his body.
Dylan’s sick again.
It seems sort of obvious now, so maybe some part of me didn’t want to know.
But now I do know. I know, because he would’ve told me if it was no big deal. He would’ve said something if it was just a routine checkup. We spoke on the phone for twenty minutes that morning, and he didn’t say a word about coming to the hospital.
I’m not going to confront him about it; he’ll tell me when he’s ready. But now I know that time is running out faster than I realized, and that Castillo Finisterre is rapidly becoming a Now or Never.
I choose Now.
So Charlotte and I are officially co-conspirators. She runs the show, really—I’ve taken a subordinate role. I sign my name to whatever papers I’m handed, do as I’m told, and then hold out my hand for payment. We’re milking the system, doubling down, raising the stakes, going all or nothing. However you want to describe it, we’re doing it. We’re going to squeeze every possible cent out of the human-subject testing system, which of course is also to say that we’re going to squeeze every possible cent out of our own flesh.
We’re almost a week in, and things are going surprisingly well…with exceptions, of course.
The female students who gather round us this morning are matter-of-fact. Two of the three men look terrified. Like, full-blown, ready-to-bolt-from-the-room terrified. They’re fidgety, plucking at their latex gloves, and I’m fairly certain they would rather do anything right now, anything at all, than stick their fingers in my vagina, but it’s part of the med school curriculum, so they have no choice in the matter.
Welcome to my pelvis, boys!
Another winning slogan.
It’s the third man—if you can call a skinny, oily-faced twenty-three-year-old medical student a man—who’s getting to me. He’s standing there, arms crossed high on his chest, upper lip curled in disgust, looking for all the world like he’s being asked to dive into an open sewer. His narrowed eyes stare at my crotch like it’s the enemy, and I can tell he isn’t hearing a word the instructor is saying, not even pretending to listen to how to drape the patient in such a way to preserve dignity, or how to communicate the steps of the process to the patient to minimize surprise and discomfort. My body is horrific to him, this scowling MD-to-be, and I’m not surprised when he positions himself to be the last in the group to take his turn, like he’s hoping to be saved by the bell from performing this loathsome task.
The lecturer finishes up and tells the group of students to divide themselves between the two “patients.” I brace myself and let my thoughts start drifting up into the buzzing fluorescent lights. This ain’t my first time to this particular rodeo, and you’d be amazed by just how many ways a nervous student can fuck up a Pap smear.
My third exam is almost finished when young Dr. Misogyny finally takes his place on the stool at the end of Charlotte’s table. I’m selfishly relieved that it’s not me. Charlotte and I turn and give each other a look—she obviously caught a whiff of his sadistic asshole vibe, too—and for a second, lying side by side and staring into one another’s eyes like that, we actually
do
look a little like the couple in the spa picture. But then the student picks up the speculum and gets started without so much as a single word of warning. Charlotte winces, hissing her discomfort, and the instructor snaps at the guy, which only makes him look more angry and disgusted than before.
I notice two of the female students watching him with razor-sharp eyes. They don’t like him, either.
“You’re going to have to get in closer. You need to visualize the anatomy,” the instructor warns him again. Junior-doctor Dickface makes a sour face, then scoots his stool forward between Charlotte’s knees, and I can practically feel him twisting the metal instrument as he leans closer to what he apparently
Dylan’s sick again.
It seems sort of obvious now, so maybe some part of me didn’t want to know.
But now I do know. I know, because he would’ve told me if it was no big deal. He would’ve said something if it was just a routine checkup. We spoke on the phone for twenty minutes that morning, and he didn’t say a word about coming to the hospital.
I’m not going to confront him about it; he’ll tell me when he’s ready. But now I know that time is running out faster than I realized, and that Castillo Finisterre is rapidly becoming a Now or Never.
I choose Now.
So Charlotte and I are officially co-conspirators. She runs the show, really—I’ve taken a subordinate role. I sign my name to whatever papers I’m handed, do as I’m told, and then hold out my hand for payment. We’re milking the system, doubling down, raising the stakes, going all or nothing. However you want to describe it, we’re doing it. We’re going to squeeze every possible cent out of the human-subject testing system, which of course is also to say that we’re going to squeeze every possible cent out of our own flesh.
We’re almost a week in, and things are going surprisingly well…with exceptions, of course.
The female students who gather round us this morning are matter-of-fact. Two of the three men look terrified. Like, full-blown, ready-to-bolt-from-the-room terrified. They’re fidgety, plucking at their latex gloves, and I’m fairly certain they would rather do anything right now, anything at all, than stick their fingers in my vagina, but it’s part of the med school curriculum, so they have no choice in the matter.
Welcome to my pelvis, boys!
Another winning slogan.
It’s the third man—if you can call a skinny, oily-faced twenty-three-year-old medical student a man—who’s getting to me. He’s standing there, arms crossed high on his chest, upper lip curled in disgust, looking for all the world like he’s being asked to dive into an open sewer. His narrowed eyes stare at my crotch like it’s the enemy, and I can tell he isn’t hearing a word the instructor is saying, not even pretending to listen to how to drape the patient in such a way to preserve dignity, or how to communicate the steps of the process to the patient to minimize surprise and discomfort. My body is horrific to him, this scowling MD-to-be, and I’m not surprised when he positions himself to be the last in the group to take his turn, like he’s hoping to be saved by the bell from performing this loathsome task.
The lecturer finishes up and tells the group of students to divide themselves between the two “patients.” I brace myself and let my thoughts start drifting up into the buzzing fluorescent lights. This ain’t my first time to this particular rodeo, and you’d be amazed by just how many ways a nervous student can fuck up a Pap smear.
My third exam is almost finished when young Dr. Misogyny finally takes his place on the stool at the end of Charlotte’s table. I’m selfishly relieved that it’s not me. Charlotte and I turn and give each other a look—she obviously caught a whiff of his sadistic asshole vibe, too—and for a second, lying side by side and staring into one another’s eyes like that, we actually
do
look a little like the couple in the spa picture. But then the student picks up the speculum and gets started without so much as a single word of warning. Charlotte winces, hissing her discomfort, and the instructor snaps at the guy, which only makes him look more angry and disgusted than before.
I notice two of the female students watching him with razor-sharp eyes. They don’t like him, either.
“You’re going to have to get in closer. You need to visualize the anatomy,” the instructor warns him again. Junior-doctor Dickface makes a sour face, then scoots his stool forward between Charlotte’s knees, and I can practically feel him twisting the metal instrument as he leans closer to what he apparently
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