I need a donut

Content warning:  gynaecological stuff

Every two years I front up for this test. Added to the two-yearly mammogram and bowel cancer tests women over 50 are encouraged to do, I also get my ovaries scanned. There's ovarian cancer in my family. It's purely precautionary, but better safe than sorry, and to be honest, I'm glad I live in a country where these tests are readily available. Unlike the poo test and the boob squash, the pelvic ultrasound is not free, but it's not done at a prohibative cost. In the last 15 years I've had this done a number of times. So nothing is unexpected. It's invasive and it can be uncomfortable, but it's necessary. Well this is what I know in my heart and head. 

The ultrasound place is at the Epworth. Not far from home. It's a specialist woman's clinic, with women radiographers. Pelvics are their bread and butter. 

Arriving at the hospital there is an obligatory COVID quesionnaire. They mask you up in one of their masks, make you sanitise, take your name and phone number before admitting you to the building. 

My appointment was supposed to be at 9 am, but it was moved to later in the afternoon. This was not welcomed, partly as the call came as I was about to leave home, freshly washed, face painted and my resolve in tact. Waiting the extra seven hours meant trying to focus on something else for the day. I managed this for the most part. 

I sloped out of work at 3.20, Thankfully the clinic was running on time. 

I always feel a bit like a lamb to the slaughter when I go in for this test. The radiographers are alway lovely - friendly, professional, and you know they've seen everything before. You're not special. They treat you very well. They offer reassuring words as they probe your insides.

After ridding yourself of you underwear, it's up on the table, a blanket covers all relevant bits. 

There's the discussion about latex? Was I allergic. Umm, sort of.  I know of a few sensitivities. Better use the one that wasn't latex  - it's not as comfortable, she said. It's nice that they ask. Much better than developing a raging case of thrush over the next few days. 

And then it starts. You're lying there, prone, regulating your breathing to manage the discomfort of having a wooden-spoon-handle sized speculum probing your insides, bumping up against the uterus, bowel, bladder and intestines. You count the ceiling tiles, make small talk. Occassionally you'll look at the television screen, placed on the wall showing you what's going on on your insides. It's there for the pregnant people who traipse daily through the clinic. Instead of a foetus, she points out my Mirena coil, the cervix, the uterus. A bit of jiggling about, putting my balled fists under my backside, she locates both ovaries. All looks fine. 

Good. I wasn't expecting anything else.

Some last pictures and it's over. 

You're left to wipe yourself free from the lube and ultrasound gel. You get dressed. You pay the bill. And you go on your way. 

And every time after this test, even though I know how necessary it is, it takes a while to shake the feeling of being violated. Although you know you haven't. But something long and hard has been up inside you for around 20 minutes, and it's harsh and a intrusive - even though the radiographer is being as gentle as they can be. It's not fun. 

The body is a  manipulative trickster. Press points on your feet and your shoulder twitches. Scratch your nose and you can feel it in your thigh. 

Have a speculum inserted in your vagina for an extended amount of time and have all sorts of strange feelings and emotions wash over you. The head may be screwed on and you know what's happening on an intellectual level, but it doesn't stop the heart and the gut from reacting. You know why you're having these. Your heart gets all discombobulated as your centre normally reserved for pleasure is not being treated as it wants to be. And your gut cries rape.

It takes a bit to get yourself centred after these. 

Walking back to the car, I basked in the balmy, sunny afternoon, Barack Obama telling his story via audiobook in my ears. I should be happy it was over, and all looked clear. 

But my heart and my gut wanted a donut. A little bit of fat and sugar to soothe the frazzled soul. 

A donut was found on the way home. A shower washed away the rest of the experience. And a beer with my writing group at our anthology launch put the world to rights again. 

But with all the talk of sexual assault and rape over the media for the last few weeks, the abject horror of being voilated in the way these woman have been subjected, this put a visceral spin on just how horrific their traumas would be. 

It's uncomfortable and can be triggering, having this test - although you know it's being done for a good reason. 

What must those who have been sexually violated be feeling? After today, it's harder to fathom. 

Today's song: