I had a lovely doctor inspect my bits, checking around to
confirm that – yes – the polyp was still there. I lay there on the medical bed,
feet tucked almost the back to my bum, nervously clutching my underwear and
trying to breathe through the pain of having a speculum in.
I don’t remember there being too many questions.
I only remember a cotton pad splattered with blood and I was
ready to faint. Instead, I was referred to another doctor for a different type
of examination described only as a ‘colpos’. What’s a ‘colpos’? I had no idea
and I still barely know.
I shakily got up once the speculum was out again, a date and
time was scribbled on the back of my referral card and then I was off to a
meeting, trying to start my work week. I had no idea if the polyp was out. I
had no idea what had just happened.
I cried a little in the cab to Nabua.
I tried to focus for the rest of the day.
I updated my mother on Viber.
I texted my supervisor about the follow up.
I just wanted the day to end.
And it did. And I was home again. But before I knew it, it
was Thursday and I was back in the Lancaster Ward.
My first time there, it was full to the brim with mostly
much older women, the majority of whom were visibly married. There were few
children. Come Thursday, around 10am, babies were everywhere.
A tiny baby shrieking, a small baby gurgling and a few
toddlers pulling themselves across the tiled floor, licking benches and playing
with wall switches. There was a different air about the place – a far busier
one. This time, my name wasn’t called until after 1pm. I was starving and
hadn’t gone to the bathroom since the morning. My anxiety coupled with the fact
I was alone this time deterred me to seek out a toilet in case my name was
called and I missed my spot.
The doctor who has seen me on Monday, on his way out to what
I assume to be lunch told me I was up next.
(Part Seven: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-seven.html)
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