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The thing that kept me an extra day from the doctor’s office was the not lack of health care. I do have proper insurance now, and the issues I experienced with my old provider are ever so slowly being resolved.
No, I delayed an extra day in seeking medical help because I didn’t know how to answer one question on the intake form. ‘Twould have been no problem at all if I could have written “Sore throat,” or “Back pain,” or even “Having trouble breathing,” but I was at a loss as to how best to answer the question “What brings you here today?”
I toyed with the idea of going the direct route, because I was almost entirely certain that I knew what was causing the problem. But I’ve been told that it’s presumptuous and annoying for a patient to attempt self-diagnosis, no matter how well-intentioned. And the last thing I needed was an irritated doctor messing around south of the equator.
The subtle approach might work, I thought, though in general “subtle” is not an apt descriptor of my any part of my attitude. Should I write “Having female problems”? Or go a bit more descriptive with “Leaking daintily“? Or would the classic “Vaginal discharge” work?
You can see my dilemma.
Humor might work, I thought, because really, how could anyone not see the humor in the situation? But then the question became wording. As every fourth-grader knows, there’s funny-ha-ha and then there’s funny-strange, and I definitely didn’t want to be the funny-strange woman with the leaky vagina.
I brainstormed some possibilities on the drive over:
- Tuna coochie
- Piscine pussy.
- The scent of fish wafts from my nether-regions.
- Can you smell me now? How ’bout now?
- My vagina’s astrological sign is Pisces, if you know what I mean.
By the time I reached check-in, my humor had waned. I recalled the other times in the past I’d stood at the same counter due to troubles between my legs. The wisest thing, I thought, might be to request that the doctor remove the offending organs.
“You think you have bacterial vaginosis, hm?” she asked. I nodded. “Have you had these symptoms before?” I shook my head no, prompting an eyebrow-raised look from her. “Then why do you think that’s what it is?”
I smiled grimly. “If you Google ‘vagina smells like tuna,’ you get some pretty … er … instructive results.”
Within ten minutes she stuck a prescription slip under my nose with the word “Flagyl” written on it. “Here’s the cure for fishy vagina.”
As simple as that.
And I wondered why I worried. Why would I delay treatment for something that’s almost a guaranteed part of womanhood? That’s not remotely sexually transmitted? That couldn’t be passed from or to my partner?
Even if it had been sexually transmitted, why would that give me pause? Must I feel shame for every single thing that has to do with my vagina?
The fact that I do is fishy indeed.
—
colly900
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secretagent412 on November 4th, 2008 
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JJ on November 8th, 2008 
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