My Taboo Disease

Dr. Brooks

            When I first met Dr. Brooks, the first thing he wanted to do was examine me.
            "Um, I don't think you're going to be able to find anything." I mumbled, already severely uncomfortable and clearly starting to guard myself. He explained that it was just part of the procedure, that he couldn't make an accurate diagnosis without seeing it for himself. So, reluctantly, I changed out of my bottoms and sat waiting for him with my feet in stirrups, and a thin paper lining over my lap.
               Brooks asked me a few quick questions about my intimate life; have you ever been able to be penetrated? No. Can you insert a tampon? No. Have you had an orgasm? Yes. Are orgasms painful? No.
                He slowly started to examine me, pressing on the outsides of my labia asking if it hurt, so far so good. Then the pain came; for 3 years I have tried to find a way to describe the pain I feel when I'm touched past my labia minora, but there just isn't any way to describe it. It's torture, the feeling so so overwhelming that I can't breath and I automatically start crying. The first time I felt it by Dr. Brooks I jumped backwards. The second time, I was so paralyzed by pain I couldn't find the words to ask him to stop for a couple seconds.
               "What does it feel like?" He would ask, and so would many other professionals.
               "I don't know, I don't know!" I would panic as he paused with his finer still inside, "knives or needles, I don't know!" I could never describe it. It was beyond describing.
                 Finally, after a few visits, Brooks decided he wanted to do a procedure called a vestibulectomy (however I would come to find out later he only preformed a partial vestibulectomy). Basically, there is a section between the labia minora and the vagina called the vestibule. Dr. Brook's theory was that for some reason, the skin in my vestibule was inflamed causing it to expose my nerves-he equated the nerve pain to constantly poking at a second degree burn. His solution was to take out the inflamed tissue, then go to physical therapy to fix the second part of my problem I had developed: vaginismus. We agreed to try it, and went ahead to set the date for the procedure.

                 A month later after constant fighting with our health insurance (they didn't want to cover this type of procured they referred to as "unnecessary"), we arrived at the office ready for my vestibulectomy.
                I was seated in a room, waiting to talk to the anesthesiologist, my stomach a nervous wreck. By now my mom had been to many of my appointments with Dr Brooks after I decided I couldn't keep this a secret anymore. Not to mention she is a DNP so she knows the right questions to ask, and can keep up with and remember everything he said. We chatted light heartedly as we waited, and I grew more fidgety and sweaty by the minute.
                 Finally, ghetto anesthesiologist came in to talk, and her assistant came at me with a needle. I recoiled for a second; this kid looked like he was twelve. I wanted to protest and ask for someone else to start my IV, but I knew it was silly, IV's aren't that hard anyway and clearly he was old enough (not to mention qualified) to do it. We chit chatted for a moment, then I was up and moved to the operating room.
                 "Just take your clothes off and cover up with this night gown the make yourself comfortable here," Brook's assistant Gabby said, handing me the pink paper nightgown and gesturing to an operating table with stirrups. "Dr. Brooks will be in in a moment." I thanked her and followed her instructions, stripping down and slipping on the paper gown. I sat back in the chair and put my feet up in the familiar stirrups.
                The anesthesiologist came in and started my IV, and soon, in came Dr. Brooks with Gabby, another medical assistant and, to my dismay, the anesthesiologist's assistant. In retrospect it was silly, but at the moment I was pretty pissed to see him there; I did NOT want some guy that close to my age watching my vagina surgery. But I was only pissed for a second, because in the next, I was knocked out.

                  What seemed like moments later, I was standing up holding onto poor little Gabby who had a pad in her hand and my clothes in the other.
                    "Um did you bring underwear?" She asked.
                   "No! I totally forgot to wear it!" I slurred. It was true, I had paced around in my pajamas, underwearless all morning waiting for my mom to pick me up, and when she arrived I dashed out the door, foregoing my underwear...god only knows why I didn't think there would be any bleeding. Gabby giggled which made me cackle with laughter, then she craftily stuck the pad into my sweats and pulled them up over my butt. Then I blacked out.
                The next thing I remember was throwing up in the bathroom of the office. Then arriving home and crashing into bed, where I slept the rest of the day off, with 30 stitches in my vagina and two weeks of recovery ahead.