FORMS  OF  WORDS


On occasions of one's having to go to the doctor's and become the
object of acts which would, in any other circumstances, get the one
committing them into bad trouble with the law, it rather intrigues me
how greatly the "spoken commentary" given to the patient, can vary
from one doer-of-the-deeds, to another.

Like most women, I have undergone a good many more experiences of this
kind, than I would have wished. I suppose I've been relatively
fortunate. I've never, so far, encountered a doctor, nurse, or
whoever, who was outright horrible in their dealings with me; but
those I've run across, have spanned a whole wide range on the
"conversation during the encounter" scene. "Bedside manner" is the
traditional expression - or "couchside manner," as the case may be.
Speaking as the poor cow on the receiving end, I'm never quite sure
whether I prefer the terse, the chatty-and-courtly (from a man) or
chatty-and-homely (from a woman), or assorted stages in between.  I
may sound unappreciative, but at the end of the day, I don't feel that
any of it really helps much. We have to turn up and enter the medics'
lair, and indecently expose ourselves and have highly shaming, and at
times uncomfortable (and occasionally worse) things done to us: it's a
necessary part of life, worse luck, and we wish with all our hearts
that it weren't. All we really want, when in the predominantly-white
room, is for the event preferably to be less nasty rather than more,
and for it to be over as quickly as possible. Still, there's a bit of
interest - and distraction from the business of being rudely probed,
prodded and felt - in seeing how the healthcare bod of the day tries
to smooth things over verbally, or indeed if they bother to try at
all.

The most recent time my number was called as regards this scene, was a
few weeks ago. I was summoned for a medical examination in connection
with a life insurance policy which I was taking out. I'd known from
the start that this was liable to be part of the deal, but had hoped
against hope that it wouldn't be enforced in my case. Fat chance: in
the hoping department, I accordingly switched over to, please might it
be cursory and not involving my having to get either topless or
bottomless. Hope for world peace, while you're about it...

They say unpleasant experiences are character-forming: if that's so,
then I sometimes feel that with the number of same which I've had in
this particular category, I should be a prime candidate for at least
the honour which my homeland bestows upon very worthy individuals: the
Order of the British Empire (OBE). Yes, I know we haven't got an
empire any more: we are not a people conspicuously in love with logic
or sense-making...

This particular lesson at the character-developing school turned out
to be a rather "in the middle" one in most respects: as regards detail
and thoroughness, and as regards the doctor's profusion of chatting-as-
he-embarrassed. Male doctor, it was: I didn't know which gender it
would be, until I actually met the gentleman. Really, makes no odds to
me: I find having my private bits exposed and messed about with by
someone who isn't my lover (and, down below, their doing stuff to me,
which I would no way permit my lover to get away with), humiliating to
a point at which I want to die rather than have it go on further -
those are my sentiments, quite regardless of whether the person
visiting these enormities upon me is the owner (like myself) of a
vagina, or (unlike myself) of a penis.

As usual, the doctor acted very nicely, in his way - with this, you
can't even hate them: I sometimes feel it would be better, in a way,
if they were utterly beastly to you - but I wouldn't like that either.
Face it, it's a total no-win situation.

I won't lumber you with a blow-by-blow narrative; will keep to the
highlights, physical and conversational.  As said, this was a fairly
thorough exam, but a few points short of the ultimate in that line
which has come my way. It started with a talk-and-questions  session,
with me fully clothed; then, height, weight, pulse, and blood pressure
(with no more then rolled-up sleeve), and an eyesight test; end of
that phase was heralded by the doctor saying, "I need to ask you for a
urine specimen. Please would you take this (he handed me a little
plastic cup) - the loo's just along there (he indicated the
direction); if you'll go and do the necessary, and bring it back to
me."

I did as asked; various performance-and-palaver, to accomplish it.
This is something about which I greatly envy the male sex; in these
rather specialised circumstances, and also concerning modesty and the
public domain in general, life is so much easier for them than it is
for us. And how embarrassing, to have to take a cupful of your widdle,
and go and present it to someone whom you've only just met. I've
wondered once or twice, whether this thing about wee and the analysing
thereof, has any true scientific usefulness; or whether it's part of
the medical profession's base design against the rest of the world, to
embarrass the hell out of them in a myriad ways. And if that's
conspiracy theory, don't tell me that I'm the only person ever to have
entertained this particular brand of it.

Back into the surgery, handed over my offering to the doctor, who
thanked me, did his sorting-out stuff with it, and prepared it to be
sent on its way. Next, we were off on our way to the dungeons. "Get
undressed, please, except for your underwear," he said. "Oh, yes -
please, shoes and socks off too."  Hello - required to be barefoot -
never a good sign: points fairly inexorably, to boobs and down-there-
holes having to be exposed too, a little way along the line. No screen
or anything in this surgery: well, at this stage I wasn't stripping
off to the ultimate. The doctor tactfully busied himself with
paperwork while I shed cardigan, blouse, skirt, and (as requested)
footwear, and put them, as appropriate, on or under the there-for-the-
purpose chair.

I have read, on another site from this on which I'm posting, that
situations like this in France, can pose a language-and-understanding
problem. I do gather that medical exams in France - especially those
visited on the young - often tend to be highly all-encompassing and
humiliating and abasing, with minimal consideration for the modesty of
the recipient: one of several reasons for my feeling glad that I
wasn't born a citizen of the republic across the Channel from us.
According to info thus received, the instruction given over there,
tends to be just "Deshabillez-vous!" - no indication given as to how
far the undressing referred to, is meant to go; so the examinee has to
ask for further details, which can make the examiner cross and abrupt.
Funny - I thought the French language was famous for its precision and
clarity: not on this particular scene, it would seem.

Anyway, in good old England there was no ambiguity about what was
required. With me in bra and knickers only, the doc said, "Sit down on
the couch, will you, please."  He proceeded to do the eyes-ears-nose-
mouth biz; a little more stuff, then it was "stand up, please, and
undo your bra."  Now the white-knuckle ride begins, gently at first, I
thought. I stood up and unhooked behind. Stethoscope time, applied
first to my chest and upper tits - and oh! it was cold - I winced.
"Sorry," he said, noticing that. "We mean to warm our instruments; but
sometimes, we forget. Anyway, I've got naturally warm hands."

One's repartee capacity tends to be rather diminished when one is
almost naked and having increasingly indecent things done to one. All
I could think of was the cliché "cold hands, warm heart" - converse of
which, not appropriate to say to someone who is in a position to
shortly act much more rudely towards you, than he is doing right now.
"Er, fine," was all that I could come up with.

"Turn round, please," he said, and it was more of the same at the
back. Then we were away, with a vengeance: "bra off, please," he said.
I shed the half-off-anyway thing, and put it on the chair together
with all the rest. He manually inspected my tits - I should know the
drill by now, I've had it done often enough - in this instance, left
one first - fingers concentrically round, not missing a square
centimetre, finishing at the nipple with a pinch to that feature
(ow!), to make sure of no sinister discharges. Then he did the same
thing with my right boob. As he felt and manipulated, he said now and
again, "all seems absolutely fine here" (I wondered, if he'd found a
lump or other foreign body, what would he have said then?)

He explored my breasts in great detail, with me standing up. I was
more than half expecting what has befallen me a few times in the past;
that he'd now get me to lie down on the couch, and perform the very
same exercise, only with me on my back - but on this occasion, that
was not required. Maybe I'm very cynical, but I have to wonder: my
breasts are decidedly small (though substantial enough to give plenty
of scope for doctors to feel and squeeze and pinch). Could it be that
many medicos find gratification in highly extensive mammary
exploration, of buxom and well-endowed women - whereby the theory that
"lying down gives a different and useful perspective, from standing
up" is a godsend to them?  Perish the thought: I'm sure that it's a
genuinely, and totally clinically, held view - and your stars in the
daily tabloid newspaper give you true insights into your life and its
issues, and Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny really do their
seasonal thing year by year...

"We're done up top," said the doc, "you can put your bra back on."
The language-nitpicker part of my brain kicked in. He says "please",
when he wants you to take something off and indecently expose
yourself. Here, he says "you can". Just suppose I didn't want to?  I
have a friend, who on this particular issue I think certifiably
mad:       but she absolutely loves having to go to the doctor's and
being subjected to rude stuff - for her, it's better than ordinary
sex. If she were in this situation instead of me -- and she said,
"shall we not bother with that? I'd rather leave it off." ?  What
would be the doc's reaction to that? Nothing good, I suspect. Anyway,
it's academic: it's me who's here, not her, and I'm very glad to be
able to put my tits-container back on.

Came the middle (in both senses) part of the session. After sundry
stuff-and-biz, me once again in bra and knickers, which I won't bore
you with (anyone who would like to hear about same, there's always a
possibility of an expanded Version 2 of this narrative): once more, we
were approaching Ground Zero. I was lying on my back on the couch, he
having just investigated my legs and feet (front and back, up and
down, and while I was lying on my front, he briefly took my pants a
little way down for a look at, and quick feel of, my buttocks - cheeky
sod!). "Need to take a look at your tummy," he said. I feel that I
know these characters' jargon inside-out: "a look at", means "an
extensive and no-holds-barred feel of". That was the way of it here:
he pulled my pants down to just-above-indecent-exposure-mark, and felt
and prodded and pinched my stomach, upper and lower, all the time
telling me about what he was feeling for. This done, he brought pants
up again to "normal level".

"Would you like to get up off the couch," he said. I thought again,
what if I replied, "No! I want to go on lying on it until ..."  various
excretory necessities, about which I'd best not go into detail... of
course, I complied, and got up off the furniture-item.

Very unsurprisingly, he went on to say, "would you just slip your
panties off, please." Really an odd one; and absolutely by no means
the first time I'd heard it from medical practitioners. The brief
elasticated-at-the-top garment which a girl wears, to cover her
various down-below holes at such times as they don't need to be
exposed - in my country, the U.K., that item (oddly, always referred
to in the plural) is called "knickers", or "pants", or rather rarely,
"underpants" (though much more often, that word is used for the
garment's male equivalent). "Panties" for what a lady wears
underneath, to cover her charms until time is ripe for taking them off
and exposing them, is a definite Americanism. "Panties" is a word
which we never use over here -- except solely, for some strange
reason, in doctor-speak. I can only reckon that weirdly, doctors feel
that it sounds less coarse and offensive than the other available
words. As I've said, this nonsense cuts no ice with me; at basics,
something extremely rude is being demanded - I'd be quite as happy for
the doctor just to say, "take your knickers off, so that I can get at
your cunt and bum-hole."

Anyway, whatever the wording, the message was plain. Standing up, I
pulled the item concerned, down to my feet. Stepped out of it, and put
it with the rest, on the chair. "Up on the couch, please," said the
doc, and I did as he asked. And it ran along standard rails: feet
apart, knees apart, let all flop open as much as possible. As his
gloved finger first parted my labia, I thought, oh please, let this
not be as bad as the worst I've ever experienced on this scene. And in
the main, my prayer was answered. He explained what he was doing - on
the whole, apologetically for what had to be done.

My "front-bottom" area (and "back-bottom" too - all embarrassingly
and painfully, believe me) is "clean-shaven" - both because this is
what fashion, nowadays, approves, and because on the whole, it makes
things less awful for me when I have to go to the doctor's and get
interfered with down below. Doctor, at this exam, made no comment - I
suppose the medical profession have to be even-handed on this matter.
My nutty friend, whom I've mentioned earlier, is an impassioned fan of
pubic hair - she has a cherished lifelong growth of it - O.K., I'll
come clean, she and I have mutually taken our knickers down and
"compared notes" - she's assured me that on the medical scene, it's
caused her no trouble, and at least in principle, approval; but I feel
that ladies like me, bare-as-newborns "down there", make life easier
for those who must examine us.

I thought, as things kicked off , "did I really want my life insured,
all this much?" - but it was far too late to change my mind. The
doctor gave a running commentary as he did what he did - then, very
soon, it was, "I'll do a cervical smear test." I'd feared all along,
that that would be on the agenda, and so it proved to be. I know (in
my head) that cancer of the cervix is very nasty, and screening to
head it off - the oftener, the better -- makes excellent sense; but in
my gut, I loathe "the lesser horridness" needed to prevent "the
greater". The standard, in Britain, three-yearly smear test is for me
(gut as opposed to head) enough and more than enough; but my cup of
that was about to be made to run o'er.  Utterly indecent, naked except
for bra, and horrid instrument put up my vagina and cranked open - and
all that followed therefrom; uncomfortable-verging-on-unpleasant-
sensations-familiar-from-periods; and the thing brought back down to
normal dimensions and removed from my cunt. And the knowledge that
there was a good deal more to come "up there". The doctor said, "that
went fine - you were very good about it."(And if I'd screamed and
howled, as I'd have liked to? Would that have improved relations
between us?)

Followed, pelvic exam: his fingers way up, then, same situation
obtaining, but with his other hand on my lower stomach, joining with
fingers of first one, underneath. More-than-a-bit uncomfortable, and
Omigod - you wouldn't let your boyfriend do this to you, however much
you loved him - but by the same token, you have to go to the doctor
and have extremely rude things done to you, so that you and boyfriend
can have sex without you having babies - and if you miss out on that
and have babies, you get medical-wise unspeakably rude things done to
you. Message got loud and clear:  WOMEN  CAN'T  WIN.

Anyway - it turned out that the "bimanual" was the end of it, at this
particular appointment, and that accomplished, the doc said to me,
"we're done; you can get dressed." I felt relieved and grateful that
on this occasion, having anything put up my bottom was not required -
a thing I've experienced, and hated, a few times in the past, and had
been greatly hoping would not be on this particular day's agenda -
sometimes, just a bit, it goes the way you'd wish.

So I-nude-except-for-bra gladly resumed the rest of standard street
clothing, and went on my way. How long, I thought to myself, before
something of this kind lands on me once more?  If I count rightly,
it's a year and a bit before I come due for my standard triennial
smear - and I got one today, smack in the middle of the regulation in-
between period - who's a lucky girl, not?  If I lived in America, I'd
get an experience like I've just had, every year; and I gather that
over there, they're obsessed with this nonsense with gowns, to
preserve modesty as much as possible. My mad friend, who's come to my
mind more than once today, wouldn't want a bar of that - and in a
strange way, from the diametrically-opposed point of the compass, I
agree with her. I detest experiences of this kind, and would just like
them to be done with and finished as rapidly as possible; sodding-
around with gowns, to supposedly preserve modesty, would to my mind
just prolong the ordeal - let's just do the rude stuff as quickly and
expeditiously as can be, and "end of story".  Oh, well - John Bull and
Brother Jonathan - mostly we like each other more than not, but there
are a lot of things on which we'll never agree.

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