No Strings Attached.

Warning: this diary entry contains graphic mental imagery that some readers may find disturbing.
Especially if you're a bloke.
Now's your chance to look away.

Today I am skipping a morning lecture to go to my local medical centre for a smear.
It's a 10-minute job so I know I'll be able to get to UCD in plenty of time for my second class of the day.
I see my Doctor regularly about other stuff, but he's never seen my 'bits'.
And I'd prefer to keep it that way.
So the practice nurse, whom I have not met before, will be performing the task.
She is young - more a girl than a woman - homely, and full of friendly banter.
She takes down my personal details and fills in the appropriate areas on the requisite documentation that accompanies such a procedure.
I can tell by her accent that's she's from 'down the country'.
The dried mud on her shoes only serves to underline the fact.
She looks like she'd be more at home with her arm stuck in the rear end of a pregnant cow.
But at least she's not wearing wellies.

I'm familiar with the routine, so I remove my boots, jeans and knickers, retain my socks for fear of verrucas, and hop up on the paper-draped couch.
I'm not embarrassed about gynaecological stuff generally, so while she has her back to me, snapping on her latex gloves, I stick my heels together and drop my knees apart, optimistic that she'll soon be expediting my onward journey.
'Oh!' she says as she turns around and clocks my ungainly posture.
'Let's preserve your dignity a little, shall we?' she beams rhetorically, grabbing a woolly blanket from a nearby chair and throwing it cheerfully over my general pelvic area.
It's touching my pubic hair.
I find it extremely disconcerting.
My mind starts to pose all manner of threatening scenarios:
'How many other pubic areas has it touched before mine?'
'What if the previous coveree had crabs?'
'How on earth would I explain that little contagion in any kind of plausible way to San Fran Man?'
I envisage the microscopic crustaceans leaping gleefully from the comfort of their woven home into the unsuspecting warmth of my loins.
Defeated by such thoughts, I resign myself to the fact that these atrocious hygiene standards will probably be the ruination of my relationship with the love of my life.
But obviously, I keep my mouth closed.
I wouldn't want to make a fuss.

Happy as I am that nursie's wearing gloves, she is somewhat undermining their purpose by constantly pushing her hair behind her ears with the latex-clad fingers that will soon be manipulating my folds.
But before I have the time, or quite frankly, the will to voice my concerns about lice, she is lubed up and going at me like I'm some kind of prized heifer.
She takes the swab, painlessly I'm pleased to say, but stays 'down there' a good deal longer than I would have deemed necessary.
'Did you say you had the Mirena coil fitted?' she asks.
She's frowning in a manner that makes me nervous.
'That's right,' I answer, 'about 6 months ago.'
'Mmm...' she hums, shining her light up me with renewed determination.
I can almost feel her breath.
'I'm afraid I can't see the strings.'
'Oh!' I reply, as it's the only answer such a statement warrants.
'I'm going to have to call the Doctor in, is that OK with you?'
'Of course,' I say.
So much for my commitment to never showing him my nether regions.

She leaves me; lying legs akimbo and waiting for the second opinion.
My Doctor, who, I have to say, on the whole, is wonderful, returns with nursie and is swift in his confirmation of her initial diagnosis.
My strings have most decidedly disappeared.
'It's definitely still in there,' I protest.
'Oh, I'm sure it is,' he agrees, and adds with a laugh, 'but I'm not sure how we're going to get it out!'
I don't share his good-humoured approach to my predicament.
I'm not feeling particularly reassured.
Or dignified, given the length of time I've had to hold this pose.
'We'll have to send you for an ultrasound scan, just to determine its exact location,' he informs me.
'I'll give you a letter for the hospital.'
And off he pops to write it.
I'm also starting to feel a tad morose.
My gynaecology has been the bane of my life; the constant and very prickly thorn in my side.
And as my end of semester exams are looming, the timing of yet another plumbing problem could not be worse for me.

After I've dressed myself, my doctor gives me the letter to bring to the hospital.
He has no idea how long I'll have to wait for the scan but informs me that it may take up to 8 weeks.
The good old Irish health system.
As I drive to the nearby hospital, I feel my eyes starting to well uncontrollably as I reminisce about my personal hard luck story.

You see, I was a later starter with boys.
Well-behaved and virginal at school.
A good Catholic girl.
You may find it hard to believe, but I didn't even masturbate.
For fear of going blind.
But I finally ceded my virginity to my first boyfriend's efforts after 5 months of patient dating when I was 19 years old.
A few months later I went away to college and shortly afterwards we split up.
I subsequently suffered an infection in my fallopian tubes that manifested itself in bizarre ways and damn nearly killed me.
I missed a chunk of the curriculum as a result.
And it left me with a number of life-long legacies: a 3-inch bikini-line scar, the worst form of self-imposed stigma you can imagine and the very real threat of infertility.
By far the worst of these was the threat of infertility.
It caused me to metaphorically lash out in my relationships and destroy them before the prospect of a childless future had the chance to flourish as a reality.
At the time, of course, I didn't recognise it as the cause of my actions.
I thought I was just fickle.
But at this stage of my life, hindsight allows me to view the past through prescription lenses.

When I finally did marry, at the age of 34, I forced my husband twice down a fruitless IVF route.
I desperately needed to know the answers to the 'what if?' questions while there was still time.
But the answers left me with more questions than I had at the outset.
This time, however, they were of the 'why me?' variety.
And they gave me cause to repeat the behaviours of my earlier metaphor.
As a result, in my self-symapthising, emotionally turbulent turmoil, I dealt my poor hubby the vilest of blows and sent him packing in a most unsavoury fashion.
For which I have never forgiven, nor likely will ever forgive myself.
A couple of years later, having resigned myself to a life without children, I fell pregnant within the realm of an unhealthy and ill-fated relationship.
Just before my 42nd birthday and 6 months into my new, highly-paid and highly-pressurised job.
It was a complete fluke.
And of all the possible times of my life to become pregnant, it most certainly was not the best given my circumstances.
Yet I embraced the tiny miracle wholeheartedly, for all its life-giving potential.

Once it was confirmed, I announced my good news to the world, my employers excepted, and experienced 2 weeks of utter pregnant joy before the ominous signs showed themselves.
That little spot of blood in my knickers that signalled all was not as it should be.
It was an 8-week pregnancy that amounted to nought.
An empty sac attached to the lining of my womb.
My only chance; gone.
And it sent me over the edge to the darkest of times which I have no desire to revisit.

Brushing such memories aside, along with the tears from my cheeks, I pull myself together in the hospital car park.
I approach the reception desk in the Radiology department and hand the letter to a particularly friendly and helpful lady who's sitting behind it.
I'm expecting her to say something along the lines of, 'thank-you, we'll be in touch,' but she opens the envelope, absorbs its contents and asks me to take a seat, saying, 'I'm just going to check if we can get you seen straight away.'
There's a discernable stress on the words 'straight away', which leaves me feeling more anxious than I was on arrival and before I have had the chance to sit down, the receptionist is making the call.
The radiologist is by my side almost immediately and asking me to follow her into the consulting room.
She applies the cool gel to my tummy, and rolls the ultrasound 'microphone' over my abdomen, but my bladder is too empty for her to get a clear image on screen.
That would be because I got up this morning, had a bath and went straight to the medical centre without even so much as a cup of tea.
I wasn't anticipating ultrasound.

The radiologist asks me to go off for at least an hour and drink a lot of water until I'm at the point where incontinence pads look highly desirable.
My words, not hers.
As I live an hour's drive from college, it looks like my scholarly pursuits will be put on hold for today, so I decide to take a leisurely brunch in the hospital café.
I opt for the soup, due to its somewhat liquid consistency, accompanied by 2 bottles of water, and watch the ubiquitous backdrop of Sky News on the wall as I wait for my kidneys to do their work.
Just to be on the safe side, I give it an hour and a half.

I waddle back to the radiology department in a condition that can only be described as 'fit to burst' so I'm extremely grateful a queue hasn't formed in my absence.
The radiologist whisks me straight into the consulting room without further ado and confirms what I already know.
My little contraceptive device is in there alright.
But it looks like it might be attempting to escape via another route.
It's right at the top of my womb and the risk is that it may soon start tunnelling, if it hasn't already done so.
The radiologist asks me if I've been experiencing any pain or unusual bleeding recently and I am delighted to report that I haven't.
'What happens next?' I ask, pessimistically.
'I'm really not sure,' she replies, honestly.
'I imagine it will need to be removed,' she continues, 'purely because of the risk involved.'
I am gutted.
It's supposed to be in situ for 5 years, at which point it can be exchanged for a brand new one, by which stage I should be menopausal anyway.

This tiny implant was one of the best things that has happened to me recently.
No periods (I used to suffer very heavy bleeding). No pills (which I would frequently forget to take). No weight gain (unlike with the pill). No monthly expense (believe it or not, you have to pay for such necessities in Ireland).
It totally changed my life for the better.
I should have known it would turn out to be too good to be true.

I now have to wait a few days for the results of the scan to be returned to my Doctor before he can assess the next steps.
Knowing my luck, it will involve an operation on a scale akin to that which recently saw the release of the 33 trapped Chilean miners.
But with added complications.

©Alacoque Doyle