Male medical doctors who specialise in womens reproductive health are enigmatic! I imagine that their warm well-groomed fingers could make yummy chapatis. We were discussing my medical history with this guy and he asked about my last menses. It was two weeks ago, I spoke as a matter of fact. He continued writing his notes, as he continued asking. How is your flow? he asked as though he was asking about road traffic. Oh... I hesitated, not too sure whether to say it was fine or red or heavy or painful. Your flow, is it okay? he probed as he lifted his beautiful black eyes hiding behind square-rimmed glasses and stared right into my soul. My flow is okay-ish... kind of, I stammered. How many days is it? He asked further as he went back to writing copious notes. Seven long days, I replied. The middle is very painful and full of clots, but then although the days are many, my cycle is regular like clockwork, I continued. The clots, what size are they? the doctor asked. Biggish..., I replied - again not sure whether to tell him they were the size of three coins. How big is biggish? he asked nonplussed. Like pieces of liver diced for frying, I explained holding out my curved index finger and thumb to illustrate the size. Do you like liver? the doctor asked. Usually I do, but I am not sure I will enjoy it after this interaction, I replied. Okay, please lie down with your face looking up. I need to examine your lower belly, he explained. I lay down on the thin hard examination bed and this professional began kneading my plump tummy as if he was preparing chapati dough. His warm hands with manicured fingers were press-pressing my belly for signs and symptoms of illness. I prayed there would be no exam further yonder. I thanked the Gods and Goddesses that I had remembered to wear my new pair of bright white panties...
Posted on: Wed, 07 Jan 2015 19:24:12 +0000
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