While visiting a neighborhood bookstore one Monday afternoon I decided to leaf through a copy of Webster's Dictionary. I happened upon the word 'loser'; with a sarcastic grin, I checked to see if my picture was there. Surely my recent, mortifying encounter at the community Medical Centre made me a top contender for the title.
Perhaps you know the type of ordeal to which I refer. An embarrassing occurrence that makes 'loser' far too appropriate.
Such was my experience. Suffering the effects of a stressful work-week, my oh-so tiny bladder had been struck with what-I was certain-was nothing more than your 'common cold'. Sufficiently bothersome to warrant a call to my Doctor, I rang her office only to discover that she was off on holidays.
"No problem," said I. To which an insistent receptionist with some apparent nursing know-how responded, "You really should have your condition checked out."
Somewhat reluctantly, I drove to the local walk in clinic-confident that I would receive some unknown physician's advice to drink cranberry juice and refrain from sitting outside on anything resembling cold concrete. "Ah well," I rationalized, "better to err on the side of caution."
Had I known the personal trauma that awaited me, I might have braved my symptoms and taken up permanent residence in the little girls' room.
After a brief wait in the reception area I was ushered into a closet-sized, sterile room. I was instructed by the attending nurse to sit atop the paper-covered table while she made a few inquiries. The problem? I suspected a bladder infection. What symptoms? The constant desire to void, complicated by the frustrating inability to eradicate the felt need.
"I see," was her curt reply. "Please remove all clothing below your waist. Cover yourself with this sheet. The doctor will be in to see you shortly."
"Excuse me?" I stammered as she beat a hasty retreat.
"Please remove all clothing . . ." Her words, issued the first time, were disconcerting. Their repetition was tortuous.
"But it's just a bladder infection. I really don't think that an examination . . ."
She silenced me with a look of impatience that could have convinced God Himself. Clearly, I had no hope of avoiding the dreaded inspection.
Nurse Ratchet left and, begrudgingly, I shed the appropriate apparel, grabbed the white linen security blanket and repositioned myself on the stirrup-accessorized recliner. A weighted knuckle-rap on the door, a twist of the doorknob and in sauntered GQ's choice for Doctor Of The Year. A gorgeous man of some thirty-odd years who was about to make my very intimate acquaintance. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes and silently cursed my vacationing female GP. Suddenly the slogan "just grin and bare it" took on a whole new meaning.
After a quick scan of the nurse's notes he introduced himself. "Hi. I'm Doctor Mazor. I see from your chart that you're thirty-two. In fairly good health would you say?"
I squeaked out a feeble, "Uh-huh."
"Okay then. I'm going to examine you in order to rule out any Sexually Transmitted Diseases or a potential yeast infection. I'll ask my nurse to join us," he was obliged to inform me.
I was beginning to feel like the star of some poorly scripted feminine hygiene commercial. In a nervous attempt to add a little levity to the situation I blurted out, "Believe me Doctor, there is no way that I have a sexually transmitted disease and, quite frankly, I don't bake so the yeast thing is highly unlikely."
What he made up for in good looks he lacked in humor, so my attempt to get a rise out of him fell completely flat. He motioned to me to shimmy as far down the table as was physically possible and then, with no apparent understanding of the absurdity of his remark, he suggested that I "lie back and relax." Easy for him to say.
Oh, if only the earth would break open and swallow me whole! Nothing, at that precise moment, would have made me happier. Suddenly, with his assistant standing guard, he disappeared from view behind the sheet draped frame of my quivering legs. And as if the humiliation of the current circumstance wasn't enough, Doctor M's ensuing comments soon sent me into a state of full-body blush.
"Now, a few questions, " he said. "Have you recently taken on any new sexual partners?"
I assured him, "No."
"And when was your last sexual encounter?"
With a marked lack of enthusiasm and certain that his suspicion would be raised, I retorted, "It's been years."
Instantly, his bewildered face reappeared above the white-linen horizon before me. "No, really," he queried, shooting a doubtful look to his poker-faced side-kick.
"Really," I countered in a voice so monotone that even the most sensitive of lie detectors would be hard pressed to distinguish between fact and fiction. "It's been years."
A deafening silence coupled with a look of absolute amazement and he was gone for a second time below my line of vision. "No kidding," he bantered.
"No kidding," I replied as I lay there forecasting his impending locker-room dialogue: "So, this woman comes into my office today and . . ."
After what seemed like an eternity, the physician's thorough analysis ended. I was dismissed with a prescription in hand for what-as I had insisted from the start-was a simple bladder infection. I fled the clinic as fast as my feet would carry me. If ever an individual felt like a complete washout it was me.
Not that I had anything to be ashamed of. How many other divorced women could testify to having led such a life of chastity? In an age of rampant promiscuity, I thought it something of a tour de force that I'd managed to maintain my secondary virginal stature.
Now, three days post-trauma, I found myself standing in a bookstore with dictionary in hand contemplating my lot and the meaning of the rather unfortunate word that I had stumbled across. After much consideration, I decided to allow myself the luxury of a self-delivered compliment.
So what if my chosen lifestyle makes me a 'rare commodity' of sorts? And who cares if the revelation of my sexual status (along-side the revelation of a few other personal attributes) to a complete and--did I happen to mention-- gorgeous stranger left me feeling like a bit of a dud?
By denying myself access to society's sexual smorgasbord of casual relationships, I have not chosen the typical breakfast of champions. But living a life of abstinence outside of marriage does not a 'loser' make.
My picture was not to be found in that dictionary. I guess Webster knew what he was doing after all.
Stacey Holloway is a Medical Social Worker and freelance writer living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
Sex is everywhere. But is it everything it could and should be? Find out now - click here.
Women are much more likely to suffer from cystitis--or bladder infection. Find out how you can lower your risk.
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