There’s a word for what I’ve got.
When my April appointment finally rolled around, Dr Whethers called it Lichen Sclerosis.
I can’t explain the relief I felt to have a real, medical-sounding, text book name for my dodgy vagina.
Dr Whethers was lovely. She reminded me a bit of Molly — the old lady at the beach — except even though she’s younger than Molly, the doctor’s hair was shot through with silver.
She listened like she really cared, and for the first time in a long time, she gave me answers, not just more questions.
Lichen Sclerosis, she said, is one of those weird (my word, not hers) auto-immune diseases that affect mostly women, but also some men, when their immune systems get confused and start attacking healthy cells. It can happen vaginally, like for me, but it can also affect other parts of the skin, like the chest and throat.
‘On a scale of one to ten, Lichen Sclerosis isn’t such a bad thing,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky.’
I half choked on a sad smile and told her, ‘If I was lucky, I would get it on my thumb.’
That made her laugh.
She told me it gets misdiagnosed often, as dermatitis or allergies, because it manifests differently all the time, and when I complain about doctors not picking it up, she said I need to cut them some slack. Apparently I’m young for it to happen to me. It’s usually one of those after-forty things women have to look forward to, like mammograms. A biopsy is the only way to diagnose it. I’ve had one of those now and the needle wasn’t a lot of fun.
If it’s left untreated, the skin around the vagina can thicken to the point of closing, which is what makes the act of having sex so hard. Some women end up so irritated and sore, they can barely wipe with toilet paper without making themselves bleed.
Dr Whethers said I may well have had it before Seb was born, but it got far more aggressive after. She has a theory that when a woman has a baby her immune system tamps down to help her body accept the foetus. Dr Whethers told me if I got pregnant again, I’d probably notice instant natural relief. She thinks this is why the condition flared after I had Seb: my hormones, or my refreshed immune system, kicked it into gear.
There are maintenance treatments. No drugs. No cure.
I’m stuck with it for life.
Dr Whethers prescribed a high-potency topical steroid cream that I’m to apply twice a day, for six weeks. She said she liked to attack the disease early. ‘Get on top of it before it knows what’s hit it.’
At the end of six weeks, I have to see her again. So I’m a work in progress.
I hope the steroid creams do the trick. Plan B involves skin grafts, and I really don’t want to go there.
***
Brayden and Seb come to Perth with me for my six-week check-up. They’re not in the surgery, though I think if I’d asked Brayden to hold my hand, he would have. He’s gone to see his case officer while I’m at the doctors. Seb is with Amber and Jack.
The case officer was appointed by Brayden’s defence lawyer and his role is to take Brayden through the events leading up to the crash: what he was doing that day, what he’d been doing the night before, and then he writes a statement that the lawyer may use in his defence. Today they’re working on that statement.
The case officer is cheaper than the lawyer, so it makes sense to give him the grunt work.
The police charged Brayden with one count of dangerous driving occasioning death, and three counts of dangerous driving occasioning injury. His lawyer tried to get the occasioning death charge downgraded, along the lines of driving without due care, but the prosecution wasn’t into this, so there’s a lot of water to go under the bridge. The most likely scenario is Brayden will have to go to trial. All we can do is wait and see.
The lawyer suggested we commission an expert to reconstruct the crash scene. We’ve done that and it turns out the side mirrors on the truck were set at such an angle it’s possible the mirror obscured the oncoming car. The expert drew pictures with lots of lines and mathematics and he talked to us about the speed of both vehicles — Brayden’s truck slowing, the oncoming vehicle cruising steadily — and showed us how the car could have stayed behind the mirror the entire time. This is why Brayden never saw it coming. Like a blind spot I guess.
It turns out the truck Brayden was driving that day is an older one — the only one on the mine with mirrors like it. None of the staff or management knew it might be a problem.
So I figure that’s why these experts deserve the big bucks. Trying to follow all that maths and angles gave me a headache.
So it’s a roller-coaster, but we try to stay positive. The good thing is, I know whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.
Jack is a roller-coaster too. He isn’t happy that Brayden and I are engaged, neither is Amber. So far, we haven’t thrashed out the terms of any financial agreement between Jack and me. That’s another work in progress to add to the list.
‘Jennifer Gates?’ Dr Whethers says, looking over her glasses into the waiting room as she collects my file from her receptionist. ‘Come this way, my love.’
That’s another novel thing about this doctor: she doesn’t do bed-side manner, she does endearments.
I put my magazine on the table. The reading here is far classier than Vic Park Medical Centre. These magazines are only a month out of date.
Dr Whethers makes long appointments. She doesn’t rush. She’s a talker. Not always about vaginas. Last time we got onto politics and journalism. When she found out I freelance wrote about real estate she quizzed me about property for an age.
Luckily, we had that conversation while I was dressed and in the patient chair in her office. I don’t think I could have handled a real estate discussion with my legs spread in her examination chair.
For my follow-up appointment, she sits across her huge timber desk and asks me how things are going. After a bit of this gynaecological foreplay, she says, ‘Okay. Well, my love. We’d better take a look at you.’
She must see how my face tightens, because she looks at me sympathetically and says, ‘I know. It’s no fun coming to see doctors like me. We all want to look at your lady bits.’
I’m too stressed to laugh, but I do manage a chuckle.
It’s not as bad this time. I’ve done it once and I know the drill. Last time I cried.
The examination room is straight across the hall. She gives me a few minutes to take off my skirt and knickers, and sit on her examination chair where I cover my lower half with the sheet.
There’s nothing “bustle” about Dr Whethers. She’s a biggish lady, and she’s very much slow and steady. The nurse comes with her, walking straight around to stand near my shoulder.
‘Okay, my love. I know this isn’t much fun, but here we go.’
The nurse lowers the chair, and it hums at me. It’s a bit like being at the dentist, only here, it’s not my mouth they want me to open wide.
Dr Whethers tells me to slide my bottom forward, and I feel the doctor’s gloved hands hold my calves, positioning my legs as she wants them.
‘Slide further forward. Further. Further. Good girl.’
The nurse squeezes my shoulder, and leaves her hand there as the doctor’s fingers start to push and pull.
‘Oh, that looks so much better,’ Dr Whethers says, and I feel relief flood through me. ‘That’s how skin should be. Pink and lovely!’
***
So tonight’s the night. It’s May twenty-fourth — Brayden’s birthday — and Dr Whethers has given me the all clear.
I’ve just tucked Seb in bed, in his beautiful new room in the new house that I love.
Brayden asked us to stay here, right back on the day he proposed.
At the time, I said no. I told Brayden it was too late in the day to go all the way into Busselton to pick up Seb and pack our things, and I didn’t want to spend the first night in our new home up to my elbows in packing boxes.
It was more than that. It sounds crazy, but it was important to me to have one last night at the beach house. I needed to say goodbye.
The summer at the shack helped me recover from Jack’s betrayal. It was where Brayden and golf returned to my life, and where SeaScribe started. That battered, weather-beaten house taught me that I could find joy in my own company, and pride in standing on my own two feet.
They were dark times and bright times.
Now, it’s my time.
I lift my arms and let the slippery silk of my new nightgown cascade over my skin. The lace bra that matches it is a delicate pink-beige, like the dusky inside of a shell, and the knickers are wisps of sexiness on my hips. It’s cool in the bedroom, or perhaps it’s the excitement making gooseflesh on my arms. Whatever it is, I shiver.
I feel like there should be champagne on ice — I’d say this is an event worth celebrating — but I don’t want to numb any sensation with alcohol tonight.
I pad to the living room, nightgown swishing my thighs.
A fire burns in the wood heater, casting a muted orange glow. The side lamp is on.
Brayden takes one look at me and his face creases in a slow smile. He knows exactly what’s on my mind.
It’s not rocket science.
He is on the couch, and I come to a stop in front of him.
‘Wow, Jenn.’ He slides his hands over the slippery silk, taking two handfuls of my bottom and pulling me close.
He flicks the lacy bow that dips between my breasts. ‘Nice… although I kind of miss the cupcakes.’
Slowly he stands, brushing my body on his way up.
I press against his chest, and gasp as the lace rubs my nipples. My arms twine around his neck and I lift my lips to taste his.
His kiss melts me. My bones feel soft, fluid, and I’m wet to the core.
‘Make love to me, Brayden. Please. I can’t wait.’ My voice is rough with months, no, years, of wanting him.
His voice is rough too. ‘You can’t know what it does to me, to hear you say that. God yes.’
He picks me up — like I’m already his bride and there’s a threshold he’s in a hurry to cross. He carries me the length of the hall, past Sebby’s room, past the bathrooms and the bedroom that I use as my office, and into the room we share.
He’s lived like a monk since he proposed to me, poor bloke. He’s been so patient.
‘I love you,’ I say, as he lays me on our bed.
‘I’m glad about that, because I’m not going anywhere.’ Again, that sexy smile as he shrugs out of his shirt. ‘I love every minute of every day when you’re in it, Jenn.’
He unzips, then steps out of his jeans. His jocks get kicked to the floor, and he’s back with me.
‘You’ll tell me if I hurt you. If it hurts at all. We’ll stop.’
‘I’ll tell you.’ He won’t hurt me. Brayden would never hurt me.
I’m not on the pill. We’ve talked, and while we’re not in any rush to add to our family, we’re happy to let nature take its course.
After all my tests, we know I’m clean, and Brayden’s been checked too — he said it was only fair. I’m so glad we don’t have to worry about condoms. I want skin on skin with nothing to separate us, no barrier however thin.
He didn’t shut the bedroom door, so there’s enough light from the hall to let me see his body stretched beside me. His weight is on his elbow, and his free hand trails across my stomach. He pushes the thin straps from my shoulders, baring my lace-clad breasts for his hands. His eyes glint with admiration for what he sees as he slides the lace from my breasts.
The second his lips nibble the sensitive nub, I’m lost. My hips twist on the bed, my legs entwine with his, and I want to be even closer.
I want him everywhere at once. It’s been so long.
His fingers slide inside my knickers, and rub over, then into, my inner folds. They’re big fingers, his fingers, sure and confident. They don’t tease. When they enter me, I almost hit the roof.
‘Tell me that’s because it feels good, Jenn?’ He murmurs, soothing my hips to the bed.
‘It… feels amazing.’ It does. I don’t want to analyse everything, but it’s almost impossible not to. There’s no pain. It feels normal.
He slides the scrap of lace from my legs, tosses it to a corner. I sit up, and he helps me pull the nightgown over my head, snap the catch on my bra.
Brayden moves between my legs, balancing his weight on his elbows. When I look down, I can see his beautiful cock, hard, extended and pulsing for me.
‘You control it, Jenn,’ he says, huskily.
I reach for him, and guide him to the place I want him most.
Nothing happens.
‘Relax,’ he says.
But I’ve already started to panic. ‘I thought I was relaxed.’
‘Nah. You’re not. Let go, love. Let me in.’ He moves against me, very gently, and I realise how tight I’m holding my thighs. He’s right. I have to trust my body enough to let go.
‘You can do this, Jenn. I know you can. Relax, baby. Open up for me.’
I take a few quick breaths, look into his beautiful, patient eyes — eyes that love me and would never hurt me — and slowly I will my thighs to yield.
And as I do, Brayden slides inside me. It’s tight, but there’s flex there, and I have faith in my skin. There’s no barrier. Nothing. I gasp, but not with pain.
‘Okay?’ he asks. He’s having a hard time controlling it. The muscles of his neck are corded and tight and he exhales on a low groan of pure desire.
‘I’m more than okay.’
‘You are so beautiful, Jenn.’ He moves, still gently, testing the snug fit, making sure I’m stretching with him, and asks again, ‘Okay?’
‘Easy peasy.’
Another groan, or a moan, his or mine — I’m not sure. I’m too busy concentrating on the exquisite press of his flesh in my body as he starts to move more forcefully, taking me with him, and then I’m lost in the bliss of the deepest pleasure without pain.
***
Brayden stays inside me for a long, incredibly sweet time when it’s over. I don’t want to lose him. I contract my vaginal muscles around him experimentally, just because I can.
He kisses my cheek. ‘You’re crying?’
‘They’re happy tears,’ I reassure him. Has any woman ever been happier than I am right now?
I once told him I didn’t swing from bedroom chandeliers, and there’s an argument that one outing tonight is enough vaginal exercise and I should start off easy.
Then I think about how it felt — and the voice in my head says bugger that. Go for it.
I contract my muscles again and I feel Brayden twitch in response, hardening inside me. His hand cups my breast, tweaking the nipple in a way that sends instant heat to my groin.
‘Keen to go again, Jenn?’
‘I think we should check everything’s still working right. You know, just to be sure.’