The twentieth visit to the doctor isn’t as fun as the first. Oh wait, no visit has ever been fun. From the waiting room full of women looking at two year old magazines, to the smaller waiting room with those loathsome metal stirrups, I’m over it. I’m over the redundant forms, the scale, the oh-so-trendy paper gowns, and excess lube that seems to haunt me for the rest of the day.
Why am I here? Again? Oh yes, now I remember. My vagina feels like someone is cutting it with a sharp knife whenever I try to sleep with my husband. Each and every visit, I enter the exam room full of hope that maybe this time the doctor will have something new to offer. But I always leave with that hope dashed, having heard the same unhelpful nonsense that I always hear.
What is this called? Am I the only one who has this? Who even knows?? Hell, my doctor doesn’t even know. How many times are you going to test me for STD’s? That’s a doctors reaction to nearly everything when you are in your 20’s. So after a fruitless twenty minute discussion, we end with the hollow advice to “drink some wine and take some Advil.” Then I’m given a prescription for an expensive cream containing harsh medications that I can’t even pronounce.
And after filling said prescriptions, I discover that putting a cream on the opening of the vagina isn’t really an easy task. I apologize for the visual.
I sigh as I get into my car and sink down into the seat. Another appointment, another prescription. I turn on the car and call my husband on my Bluetooth. He cheerfully picks up and says “Hey Babe, how did it go?”