Monday morning finds me sitting in my GP’s waiting room, booked in for a pap smear. Like I said, no one said this health business was supposed to be fun.
‘Penelope Stevens?’
Hearing my name being called, I see the nurse appear holding a clipboard. As I stand up to follow her into her room, she gives me a warm smile that puts me immediately at ease. Nurses are just fab, aren’t they?
So then we get down to business. She takes my details and asks me when my last period was.
‘Um . . .’ It suddenly strikes me that I can’t remember. I’ve felt a bit PMS-y for ages. In fact, hang on, now I’m thinking about it, wasn’t it supposed to be last week?
‘Don’t worry, let me give you a calendar,’ she smiles, passing me one. ‘It’s often easier this way.’
I stare at the dates. ‘Well, actually, it was supposed to be the middle of the month . . .’
‘Hmm. I see.’ She’s still smiling. ‘Is there any reason you can think of why it might be late?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been sexually active?’
Oh fuck. Johnny.
‘Well, yes, but that’s impossible,’ I say briskly, shutting down that thought as soon as it surfaces.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised – one of my patients is forty-seven and pregnant with twins,’ she continues. Then, seeing my expression, she adds quickly, ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? If you’d like to pop behind the screen and get undressed from the waist down, then just hop on the bed . . .’
I do as I’m told. It’s a bit uncomfortable. A speculum is both an instrument of torture and an instrument that saves life. I focus on the ceiling tiles as the nurse chats away, trying to put me at ease as she works efficiently. There’s a bit of plastic that’s broken around one of the spotlights. One of the bulbs is out.
‘OK, all done,’ she smiles cheerfully, taking off her surgical gloves and handing me some paper towels.
‘That was quick,’ I smile gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
As she disappears behind the curtain, I quickly get dressed.
‘Now, Penelope,’ she says as I reappear, ‘I’d just like you to do a urine sample for me.’ She holds out a little plastic bottle. ‘If you don’t mind.’
As I sit on the loo, peeing into that little plastic bottle, a million different thoughts are going through my mind. Emotions are threatening to surface. It’s hard to get a handle on them all, so I don’t even try. Don’t go there, Nell. I screw on the plastic top tightly, give the bottle a quick rinse under the sink and dry it with a paper towel. The amber liquid feels warm in my hand. Whatever you do, just don’t go there.
‘You’re not pregnant.’ The nurse is matter of fact. ‘So we can rule that out.’
‘Well, I didn’t think for a minute—’
‘But it does mean most likely you’re going through the perimenopause.’
‘Right, yes, I see.’
In the space of a few minutes, the pendulum of youth has swung from Still Fertile and Possibly Pregnant to Old Crone with Rotten Eggs. Not that I wasn’t already aware of my biological clock – what woman isn’t?
From the moment I got my first period, everyone has had an opinion about my fertility. From the teacher at school who showed my class of thirteen-year-old girls our first sex education video and explained about contraception, warning against teenage pregnancy, to the nurse giving me a pap smear at thirty-three who told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I wanted children I needed to ‘put a fire underneath it, honey’.
So it comes as no surprise that for most of my life the thought of finding myself pregnant was the most terrifying thing in the world – until the poles unexpectedly switched, and suddenly more terrifying was the thought of leaving it too late.
‘Which would explain your periods becoming erratic,’ the nurse is saying now. ‘You might find they get heavier, or lighter, and there can be other symptoms.’
‘Symptoms?’
‘Hot flushes can be quite common, as can night sweats and mood swings, even depression . . . oh yes, and weight gain.’
This Monday morning is just getting better and better.
‘And how long does this usually last for?’
I’m hoping a few months, a year at the most for good behaviour.
‘Oh, it can be anything from a few years to about ten.’
‘Ten years?’ Murderers get out in less.
‘Yes,’ she smiles brightly, ‘but don’t worry; usually by then you’ll have reached the menopause.’
I force a smile. ‘Well, at least that’s something to look forward to.’
I’m grateful for: