“How long has this been going on?”
I couldn’t see the doctor from my position, on my back, as light pierced my eyes. The only visible shape was the outline of her body, a white aura bleeding around her face. Just a disembodied voice tinged with disapproval.
I lied. Maybe I just didn’t want to face the truth myself. It had really been seven days of spotting on and off.
I knew it was stupid to leave the problem so long. You prolong knowing. I drank too much in my early thirties, smoked a heap of cigarettes. My age is a factor. Even my sexual choices cast a shadow.
Somewhere in the recesses of my memories, I kept wondering if this was happening well before my last intimate encounter, and I chose to ignore it.
I had just got in from Udaipur that morning, threw my bags at Mystique Moments, and rushed out again for this dreaded appointment.
The rickshaw driver had no idea where Fortis La Femme was; I was late, then barreled in sweating and exhausted.
With barely time to breathe in the stifling 40-degree weather, she uttered something that woke me from any travel anxiety.
“We need to do some tests, probably an ultrasound to see what might be going on.”
As she prepared me for the ultrasound, instructing me to lie down, placing a towel across my stomach, everything rushed at me.
Staph definitely rattled me. Yet, that can be annihilated with strong antibiotics.
This could be much worse. I knew it, could not ask her out loud.
This could be the big C.