You can cut the atmosphere with a scalpel as John drives me to Urogynae. ‘Is it what he did?’ He gestures towards my groin.
I shake my head. ‘I’ve told you, just my age, childbirth … lots of women ….’
John’s trying to understand; after all, there are things I could do for him, but I don’t seem too interested any more. I’m his wife. We’re not that old. Somehow when the Kegals stopped working and the lubes became useless—it was something about the pain — the fear of tearing — something about the way John grunted while I tried to ignore my aching wrist — somehow, the words spewed out — exploded out — like vomit you’re trying to hold onto while you careen towards the bathroom.
That’s when I realized, I’d held them in too long — way too long. Now there’s no taking them back. Every Wednesday, I spit out my truth along with mouthfuls of profanities. Cunt is my armour and Bastard my sword. That’s how I share with my group over strong coffee and #MeToo iced biscuits. Together, we snap chocolate dicks in half and chomp them into nothingness.
I’m all polite phrasing and textbook terminology with medics. Formal words that make me cringe. Doctor Sarah sees me squirm and makes gentle quips about lady gardens and dodgy foundations.
She nudges aside flesh which doesn’t want to capitulate and I hold my breath.
‘If things get too difficult, do say. Tension doesn’t help. Sometimes talking makes things easier.’
Just what my therapist said. I believed her.
John was beyond furious that I’d waited forty years to tell him. Forty years I let him believe I’d never been manhandled and bruised like spoiled fruit. It’s easy to forgive him for needing to know everything about the guy. ‘My woman,’ is harder.
At last, we leave the clinic and head for the supermarket. I’ve promised to make steak pie tonight. He’s promised we’ll watch a film and snuggle on the sofa. Just snuggle. I need time; he gets it; we both need time. John curses as a white Volvo snatches the nearest parking spot. “Bastard. I was here first. I was bloody well here first.” He’s not talking about the space. There are plenty more.
Maybe we’ll work this out, maybe we won’t, but right now, I’m thinking about me — right now — my vagina is falling apart.
Heather D. Haigh is a working-class Yorkshire England writer. https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook
