T O D A Y

Drama Queen candidates
This won't hurt a bit

Contestant No. 1
Contestant No. 2
Contestant No. 3

Vote now!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

R E C E N T L Y

Things are not quite what they seem
By Polly Shulman
Themes of transformation populate three weirdly hypnotic children's books
(11/16/98)

Dark night of the iguana
By Anne Lamott
How my son's pet reptile taught me to love all sentient beings -- and Republicans too
(11/12/98)

Is one enough?
By Vivienne Walt
Will China's generation without siblings break away from the one-child rule?
(11/11/98)

Time for One Thing: Anxiety
By Jennifer Moses
Anxiety: That persistent, gnawing sense that something, somewhere, is not quite right actually serves a purpose -- it gets me out of bed
(11/10/98)

The last campaign
By Erin Aubry
My father was the kind of upright politician who did thankless, largely unquantifiable good works. Unfortunately, the electorate didn't give a damn
(11/09/98)

ARCHIVES

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

Deep freeze
By Mary Ellen Maher-Harkins

Being vigilant enough about my innards to get a pap smear every year, I finally won a prize in the cytology sweepstakes -- what the OB-GYNs obliquely call a "bad pap." Never mind all the hype a few years ago about how unreliable and inaccurate, say, 63 percent of the labs are, or that a fair number of the techies who look at your glass-enclosed mucus are sleep deprived and have a supervisor standing behind them snarling, "Read faster!"

Dysplasia. What is that, anyway? Is it a cell with a bulge, or a cell that looks suspicious, like it was standing in a doorway on a dark street? A cell that has trouble reading? No matter. When the doc says you have a "bad" one, you do exactly what you're told. No cancer will rot away my cervix, you think.

Thus I found myself back there in the exam room a week later, wearing a gigantic Marcal napkin and socks, which I never take off at the gynecologist in a futile effort to retain some dignity. This visit was special, because it wasn't a visit, it was a pro-ce-dure, as in "this won't hurt a bit." There are, unfortunately, other words besides "hurt."

In came the gynecologist, with his round, clean-shaven face and his white coat. He's younger than me, which is an indignity in itself. He's one of those people who hovers right on the edge of having a genuine conversation without ever making the commitment. Let's just say he doesn't encourage the sharing of confidences. In his pale way he said hello, how are you, how are the kids, how is your husband? "We're going to take a punch biopsy and freeze your cervix," he said. "Just lay back and relax like you always do. Nothing unusual here, be done in a few minutes."

As the speculum went in, I did that deep breathing thing I learned in drama class in college. I pretended my body was sinking into the floor, limb by limb, so I could ignore what was really happening to it -- useful in a number of circumstances. The doc was puttering around, silent of course, just the clink of stainless steel and handing things to the assistant. She's thin and blond and standing up with all her clothes on.

"Here's a shot of Novocaine," he told me, "so we can take the biopsy." There was a little prick and then, oh wow, he did mean punch, didn't he? It's wasn't pain exactly. Imagine how it would feel if Mike Tyson's arm was in your vagina and he tapped just once on your precious cervix, hard, with his index finger. If you think it's jarring when you're in the wrong position having sex, try this.

"Now we're going to freeze your cervix," said the doc. I relaxed, thinking this is the easy part, because if it was awful he would tell me. And besides I have Novocaine so what could hurt? The assistant wheeled over this big green tank of gas -- don't ask me what it was. It's whatever they freeze parts of your body with. Walt Disney's head is probably in a vat of it somewhere.

Hissssssss. "This takes about three minutes," he said. And the nozzle came up between my legs and up through the speculum and in where my three babies came out. Very possibly, I thought, he is about to freeze the most important part of my body, but that's OK, because I don't want cancer and I don't want to have a bad pap again.

It was all right for about 30 seconds. Then I realized that something horrible happens to the rest of your body when part of you is having its temperature lowered to where human life would end and another Ice Age would encircle the earth. My face felt flushed, and, oh God, I was convinced the top of my head was going to pop right off. Every part of me was so very, very hot, except in my vagina, which was beyond cold. In my vagina was what it must feel like to die, when everything warm and moving in your body just stops and your spirit recognizes the chill as a signal to move on. Unfortunately, I was still alive, trembling and boiling. To top it off, I had to pee so badly I wanted to cry. I did cry, and I was just so afraid I'd pee on his stinking hand and be very embarrassed.

That's when the assistant looked over and smiled (was she smirking?). "Oh, it's usually a little uncomfortable," she said. Couldn't have told me that five minutes ago, could she? Bitch.

When he stopped the gas I'd gladly have ripped the hose and speculum from inside me except I was way too hot and numb. I was expecting them to look at me and say, "Good Lord, what happened to you?" But no one else in the room seemed to think my reaction odd. This is normal?

He hurried out the door to the next patient. I didn't even try to get dressed, I just wrapped the napkin around my butt and charged down the hall to the bathroom where peeing felt like the best thing I'd ever done in my entire life.

After I got dressed, I made the obligatory appointments to come back every three months for a year. Which I did for a while. I knew in my gut nothing would ever dare grow down there again. There were no more bad paps.

And soon I found another doctor.
SALON | Nov. 17, 1998

Contestant No. 1 | Contestant No. 2 | Contestant No. 3 | Vote now!