There have been times over the last few years when the hospital has been as familiar to me as my own home. I've slept there, kept my milk in the fridge, given the Women's Centre as my postal address and wandered around in my slippers. I'm no longer daunted by white coats or blue scrubs.
I didn't really want the appointment. Didn't need it. We're not planning more children, so it's of no concern not to have periods. But it's irksome to still get the monthly cramps, and it feels wrong that my body still isn't back to normal after nearly two years. So I took the appointment, and duly hopped up onto the examination couch, having whipped off my trousers before even confirming my date of birth. The sonographer was new; struggled to find my uterus and pressed uncomfortably onto my stretchmarked stomach. Predictably she suggested an internal scan would be necessary, and expertly rolled a durex onto the dildo-cam. I'm never able to watch that without a snigger; I remember at the height of my infertility investigations, pointing out to the sonographer that if I couldn't get pregnant with a real life penis, such protection against technology was hardly necessary. She whipped the probe under my modesty sheet and pushed... I practically leapt off the table with a shout of dismay,
"what on earth?"
"Are you a little nervous of internals?"
"Not at all", I replied, "but last time I checked, my uterus was accessed via my vagina, not through my bottom".