17 June 2024
‘It sounds pretty normal to me.’
You shift against this hard plastic chair, its rigid back biting into you, making the ache curl through your stomach and legs.
Oh, you have a uterus, do you?
You’d booked this appointment while hunched over the toilet floor at 2 am, when desperation had overridden sense. You’d sat in the waiting room for nearly twenty-five minutes, watching people who arrived after you get called in. It’s been what, five minutes since the appointment started?
God, he’s got some fucking gall.
You slip into your customer service voice through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve been tracking my symptoms for a while now’ – two years – ‘sometimes it feels like I’m dying,’ like the unfertilised egg is chucking a tantrum for not getting its cream pie.
He smirks, ‘oh, plenty of women feel that way.’
Just… Play along.
‘Even still, I’d like the referral, just to be sure.’
‘Hmph. I think we should take your blood pressure,’ gesturing at your arm with bone white fingers. ‘Do you mind?’
You fish your arm out from your shirt and flop it down. The cuff is fixed to your bicep; you hear the hiss of air and pressure against your skin.
God, your pants usually fit, but not today. The way they’re pinching your skin against your bloated stomach makes you want to rip everything off and free bleed in this fucking hot box.
‘Have you been under a lot of stress lately?’
Scratch that. You might also flay your own skin and choke him with it.
Okay. Calm down.
You manufacture a giggle. ‘Well, yes. But who isn’t?’
In one swift motion, he signs the newly printed pages, green and blue boxes stamped with precision.
You hadn’t asked for prescriptions.
‘This will help with your anxiety. Start with half per day, in the morning with food. And this…’ Another signature. ‘should help with the pain. And they’re cheaper too, with your healthcare card.’ You catch the words ‘Voltaren’ and ‘75 mg’.
Perfect. I’ll need my stomach pumped, too.
‘Um… Thanks.’
‘Anything else?’
Yeah, you ancient fuck. ‘… The gynaecology referral?’