The flare of hope for a good appointment Emy sparked inside me flickers out with that question until only a smoldering ember of nope, no way, nuh-uh, not going to happen remains.
Thick bile churns in my stomach. For whatever reason, I feel queasy discussing my vibrator usage—or lack thereof—with a man that went to high school with my great-tantes and oncles.
Dr. Murdoch keeps his lips taut, elbow-deep in my cave of wonders, searching for a sign of the curse.
Spoiler alert: he won’t find one there. They never have.
My vocal cords tighten, holding down a scream, and I clear my throat.
“No. But I feel like—”Oh, punaise.A band of cramps erupts across my abdomen. I suck in a breath, collecting myself. This pain, more than anything else, concerns me. Not the severe lack of orgasms in my life.
Which, truthfully, is my reclusive self’s fault, anyway.
Ugh, darn it all. This is going like all my other appointments in the past. The doctor hears one symptom in my list of complaints and tries to cure that specific ailment instead of assessing all my problems collectively.
Something more than my lack of orgasms and weak sphincter is plaguing me.
Why won’t they trust me when I say that?
I could be wrong, and the professionals right. That’s what the logical side of myself always tries to argue when I’m in the office being dismissed for the millionth time. I must be the problem if so many people with medical degrees are waving off my concerns. Maybe it’s not the conclusion I feel deep in my bones, but it’s the more believable one. Who knows, maybe the cave of wonders metaphor lands closer to the mark than I realize. Maybe the pain from all the poking and prodding is my neglected pelvic region’s way of moaning and saying,“Who disturbs my slumber?”
“No vibrator,” I say in an even tone, fixing my gaze on the three-dimensional model of the vagina perched on the windowsill straight ahead. Huh, so that’s where my clitoris is. “But if I’m honest, sir. I’m more concerned with the constant pain, bloating, and other symptoms I mentioned.”
Like the deep, depressive thoughts near my period. Or bleeding through maxi pads in two hours and the inevitable anemia. Not to mention the nausea, vomiting, chronic fatigue, occasionally blacking out when trying to pass a bowel movement, insomnia, hot flashes, cold flashes, Violet-Beauregard-level-bloating, and the constant neck, back, and pelvic pain.
To name a few of my complaints.
He nods, caterpillar eyebrows furrowed, and then clamps down on a muscle in my cave-of-not-so-wonderful. My insides roar with pain. My teeth bare down on my lip, biting back a yelp, and I draw blood from the force.
“You’re constipated,” Dr. Murdoch says, pulling out his hand.
No. No. No. No. No. I’ve waited six months for this appointment. It can’t be slipping away with another constipation diagnosis. I try to save face, contorting my expression into a more neutral one than the anguished look vying for real estate there. It’s important I don’t show too many emotions, or this appointment will be well and lost.
“I’m not—”
“I felt stool.”
“I passed two bowel movements already today.” My fingers twiddle, and my feet shake, still in the stirrups. A tremor of pain works its tendrils through my lower half and clenches my stomach, pelvic region, and the tops of my legs in a slow burst of intense, needling heat.
If this is what constipation feels like, I’d like my money back on the fiber supplements and probiotics I took religiously before this appointment.
Not to mention the stool softeners.
Water.
Yoga.
And daily runs.
I did everything right before this appointment, and somehow, I still ended up here.
Constipated.
What a load of crap.
Discussion over, Dr. Murdoch channels all his energy at the keyboard before him—his finger hovers over the keys, circling for its destination. A quick clack follows, and he repeats step one.
Hover. Click. Repeat.
