So, yesterday I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, and I am pretty sure he thinks I’m a whore. I know. I’m as baffled as you are. I mean I couldn’t whore my way out of a paper bag. No seriously, I would fucking die in that bag.
While laying on my back with my feet securely placed in the stirrups, I told him how fabulous I feel compared to two months ago and was thanking him endlessly for giving me my life back. We were just chatting like a couple of old pals while he was doing his thing down there, and nothing was weird or awkward about it at all. But then I told him about the two issues I am having, and shit got real weird.
He said that he could see that one of my internal incisions is not healing as well as it should be, so that is why I am experiencing pain. Then without warning, he stopped what he was doing, looked me square in the eyes and said all mad, ‘You are NOT ready for intercourse.’
Then, with the same level of aggression he said, ‘If you have intercourse, you are going to blow that thing wide open. NO INTERCOURSE!’
I knew he most certainly wasn’t talking about my vagina exploding, but it was all still very dramatic. And, although this information would have been extremely beneficial to most women, it was of no importance to me. I did, however, appreciate him sharing his thoughts because he only had my best interest at heart, so I went right along with the very serious head nodding and with conviction, promised him I wouldn’t shag anyone anytime soon.
We then began discussing the things I can do. He told me I could start light exercise and work out, but only if I take it easy. And he went over a few other things, but he was kind of vague, and I was worried about my vagina exploding, so I asked, ‘Are there things I should avoid?’ And without even pausing he said, ‘Intercourse.’
Me to myself: ‘DUDE. We have already established that. And for the love of all that is holy, PLEASE. STOP. SAYING. INTERCOURSE. Christ almighty. Should I just tell him?’
Me: ‘Well, I was thinking more along the lines of lifting and daily activities like that.’
Him: ‘Oh, ok. No heavy lifting at all, you have to be very careful. You can’t overdo it.’
As he sat there telling me all the other things to avoid, I was barely paying attention. Why was he so adamant about telling me not to do sex, I wondered. I mean, he said it to me like he had a genuine fear I was going spend my lunch break banging Carl from Accounting. What on earth does he see in me? ME? I have been intercoursed for a total of 4 1/2 minutes in my entire life, give or take a minute or two. I can’t be sure because I was always too busy laying there thinking about the cheese toast I was going to eat later that night to help soothe my aching soul. Oh, there were also ‘attempted intercoursing’s’ but my girl runs a tight ship down there, and access wasn’t always granted despite the best efforts of both consensual parties. And all of this took place over a four-month span when I was on a mission to feel normal, back in 19-FUCKING-89. So, I knew my vagina wasn’t giving off a way-too-much-intercourse vibe.
When I finally started paying attention to him again, he was getting up and preparing to leave the room. He handed me a prescription and asked that I come back in a month for another follow-up. Then, because he clearly wasn’t confident the horror of the word intercourse had been seared into my memory quite enough, he said, ‘NO INTERCOURSE.’ He said it so sternly, I felt like a hooker whose rent was past due, and that his sole mission was to ensure I was homeless by the end of the week.
Me to myself: ‘THAT’S. IT. I have to tell him. But Tanya, you will probably embarrass him, and remember how weird the nurse started acting in the hospital when you told her you weren’t really into pork and beans? Just deal with it.’
So, once again I pledged my allegiance to abstinence and watched him walk out the door looking completely content with my looming homelessness.
As I walked back to my office, I replayed the visit over and over again in my mind. The word intercourse would have been disturbing for anyone to hear four times in a 15-minute span, but the fact that the word was so irrelevant to me, made the whole scene utterly ridiculous. He didn’t know though, and that was my fault. He was just doing what he would have done for any other woman – begging me to stay the course and refrain from quenching my insatiable thirst for a big one. After seven weeks, his assumption was that I wanted nothing more than to jump back on the bike and go for a ride, so I suppose he was only trying to save me from myself.
What I realized is that I should have just been honest, and I was questioning why I hadn’t been. It’s not like I am ashamed. I am absolutely not, in any way. But the fact is, I like girls, and he deserved to know. He wouldn’t have cared either way; I know that. And it would have prevented an unnecessary conversation and allowed us more time to talk about things like peach schnapps and the meaning of life.
Hiding from who you are is not something I support, so I was slightly disappointed with my lack of honesty yesterday. Each of us brings something remarkable to the table, and our individuality deserves celebration. I am proud of who I am, and my hope is that you too are proud and will boldly move forward, not only owning but loving who you are. If someone doesn’t like you or appreciate you, move on. Find people who do. They are out there. I promise.
So, fuelled by my own words, in a month, when my surgeon gives me the green-light to go hog wild at lunch with Carl’s pork and beans, I will proudly declare that I would much prefer to spend my lunch hour with Sally from Purchasing, and her homemade pie.
Love is love, people.
If you want to learn more about my opinion on this subject, check out my post i am a girl, and i like girls.