to the number that was given to us when the appointment was made," she explains.
Still confused, I try to brush it off. Mom never checks her messages anyway. And let's be honest, this is going to be awful no matter who the doctor is. "Oh, okay."
"Follow me," she says, sashaying briskly down the hall. I struggle to keep up with her from behind.
We pass by several closed doors – exam rooms and doctors’ private offices with their names and corresponding specialties engraved on metal plates. I hear a pitiful cry coming from one of them, making my body convulse in dread.
Reaching the very last door at the end of the long hall, she says "In here," opening it for me. I notice it has no label…
I step into the room, taking in its not-so-bright lighting and gray walls. There's a huge portrait of a woman's naked upper torso in an erotic side-lying position. The detail is impressive and my eyes linger on it for a few seconds.
A wooden desk with a leather chair sits on that side of the room as well. I take a quick inventory of the desk: a mug of most probably cold coffee, a clipboard, a personal computer, a stethoscope, a couple of folders, and a Canon DSLR camera. They’re all neatly organized on the table. The camera seems out of place though. And certainly, nothing is very feminine, other than the painting, of course.
In the middle of the room is a dark green leather examination table which made my insides churn in anticipation. It’s slightly reclined, with metal foot holders on either side. The center of the table is covered with white paper, and there's a plastic sleeve containing a gown on top.
So, I'll be lying on that table with my legs spread for the doctor? Holy juicy macaroni…
On the other side of the room, there's a machine with a monitor, presumably the ultrasound. Next to it is a cabinet with drawers and a large microscope on top. There's also a metal tray with scary-looking tools, folded towels, and a metal lamp on a bending, twisted stem. A rolling stool is parked nearby.
On the opposite wall, there's a long set of cabinets with a counter and sink below them. The counter is lined with glass jars containing cotton swabs and educational pamphlets, along with more medical instruments.
"Okay, Miss—" the nurse glances at my file, "...Maxwell. I'll be leaving you here. You can undress and put this gown on," she gestures towards the table, "open to the front."
"Wait, so I have to remove everything?" I gulp, knowing I have to.
"Yes, of course. Is this your first time?" she asks, glancing at my file again, this time with a perfectly raised judgmental eyebrow.
I nod, pissed at her inquisitiveness which seems designed to embarrass me.
"Okay, good luck."
Is it just me, or she’s not exactly fond of me?
"Just hop on that table when you're done, and Dr. Greene will be here in a few moments," she mutters something under her breath before disappearing through the door. I should buy her a nametag for her light blue scrubs... Nurse F.
The door closes, and that feeling washes over me again. Nausea, panic, my stomach doing flips. My body knows it's about to be invaded. I take a deep breath and exhale loudly, trying to calm myself.
I walk slowly towards the table and open the plastic sleeve to reveal a mint green paper gown with flowery designs. Dr. Greene definitely has a thing for green. I force a crazed smile.
I unfold the gown, realizing it's the same kind you see in hospital scenes in movies, except mine is open in the front. I reluctantly strip off everything, unsure of what I'm more afraid of - being naked in front of someone or the possibility of having some cancer.
Probably both equally... and it's killing me.
I reluctantly peel off my white cashmere shirt, pluck my bra off, and fold the two items before setting them aside. I hug myself as the coldness of the AC kisses my skin.
I slowly pull the paper robe on before pulling down my leggings along with my laced panties. I look at my mound and somehow feel satisfied with its baldness. Last night, I shaved everything down there up to the last bit around the crinkled brown opening of my butt. I should look neat and presentable to the doctor at least. I look closer and wince upon seeing the ugly stubbles; there is actually like 2 mm of hair growing. Seriously?
No one has ever seen mine down there, except of course Mom when I was younger, and Lance when walking in on me in our adjoining bathroom like five years ago. That bastard had seen me naked, and I still remembered the stupid smirk on his face before he acted like it was the most disgusting sight his eyes had ever laid on.
Shivering a little, I hop back up onto the exam table with my legs dangling on the side. I move the flimsy gown so that it won’t gape open the way it is trying to. I feel half naked, which I actually am, and my n*****s hurt from their sudden stiffness rubbing against the coarse, rigid paper.
I heard a rustling noise outside the door. It must be the doctor already. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, purse my lips, clear my mind, and slowly exhale all the air from my lungs.
Alright, I’m ready...
And there’s a knock. Before I could squeeze out the words "Come in," the doorknob turned, and my heartbeat instantly raced. My hands are sweating bullets.
Relax, Emily...
I crane my neck trying to peer around the door as it opens slowly, only for my eyes to grow wider when the doctor finally enters the room.
Wait a minute...
- Writer
