The author outside a coffee shop in Athens, Greece. Photo Courtesy of Claire Fernan I was curled up on my couch. My face twisted in a grimace.
One hand rested on my lower abdomen, acting as a makeshift heating pad to soothe the unending purple nurple assaulting my uterus. Claire, this has to stop. I groaned.
I felt alone and scared. That feeling started when my gynecologist, Elizabeth, called four days before. She said, “Your pap smear came back abnormal, which isn’t concerning.
Every woman has an abnormal pap at least once in her life.” Elizabeth had the bubbly, positive enthusiasm of a cheerleader, pepping the crowd up for the homecoming game. I wanted to believe her, however, at 37 years old, this was my first abnormal pap smear.
Advertisement I was married straight out of college and divorced nine years later. While my ex-husband and I had our issues, infidelity wasn’t one. My marriage was the tower that protected my vagina from the dangers lurking outside the castle wall.
Only one prince had access. Now divorced for a year and a half, I had encountered a few wannabe princes, but mostly frogs. An abnormal pap was extremely concerning.
Elizabeth took in a sharp breath. “There was something else.” My stomach lurched.
I’ve been having lady issues (I’ll spare you the details) for the past three months. All the workups so far had been negative. There was only one stone left unturned.
Advertisement “We need to bring you in for a biopsy,” Elizabeth flipped th.