I wish I had my own office at work. Or at least a soundproof cubicle. It’s really hard to pick up the phone to call a psychosexual therapist when your co-worker is sitting inches away in the next cubicle in an abnormally quiet office. No detail of your life goes unheard of.
But anyway, let me backtrack.
I went on my first appointment at the Pelvic and Sexual Health Institute this past Friday. It’s the first time I’ve felt BETTER after leaving an appointment than I felt going in. Granted, it didn’t go so well in terms of the exam itself, but it was great to finally meet someone who knew what she was talking about and completely understood my feelings. Having my sister with me really helped to calm the anxiety too. I barely thought about the appointment the night before. In fact, I almost FORGOT I had an appointment. No tossing and turning all night worrying.
I got there and did the standard stuff. Signed in, paid my ridiculously expensive co-pay, filled out some paperwork and was interviewed by a nurse/secretary. Positive aspect #1: she didn’t look at me like I was a medical mystery, AND she asked my sister about the book she was reading. This sparked a whole conversation on the amazingly addictive Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris. Turns out she’s a big fan of True Blood, and had no idea the show was based on a series of books. I was kind of glad she had given me something else (and fun) to talk about. But back to my vagina…
The anticipation (and the WAITING) has got to be the worst part of any doctor’s visit. After having felt unusually relaxed, I started to really think about where I was, and what I was doing there, and the anxiety just hit me like a tidal wave. I spent what seemed like the next half-hour or so holding my head in my hands and breathing in and out while my sister blissfully read away. She couldn’t believe how hard my heart was pounding. No amount of deep breathing could calm me down. Finally, the nurse practitioner came in, smiled brightly and asked me how I was doing. I liked her immediately. Her personality exuded genuine niceness. She went on to ask me all the usual questions and explained to me what she would be doing. She seemed to understand my phobia without me even having to emphasize how scared I was, which I really appreciated. She described the Q-Tip test to me, making sure to stress the fact that she would not be attempting any penetration unless I was ready for it. The Q-Tip test consists of the NP touching different parts of the vulva with a Q-Tip to test for pain. If all went well, and I felt no pain, she then would try to insert part of the Q-Tip so that she could test for any other possible physical causes of pain. After all that, she instructed me to strip from the waist down, and her and my sister left the room.
As I sat on the examining table with a sheet over my legs, I felt the anxiety getting worse. I told myself to relax, that there was no reason to panic because there wasn’t going to be any unnecessary poking and prodding. Telling myself to relax never works. By the time she came back into the room, I was still a nervous wreck. I took deep breaths, put my feet in the stirrups and laid back, nearly hyperventilating. She talked to me very soothingly and touched the Q-Tip to my inner thigh. My reaction was a panicked gasp. Almost immediately, I felt the urge to close my legs and sit-up. But I kept taking deep breaths, telling myself that there was no pain. She then touched the Q-Tip a little closer to the vulva, around the pubic mound. More gasping. When she touched the vestibule area, my level of panic reached an all-time high and then I started to cry. I wasn’t sure if I felt pain or just tenderness, or if my fear of pain led me to believe it was there. All I know is that I was too panicked to give her a coherent response, and that was the end of the exam. In between my crying and my apologizing for being so emotional, she told me that I seem to have the classic signs of vaginismus, pointing out how my breathing became shaky and my face flushed even before she touched me. Then she went on to give me an overview of how sometimes the brain can perceive signals as pain, even if it’s not really there, or something to that effect. Basically telling me that I wasn’t a freak and that I shouldn’t blame myself for feeling this anxiety. She suggested that I go see a sex/psychotherapist to try and figure out the cause of my anxiety, before she attempts any physical evaluation or treatment. I completely agreed with her, since this is what I thought I needed all along, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that I could put off any physical invasion of my body for at least a few more months. So she gave me the number to the Institute for Sex Therapy at Council for Relationships (which is conveniently located on the floor right above my NP), I thanked her for being so great, and then I left to go have a fun day with my sister.
So, when I finally got a few seconds alone in the office today, I called the sex therapists, and it turns out they don’t take health insurance! [Insert exclamation of incredulity here]. And unfortunately, the sex therapy specialist my NP wanted me to see costs at least $150 an hour. Well there goes my plan of buying a new car. Fortunately, they charge on a slide fee scale, which means that what you pay is based on your income. Also, they have interns available who work under the supervision of the senior staff who cost a lot less. I have an appointment with one of them this Thursday, so I’m hoping it works out, and that she has had enough training to be able to help me. We’ll see how that goes.
In other news, I found my vagina today! I spent the last 24 years of my life convinced there couldn’t possibly be a hole down there, but sure enough, there is!
