You take off your boots and socks first. Then your jeans and sweater. Should you leave on your underwear and bra? It’s never clear. You fold your clothes neatly on the only chair in the room and put on the flimsy gown, open side in front, wrapping it tightly around your body. You wonder how often the gowns are washed.
You scramble up onto the rubbery, teal exam table, the medical paper crinkling under you. You always worry you’ll rip it even though it doesn’t matter. You rub your jaw — it’s been tight for days.
You look around the windowless room. Gray paint. A sign above the chrome sink commanding the doctors and nurses to ALWAYS wash their hands. The cartons of small, medium, and large purple medical gloves. The computer monitor flashing the Epic Systems logo. When you were a kid, doctors were just starting to use digital charts. You miss the idea of a tangible file in a worn manila folder containing handwritten scribbles about your body. It seems more personal, more benign.
You stare up at the fissured ceiling tile. There is a brown stain on the one directly above you. It makes you feel unclean. No, it makes you worry this place is unclean, so you shift your gaze to your feet. Your toes are cold, and you wish you hadn’t taken off your socks. You contemplate grabbing them from the chair. But the thought of the doctor barging in as you run across the room, clutching the thin gown around you, is somehow mortifying. Like a National Geographic explorer’s camera shutter startling an unaware giraffe as it reaches for the leaves at the top of an apricot tree. You don’t want to be the giraffe.
A sudden knock at the door validates your choice to stay put. “Come in!” you call out, wondering why everything about going to the doctor is so embarrassing.
“Hi, there!” the gynecologist says, bustling into the room. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Krubinski.”
Your new doctor is a petite, blonde woman with a toothy smile and a bubbly disposition. You feel your jaw relax.
“So what brings you in today?” she asks, logging into the computer, her back turned.
You wiggle your toes to warm them. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a pap smear, and I figured it was time to find a gynecologist.” You aren’t lying, exactly. It has been a while since you’ve had a pap smear, and you do need a new gynecologist. But “what brings you in today” is that your old gynecologist flippantly implied you had an eating disorder — “You’d tell me if you were anorexic, right?” he’d asked with a wink. — because your BMI was .2 points below “Normal.”
She types furiously, nodding her head. “We can definitely get that taken care of for you. Any health concerns?”
“Nothing in particular,” you reply. Also not quite true. You don’t think there’s anything morbidly wrong with you, but you’re 31 and your period has never been regular. Dr. Krubinski seems nice, but you’re still testing the waters, still the giraffe getting used to the Nat Geo explorer’s nearness. You’re not ready for another doctor to dismiss your 50-day cycles as a side effect of your weight.
“Great.” She clacks away on the keyboard. “Are you sexually active?”
“Yes, I have a partner.” You pick at your nails and think of Ethan, who wants children so badly, who very gently encouraged you to get a check-up before you “start trying.”
“Man? Woman?” she asks, back still turned, typing.
“Man,” you respond.
“Got it… heterosexual,” she says, leaning closer to the monitor. You can see her scrolling, looking for the demographic label she’s assigned you. “And how long have you been together?”
You stop picking your nails. Your toes have nearly frozen off, but your face grows warm. You turn your head to stare at the blood pressure cuff mounted on the wall as you weigh the consequences of correcting her. “Four years, and… um, I’m not straight.”
“Oh!” Dr. Krubinski whips around to face you. “Well for our purposes, it makes no difference,” she says cheerily.
You hardly remember answering the rest of her questions. While she asks about your family’s medical history, you make a mental note to put a reminder in your calendar to search for another doctor. You imagine the questions your therapist will ask when you tell her about this. You wonder how tall a giraffe can be. At least one of your friends must love their gynecologist. You should ask around. You think about how giraffes give birth standing up. Your jaw hurts again.
You lie back for the exam, placing each heel into a stirrup. As your bare feet touch the cool metal, you again wish you had kept your socks on. You scoot forward on command, exposing yourself more than you already have.
Dr. Krubinski meets your eyes over the paper sheet covering your thighs. “This will be a little chilly, OK?”
She looks like a wildlife photographer, peering down at you like that. The eggshell modesty drape is her camouflage blanket. You stare at the water stain on the ceiling as Dr. Krubinski slides a cold, gloved finger into you and presses on your abdomen.
“Good, good,” she says. “So, what’s your timeline for having children?”
You think of Ethan. You think of your weight and your too-long menstrual cycles and your age. You think of Ana — a woman you once dated who said that if you two started a family, she would be happy to carry the children. You think of screaming at Dr. Krubinski over your spread legs.
But you keep staring at the dirty stain. And stare and stare. If you were a giraffe, you could lick it clean.
Rebecca Long is a writer and editor based in Boston. Her journalism has appeared in Teen Vogue, The Guardian, The Boston Globe, and others. She writes the Look Again column for Observer and is an independently approved critic on Rotten Tomatoes. Her fiction has been published or is forthcoming in Flash Frog, HAD, Gooseberry Pie, and Maudlin House. Visit her website, rebeccaclong.com.