I’m here for something that’s never been enjoyable. As I arrive at the gyno’s office, I’ve managed to delude myself into looking forward to the experience. I tell the front nurse my name and the name of the doctor to examine my cervix, when the truth stiflingly takes ahold of me like the wood paneling does to the waiting room.

I take a seat in the sea of brown chairs and wait to be called. The magazine selection doesn’t speak to me and I don’t have enough space to comfortably read the City Paper, as the woman sitting next to me is so clearly demonstrating with her Post. True to character, HGTV is streaming a house-hunting show on a television above my head. This should keep me entertained until my legs mount the stirrups.

A short while later my name is called and I leave the waiting room feeling ambivalent about not knowing which house new homeowner Sabrina chose. No matter. There is an actual reason I am here. I follow a really nice, slightly overenthusiastic nurse to an exam room in the back. She instructs me to remove everything from the waist down and right before giving me the appropriate privacy asks,
“Do you want a pad?”
“Yes, please.”
“Ok, here. There may be some light bleeding, so that’s what they’re for. We also have ibuprofen, if you need it.”
“I’m okay,” I reply, trying to pacify her eager-to-please energy.

The nurse vanishes and I undress. There are 2 cloth gowns perfectly folded on the examining table. I open them up and drape them over my washed out limbs.
I don’t wait too long before Dr. Osburn arrives.

He keeps me engaged, ensuring that I’m as present as he is with every single colposcopic climb. I’m not interested in following him. I can’t wait for this to be over. Or better yet, for two weeks from now when he tells me that I don’t have cancer.

I look up at the grainy white ceiling. Muttering yes and ok every once in a while, but mostly just wincing – a pinch here, a pinch there, a look towards the wall and an emphatic blink. It hurts. It sucks. He’s done.