The Dateable Dork

Last winter I went dumpster diving and managed to unearth a genuinely good guy – he was handsome yet had that irresistible edgy look (the long hair/skater type), he was successful and independent (owned a house, car, motorcycle, and boat), and he was the perfect combination of quietly dorky (computer geek) and excitingly spontaneous (snowboarder!).  Oh, and he was fantastic in bed.  So utterly scrumptious, in fact, that we were having absolutely mind-blowing sex 3-4 times a week, and I would drag myself into the office in the mornings barely able to walk.  I was happy.  Him – not so much.  I found out via his public blog a few months after we broke up that he never really liked me all that much and was just too lazy to break up with me.  Ouch.  I also found out a few months later that he had given me an STD that had been completely undetectable to the both of us… until it became VERY detectable on me.  My split with New Year’s Lips involved a record-setting three-minute (!!!) cell phone break-up conversation, a few days of feeling sorry for myself, and a full year of medical-related drama.  I’ve tackled a slew of insurance bills, doctor’s appointments, and hospital visits – not to mention an abrupt cessation to my dating life.  But hopefully today marks the final chapter of my STD-induced delirium; I walked out of the gynecologist’s office today with a new-found hope — and without a follow-up appointment. 

This afternoon’s appointment had been on my calendar for several weeks now, and although I usually look forward to a doctor’s appointment with about the same level of enthusiasm as talking to my mother about why I don’t have a boyfriend, I was genuinely impatient – even eager – to get this one under my belt.  On the agenda: a vaginal reconstructive procedure to restore my embattled vagina (and associated paraphernalia) to its natural working order – a state which had existed only as a fond yet distant memory for the past year or so.  I was told by the ever-friendly, ever-optimistic gynecologist (thank god for intelligent, informed physicians) that it was a minor procedure and that it had a high probability of garnering the permanent results I was looking for.  That was all I needed to hear.  Nonetheless, the thought of going under the knife – again – left me with a restless knot in my stomach for the last few days as the long-awaited appointment approached, and I woke up this morning both excited and terrified.  Focusing on the hope that the end was near, I gathered my strength, marched into that office, took off my pants, and closed my eyes until it was over.

Lying on a gynecological exam table, naked from the waist down, legs propped up in stirrups and knees spread apart, is akin to voluntarily assuming the highest level of vulnerability that I can imagine, just short of being physically restrained to the table a la 1950s-style electroshock therapy in a brightly-lit, tiled-from-floor-to-ceiling mental institution basement.  Although I’ve become a regular at assuming the position, it never really gets any easier, and the fact that there’s a fresh knife on the counter-top doesn’t help to ease my anxiety.  First, the game plan: the doctor explains what’s going to happen, using her fingers to illustrate the intricacies of the upcoming vaginal butchering session.  A few cuts here, a few stitches there, some reshaping, restructuring, remodeling.  Redecorating?  Perhaps, if you count the handful of multi-colored topical medications I’ll be regularly applying as the skin heals over the next few weeks.  As the doctor’s mouth is moving, my mouth is hanging open as I attempt to absorb the information while maintaining my composure and smothering my gradually-swelling urge to scream.  Next, the action: I lie back while a blur of needles and instruments are passed back and forth from the nurse’s tray to the doctor’s hands to the most quintessential part of my feminine existence, all the while clutching the exam table until my knuckles are white and my palms are sweaty.  The anesthesia masks the pain of torn flesh and prodding metal, but my numb tissue can still sense the motions of deliberate restructuring and delicate hand-sewing.  I watch as clean gauze is brought in and a blood-stained mess is brought out.  After a few “are you ok?”s and “we’re almost done”s, it’s over.  I release my death-grip on the table and let out a deep breath of relief, hopefully the last one in this room for a while.

As the doctor provides her concluding remarks and directions for at-home care, I sit up and feel the slight discomfort of foreign material inside my body.  I memorize my instructions, thank the doctor for her good work, and start to get dressed as the exam room door is closed.  The sight of fresh blood on my gown reminds me of the pain that I’m going to feel once the anesthesia wears off.  I conduct a mental scan of my medicine cabinet and am relieved to recall a leftover bottle of pain killers from my last procedure.  Ah – salvation.  There’s only one hurdle left to clear: facing my fear and taking a look at what I imagine to be something straight out of Frankenstein’s laboratory – black stitches on tortured, contorted, blood-stained flesh, swollen and sore, oozing with who-knows-what.  The trip home (at last – an afternoon off from work!) is garnished with the revelation that getting up and sitting down will be a challenge for the next few days.  I don’t even allow myself to wonder how I will manage to use the bathroom – I’ll cross that foreboding bridge when I come to it.  Finally, when I am once again enveloped by the comfort of home, I grab a hand-held mirror and brace myself for the painful sight, gathering both my courage and plenty of blood-absorbing materials for my exploratory journey to a familiar but altered landscape.  And when I expose the gynecologist’s handiwork to the light of day, I am surprised to find – not a tortured creature – but an artful masterpiece worthy of exhibition at the very museums that I flocked to for comfort when New Year’s Lips and I broke up in the first place.  When all was said and done, my fingers were stained with a combination of fresh pink blood and gooey medication, but my mind was finally at ease.  Perhaps as the skin heals in my new-and-improved vagina, the mental scars from this year-long odyssey will finally fade away, leaving only a cautionary reminder that even the most diligent armoring of the human body can’t completely eradicate its vulnerabilities.

If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that you just never know what life has in store for you.  As I sit here writing this, pain medication coursing through my veins, a soft cushion protecting my delicately stitched and still-bleeding vaginal tissue from the agonizing rigidity of the chair, I take comfort in the hope that this embarrassing and worrisome chapter of my life is finally coming to a close, and that I might resume my normal state-of-being by the time summer officially arrives.  I’ve also resolved that my health is a precious thing, worthy of the utmost protection and care.  Although I have always been extremely (ridiculously!) careful when it comes to safe sex, I will now be even more thoughtful and deliberate with the choices I make.  No man is worth what I’ve gone through in the past year, and this somber reminder has been delicately and permanently stitched into the core of my existence.