Many a poet and theorists have spent reams on the meaning of life and the inevitability of death for man – I, of course, understand that 'man' is a general humanist term that in its generous munificence stands for all mankind. But women too must face certain death... and their ovaries.
Getting to Know the Drill
There comes a special moment in every girl's life when she becomes a woman. When she is ready to be fertilised and pay her debt to the society that let her live.
The onset of puberty for most of us is horrified encounters with stained panties, jiggling boobies that make running and walking without a hunched back ambitious activities, rapidly multiplying zits, and the drudgery of co-existing with the subspecies of the zit-ridden adolescent boy.
Over time we develop ingenious ways of masking our menstrual cycle with a certain look and tone. It is another matter that our corner stores and pharmacies have demonstrated unflinching loyalty to the revolutionary technology of black plastic bags but that's for some other time.
We emerge from the clutches of gut throttling cramps and the flood of (simply put, sans metaphor) blood, only just shy of the Whisper models in white pants in terms of having it all – you know, equal pay, freedom from mansplainers, the glass ceiling, Vice-Chancellors that listen to female students' complaint against sexual harassment, etc.
Period or No Period?
Imagine my surprise when that dependable flow refused to sanctify my dainty cotton knickers. Instead it teased me with muddy splotches that were indeed very confusing. Was I on my period or not? I am not paid enough to waste sanitary napkins at 11 rupees per unit with each bout of speculation!
So I turned to what any sensible, well-educated modern woman would in the circumstances – Google.
I used various combinations of key words until the interwebs threw up the term 'spotting.' It had the effect of making me mortally petrified.
While most websites listed spotting as one of the initial markers of pregnancy, some were more ambitious in linking it to HPV induced ovarian cancer.
In any case, it was something. Now, I am a chaste maiden and my virtuosity would protect me from such baseless fears of the most widespread STD. Except, not. There was no way I could beat the odds of HPV.
Be Rational & Visit a Gynaecologist
I told myself to be rational and get a gynaecological check-up, perhaps a long due one since my mother died of ovarian cancer so genetically I am a bit on the red zone.
I was scared to the jeepers about the C-word and also at the prospect of going through a gazillion tests before the doctor could tell me what was plaguing my lady parts.
It was, however, thrilling to be able to take a cab to a hospital close by for a walk-in consultation, easy-peasy like a grocery run, and it made me conscious of the privileges I had to be able to even imagine going to a private hospital.
Once I arrived at the hospital though the women's empowerment high quickly wore off. There were queues of all shapes that frustrating landed up at the same counter which by the time you got to had rich South Delhi brats refusing to fill up a registration form by insisting that there must be a record of their medical history, entire databases can go to hell.
I suppose when they designed the gynecology wing, they intended for the interiors to cast a soothing effect on the visitors/patients after the harrowing routine of registration.
As a single woman dreading a gynaecological cancer diagnosis, it had precisely the opposite effect on me. The aesthetic is such that as soon as you walk in you are confronted with a smiling photo of a hugely pregnant lady.
Perhaps that's quite subtle according to the hospital's standards because just as you turn towards the other wall to gag, you are faced with exactly the same framed photograph!
There is definitely no missing pregnancy in that clinic as every single wall contains at least one visual clue linked to that glorious phenomenon, the pièce de résistance being the giant rectangular blow-up of a sleeping baby with something to the effect of the hospital’s role in helping you create bundles of joy written in yellow cursive.
I felt like an imposter coming in for a mere medical check-up when I could be creating life inside my ready womb with *cough* a husband by my side like the nice lady in the photos.
‘You Are Pregnant!’
Things didn't improve much when I was finally summoned in to see the doctor.
She was quite efficient, so much so that she didn't waste time checking for a family history or the last time I got a routine check-up. Instead, it was symptom(s) and bam! straight to the heart of the matter: the burning question of whether I was sexually active.
I barely began mumbling my protests than she immediately wrote down a pregnancy test on her prescription pad.
I don’t think I’m pregnant, I ventured, quite stunned by the turn of events, but she waved my doubts aside with a deft shake of her medical head.
It was like sitting down your partner for a conversation you have been practicing for a very long time in your head and when you finally manage to get them round to it, their refusal to communicate frustratingly invalidates any arguments and explanations you might have had. I pursued nevertheless.
What could the other possibilities be, apart from pregnancy, I asked in an effort to help out my very non-communicative one-on-one with the doctor that was already paid for so I couldn’t even ask for a refund.
It's just not fair, I screamed internally, that those pregnant women before me with the husbands were with the doctor for ages while she wouldn't even indulge me with five minutes of her time. It was now a pathetic attempt at paisa vasool.
She eventually turned out to be the stronger player as she flat out refused to investigate or even discuss what could be wrong with my body until I got a pregnancy test.
As things stand, she was following due process.
Since spotting is often an early sign of pregnancy, the doctor was being sensible enough to rule out possibilities in a step-by-step process before springing a life-threatening diagnosis on me.
She is not a witch-doctor, after all, but a highly trained specialist professional, a real doctor. A real doctor in a real society that does not think women's bodies are of worth much importance, unless of course they are carrying life forms to carry on patriarchal blood lines.
The subliminal messaging in the waiting room followed by a severe refusal to discuss my body with me unfortunately gave me the impression that gynecologists could sometimes very well be glorified midwives.
Here's a suggestion to the expensive private clinic, how about mixing up the decor with maybe some info about breast cancer or some such? Our bodies are capable of turning on us, you know, including in pregnancy.
(Sneha Khaund works in a publishing house in New Delhi and has degrees in literature from St. Stephen's College and SOAS. She tweets at @Pakhee )
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