Lost For Words

So I'm at the doctor's again.  It's a long session involving stirrups and a fiercely bright Anglepoise lamp and a number of chilly steel instruments  - always a great way to start the day.  I chitchat as if I were at the hairdressers: after all, I'm a regular customer of both these days.  When you've had two children and innumerable gynae proecdures you reach a point where you feel you have no dignity left and that being embarrassed would be a waste of emotional effort.

It was however a false sense of security to heave a small inward sigh of relief as pulled my sensible pants back on.  We weren't done, oh no.

She handed me a small white toothpaste-type tube with a long slender nozzle. "We're giving out free samples of these". I turned it over in my hand, looked confused. "It's like an Actimel, for your vagina".

"E---........", I struggled for the appropriate thing to say.

"It restores your natural inner balance and keeps you fresh and healthy. You should try it!" she warbled brightly. "Lots of ladies swear by it". I mumbled a thank-you and shoved it into my bag.  I worried that perhaps she felt my natural inner balance had been lost, in a way that was noticeable.....how? I wasn't aware of a problem, but now I'm feeling rather paranoid.

"Let's talk about your coil now". Ok..... "Do you need to have it replaced?"

"Well, erm, I think so.... I think it's been in place for five years.... I thought that was the maximum length of time...erm.... you're the expert, what do you think?"

"What I meant is, do you still need contraception? Are you still sexually active?"

"I, well..............." I was mumbling again.

"Don't worry!" she chirped.

So fucking chipper. What's the matter with doctors these days? They're all about twelve and look like Bratz dolls and want you to call them Yvonne.

"Lots of ladies your age say we don't need to bother with another coil, they're not having sex any more".

"I need one", I said in a surly tone.  I was smarting. At the "ladies your age". At the implication that I must look like someone who couldn't get a shag if I tried. At the implication that a celibate life would be completely normal. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Yes of course", she smiled. "This will be your last one, won't it?"

I thought for one awful heart-stopping moment that this was her way of telling me not to expect a good outcome from the latest phase of treatments. After all, my own dark thoughts are often turned in that direction.

Then I realised she was talking about the menopause.  See? There is no escape from reminders that we are entering the Period of Shittiness. 

I plan to have a lot of sex while I can still creak my legs apart, while I am still limber enough to get down on all fours, while I can give a blow-job without swallowing my false teeth.