How nice would it be if I could spend my extra cash on new shoes, fancy dinners, and the latest shade of MAC lipstick every month? That would be so wonderful. I work hard. I like to reward myself with nice things once and while. Unfortunately, I get to spend my excess cash on copays and creams. I wouldn’t really mind if it was actually helping the pain in my vagina. I would happily pay for all these expensive compounded creams if it meant I could have sex with my husband without feeling a burning, stabbing pain.
The receptionist at my gynecologist knows me on a first name basis, but still feels the need to make me write all my information down for the thousandth time. I just saw you a week ago, you robot. I want to throw the clip board across the room. Instead, I hear her asking for my copay. I keep my cool and hand over my debit card. But I hesitate for a moment and my hand grips the card firmly. She politely tugs it from my fingers. Damn it. I feel eyes on my back and wonder if the entire waiting room can read my mind. I fake a smile, take my seat, and everyone goes back to inattentively thumbing through old magazines.