The young, fresh-faced Ethopian doctor walked in, shook my hand and completely ignored my tears. Told me to just lay down.
The sedation, the procedure, my feelings, anxieties, were clearly not up for discussion.
This is where you succeeded, Planned Parenthood. It was total go time. Once you made it into that room you weren’t going back. This was the best possible thing that could have happened. Any further discussion about anything would have made me melt down from frustration and anxiety. (I was a wee bit emotional)
I was also flummoxed by the fact that he was a man. My defenses were thrown. Every single person I saw and dealt with behind the desk that day was a woman. My gynos have always been ladies (its important for me to describe pain to my doctor and have them know which flabia or labia i’m talking about.)
I laid back, there was no cool thing on the ceiling — at my old clinic in LA they had pictures of pandas and dolphins!! The nurse spiked my vein and the morphine shot hurt like a bitch. I’m wincing and writhing and thinking
FUCK! IF THAT HURT, WHAT’S THE VACCUM GOING TO FEEL LIKE AHHHHHHH—
And then like a slow rolling wave- it washed over me. I inhaled and I felt fucking magnificent. Picture right when you’re coming out of sleep, when you turn over to snooze and put your face to the cold part of your pillow, you can’t help but grin. Ok, hold that soothing warmth and total relaxation, now imagine having an orgasm. Like 5 of them, surronded by plushy pillows. That’s what hit me about 20 seconds after they poped the IV in.
I closed my eyes to let myself float through the high and thought “oh my god, i feel so good, oh my good, this is fucking good, oh my god —”
“And you’re all done.” The doctor says.
I couldn’t believe it.
I felt nothing.
I heard nothing.
I felt awesome.
Wanna talk about the question of life? Let me put it like this: the physical and psychological euphoria was so immense that moments after I stood up i felt resurrected. I felt very certain the life had indeed prevailed. My life.
I scooted off the slab, with the paper still clinging to my ass and thighs and asked if I could see “it”. I looked at a medical waste bucket by my feet and to be honest, my head was swirling so much that I could have been looking at bucket of baby bones, or Marie Antoinette’s severed head, or unicorns, or thumb tacks I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I put my clothes on and was escorted clumsily into the recovery room where there 5 other women in their own separate dazes. Now that’s a good story. Until tomorrow. My ambien is preventing me from tortured coherence.