A story that just has to be told . . . over, and over, and over, and over . . .

Recently Daltonboy, Jr. and I were shopping at Costco, and as we neared the end of our trip I headed over to the pharmacy area to pick up some personal hygiene supplies. When DBJ realized what we were doing, he said, "AWKward!"
Said I in my best "bring it on" voice, "What do you mean?"

DBJ: Well, uh, nothing . . . it's just that it doesn't have anything to do with me.

Me (sweetly innocent): What are you talking about? It has everything to do with you.

DBJ: Well, not YET, anyway.

Me: Um, without the basic functions of a woman's body, you wouldn't be here.

He wisely decided to drop it and just stand there, looking off in a different direction.

Warning: If you found yourself fitting into DBJ's size 12 shoes in the preceding story, stop reading NOW. I mean it. If you are firmly in my camp, read on at your own risk.

There was this one time when I had to go to the OB/GYN. Never mind why; it's not germane to the story. I needed to go, and I lived in Japan.

So my missionary companion and I went down to the local University Hospital, which was the best place to get medical care in those parts and came highly recommended, unlike the butcher shop I stayed at years earlier where they almost killed me.

The intake people were quite pleasant, and were thrilled that I spoke Japanese. (Unfortunately, you have to reestablish your ability to speak with every single new person you meet.) They listened sympathetically, started a file, asked my companion to wait in the lobby, and guided me to another waiting area. The waiting area looked something like this:

The space between the narrow wooden bench and the curtains was about two feet wide. I made my way down to the end of the bench where a young woman was sitting, and sat myself down next to her. I assumed this was the end of the queue. The young woman was holding a file like mine, except that hers was covered with dates--presumably recording previous visits. She was also shaking violently and breathing hard. She didn't ever look at me, but hunched over her folder and stared at it vacantly. I wondered what the problem was. I mean, how traumatic could it be? It's not like they were going to cut her open without pain killers, was it? I sat there, relaxed as I could be on a narrow wooden bench, and thought about other things.

After a while the girl's shaking started to get to me. I wanted to talk to her, but wasn't really sure what to say. Also, she seemed like she might do something desperate at any moment. I didn't really want to initiate something like that.

After a little while longer, a nurse came and guided me through the curtain and into a tiny cubicle that held a Clothing Bin. It looked something like this:

I apologize for the crudity of the drawings. They are not to scale. They are also not very good.

She directed me to take all of my clothes off, put them in the top part of the bin, and then to take the paper clothes out of the bottom part of the bin and put them on. Then she may or may not have said to go through the curtain into the next area. I think she may also have told me to take a seat in the chair. I tuned her out when she said I had to take all my clothes off.

I followed her instructions, being chagrined to find that the paper clothing consisted of a loose shirt-type thing that went down to my belly. That was it. I stood in the tiny cubicle wondering if someone would call out to me or let me know when it was time to move on. No one did. Finally, I pulled aside the curtain and moved into the next area. This is what I saw:

Now, I'm going to have to ask you to do a little mental editing here, since I don't have an accurate photo. First, the chair in this photo was made sometime in the last ten, twenty years. You're going to have to change the naugahyde color to brown, and imagine what its 1940 counterpart might look like. Delete the IV thing. We don't need that. Next, delete the handy little light. Then delete the cool plastic funnel and just plop a 5-gallon plastic bucket down on the ground. Put some metal stirrups in, instead of those nice padded ones, and make them quite a bit higher up. Now for good measure, put in a little shelf under the chair that contains a bucket of ice with a speculum in it. Done. Now imagine me (not too graphically please) standing there, naked from the waist down, staring at it this thing in disbelief. Then I look up from the chair, and this is what I see next:

Please take a moment to observe that there are no curtains or walls enclosing the space on the side facing the thoroughfare, desks, and wall-to-floor windows. Ahem! The chair faces out. People are passing by in droves. I stand there. Naked from the waist down. I may have mentioned that. No one comes. I wait.

Finally, I'm thinking maybe I should sit down on the chair. Then maybe I could pull part of the paper shirt down past my hips, if I hunch over really far. I maneuver myself around, and perch on the tiny 2-inch deep shelf that is meant to pass for a seat. I'm thinking I can just sit there, but that turns out to be an impossibility. Without my feet in the stirrups to push me back onto the seat, I just slide off. At this point, I am committed. I put my feet up in the stirrups. Comfy! Sadly, the paper shirt does not come to my rescue. I sit, waiting, trying to appear indifferent.

About six hours go by. It could have been five minutes, I'm not sure. All I know is that I'm sitting there, exposed to the entire student body of the university, and every single one of them is taking this opportunity to pass through this area. They glance over casually as they walk by, which isn't so bad. I mean, it could be worse. They could be staring. Wait! It's an American!! Every one of them does an extreme double take. Now they're staring, and yes, it's worse. I wait another hour or so. I didn't know there were this many people in the entire country.

A doctor approaches. Keep in mind that he (like every other Japanese person before I start talking) thinks I don't speak any Japanese. He walks up, pulls the speculum out of the ice, inserts it, opens it very quickly (this means pain, and plenty of it), pulls a giant syringe containing about a quart of ice water out of nowhere, shoots it forcefully into the speculum, yanks the speculum out, throws it in the bucket, and walks away. Without a single word.

Huh. That may possibly have been the most invasive thing that has ever happened to me, including the time they took out an internal organ.

So I sit there for another long while, waiting for new instructions, but no one comes. I am freezing. I am shaking. Finally, weak-kneed, I climb gingerly out of the chair and go back into the curtained cubicle where my clothes are, and get dressed. Then I go back out to the narrow wooden bench. The girl is gone. I sit clutching my folder, staring vacantly at it, rocking back and forth, shaking violently, breathing hard . . .

Eventually someone comes and leads me away to a doctor they've finally found who speaks English. Did I mention I speak Japanese? I have pretty serious thoughts about hurting him real bad before he tells me it won't be necessary for me to come back. Then I find I like him a little better.

And the moral of that story is: well, just don't go to Japan.