Connectivity Problems

by Simone Westfall — April 27, 2007

For several hours after Sam leaves, I am pleasantly sore....it is the kind of chafing and mild tingling that reminds you that you've had a good time the night before and brings a little secret smile to your lips when you're walking about on your daily rounds.

But by evening the soreness has turned to pain, burning pain when I pee, sharp pain when I walk, and I go out to the drugstore to scope out over-the-counter remedies. When the salves and the douches have no effect within 24 hours, I decide that I've probably come down with a urinary tract infection, which I haven't had in years, and on Wednesday morning I realize I need to make an appointment with a gynecologist. The only problem is my regular doctor, a no-nonsense mother of two whom I've always liked immensely and have been seeing for years, is not on the insurance plan I changed to in January (I thought she was on the roster, but that turned out not to be so). So I find a very short list of ob/gyns who are on the plan online. The first one I call can't see me till next week. Another, a certain Dr. C, is several miles away from me on the Lower East Side, but at least she can give me an appointment that afternoon.

Dr. C's office is in the basement of an older apartment building opposite a hospital on Second Avenue. It is a grim windowless space with a few faded posters and nothing to read but ancient copies of People. When I'm finally ushered into her office after endless forms and a half-hour wait, Dr. C proves to be a swarthy, forbidding woman, most likely in her 60s, with eyebrows that bridge her nose and a dark mustache. I suddenly feel as though I've been asked to report to the principal about some unbelievably stupid prank.

"I, um, have a new boyfriend," I tell her after describing my symptoms. "He's really big...." I attempt a smile. We are, after all, woman-o à woman-o here. She doesn't smile back.

"Let's take look" is all she says and then ushers me to the bathroom with a small bottle in which to leave a urine sample.

And then I'm in the stirrups and Dr. C is doing her thing; the first touch of cold metal sends stabbing pain up my spine. After she collects a swab, she instructs me to get dressed again and wait outside. I notice a microscope on a side table and deduce that she can make a diagnosis then and there.

She doesn't mince words when we are face to face again. What I have is vaginitis trichomoniasis, a sexually transmitted infection that will require seven days of pills and a cream to shoot up my twat for a week. And my "partner" will have to take the oral medication, too. She graciously offers to write out a double prescription, then adds sternly, "And no sex for a week." Like, I really need to be told this? At this juncture, I'm ready to forswear that pastime for good.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in The Dating Life, click here.