Isabelle Bettis

RUNNER UP

An Ode To The Women Behind The Speculum

I’m going to spare no detail about what happened to my vagina over the course of my first Smear experience. So if that isn't your cuppa tea - grow up. 

*** 

Within a second of entering her room, Stella got straight to biz explaining my cervix, aided by a pink diagram that looked like a fleshy bop-it. “Your cervix feels like the inside of your cheek”, she exclaimed, and I refrained from agreeing enthusiastically. 

I told Stella I was a week off my period. Blood doesn’t mix well at the lab - causes a kafuffle with the results - or something like that. So, she asked me if I had any spotting. 

“No, but my tits hurt!” 

“I feel you babygirl, don’t worry that’s fine”, pointed to the curtain, told me to strip down behind it and let her know when to join. 

“Oh, and cover your coochie with this!” She handed me a paper towel. 

I reclined naked on the clinical equivalent of a chaise lounge and gave Stella a shout. I pride myself on the authenticity of my small talk, so whilst Stella got busy down under I told her about the time I got an STD test at Uni. The nurses had pinned a poster of a beach to the ceiling. She gave me an excited look, and matched my story; one time she’d been to a check-up and Nurses had put copious fairy lights on the ceiling that made her feel like she was at a disco. There was nothing on the ceiling of Stella’s room, but there didn't need to be - she’d just called my vagina coochie. 

The clamp was lubed up, and popped inside of me, lucky clamp. 

Should I have shaved? Will Stella notice how ginger my pubes are? This lighting is worse than the fitting rooms at Zara. Could she see where I accidentally fake tanned my left Labia the other week? 

I felt the bristles of the swab in my vaginal canal. I'd pointed out to Stella they looked like those things you use to swipe egg yolk over puff pastry. The handle of this one was forest green with white bristles. My Mum’s one at home has a white handle and baby blue bristles. This one wasn't meant to fit into a vaginal canal… although I'm sure it could. Someone out there’s probably done it. Now I'm thinking about the time I cling-filmed a carrot when I was 15 and had a wank. Anything's a dildo really. 

“There we go. Super quick, see!” Stella beamed.

“You’ve done this before!” I cringed at my joke whilst I wiped down my glossy coochie, yup, my pubes did look ginger in this lighting. 

“Thank you baby girl, you’ll get the results back soon. Now get out and enjoy the sun!” I can't wait to get home and change my knickers. 

*** 

My Smear Test resulted in a follow-up Colposcopy. Which sounds like something a bug might hatch from, but is in fact a medical procedure to check for abnormal cell mutations, as well as cancer, abetted by that silent shit-stirrer, HPV. 

I had received a letter, which sounded like ChatGPT wrote it, scheduling my Colposcopy for a month's time. I spent that month wondering if I have cancer. Fuelled by reminders from my Mother that hers and my Grandmother’s tests had resulted in partial/full hysterectomies, the worst case scenarios were worst case scenario-ing. 

Would I look good bald, I've literally just grown my bob out? I didn’t really want kids anyway, but that had been a choice. Am I too old for the Make A Wish Foundation? I’m scared of needles. Will my Mum let me get a Maccies after my Colposcopy? 

In all honesty, I was terrified. I was terrified of the possibilities. I was terrified because I was going to be clamped into some contraption, which in my imagination looks like a fucking Transformer. But mostly I was terrified because on the drive to the hospital Mum told me a man had performed hers. What the actual fuck? You’re telling me for centuries we’ve denied women autonomy, let alone careers, and all along we’ve been letting men become Gynos? 

I know it doesn’t work like this but; I don’t pray, and God doesn’t exist until I want something. Please not a man. Please not a man. Please not a man. 

I sat in the empty reception area of the Barnet Hospital Colposcopy Department eyeing up the rack of light reading. Genital Warts. Herpes. Chlamydia. Gonorrhoea. Chlamydia had just taken my fancy, when I heard, “Come on in, sweetie!” 

It was a woman, a lovely, lovely woman! And, lo and behold, another two women behind the door to the practise room. Dr Alisha, Nurse Marleene, and a trainee who I didn't catch the name of - sorry! 

Same drill as before, but with grey plastic stirrups holding my calves up. Not quite a Transformer. I got a glimpse into what The Mona Lisa must feel like - cooch on display at eye level - I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. When the trainee pulled back the curtain I felt a breeze on my lady parts which, under different circumstances, wouldn’t have been unpleasant.

Dr Alisha began asking about my family, an interesting choice of conversation considering, and I knew exactly what she was doing. Something big and cold and plastic was about to be inserted, and Alisha was trying to distract me from it. “I have three siblings. Two sisters, one brother.” I replied. 

“Ah! A big family. I have two daughters.” 

“Do they get along?” 

“Yes, for the most part, I’m sure you’re familiar with the arguments.” 

“Ye– 

Shit, I felt that. That’s bigger than the last one. That’s what she said. No, shut up Isabelle, not the time. Wait, why isn’t it stopping? It's gonna hit my fucking stomach in a sec. 

-ah” 

Scientists haven’t explored even six percent of the ocean, but if they worked as hard as this trainee doctor did exploring my uterus they’d probably have more to show for it. Dr Alisha politely stopped our conversation, telling me they had to discuss what they were seeing on the monitor. She’d asked if I wanted to see the live action replay, reminding me of the time I got that unfortunate ultrasound. My response was the exact same; absolutely not. 

After ten minutes of vaginal rummaging, Alisha announced that they were about to collect blood cells. I'd been putting on a brave front, but the sting of iodine was my final straw. I cried. Alisha lunged toward me, curling my right hand into hers whilst Marlene occupied the left. I clung to both women like I was miles high on a cliff-face, and was asked to cough. With her free hand, Marleene stroked my shin, 

“There’s no rush baby” 

I felt the clipping. It was uncomfortable with a side of ‘ouch!’ But whatever happened didn't work, so Alisha took over for a second attempt. This time, when she asked me to cough, I thought of the journey home from a festival. I transported myself mentally to the train ride home after caning it for three days in a field and let out an absolute winner. She grinned at me from the other side of my vagina. 

“Perfect, brave girl!” 

*** 

I am incredibly fond of the women of the NHS Smear and Colposcopy Department. They held my hands whilst I cried, fought back my pubes, lay it on thick with the words of affirmation and reassured me throughout, what is actually just a really fucking horrible procedure. They suspect I’ll need further treatment for the mutating cells in my cervix, and whilst I don’t look forward to that, I do look forward to seeing them again. They’re easily the top four people to have been anywhere near my coochie.