Backstory, CONTINUED because it’s late and, as I am now unemployed, I am free to drink inordinate amounts of chai tea and keep myself buzzed until midnight if I want to. In return, I have to control the urge to place weekly orders from the Dick Blick art supply catalog. Shopping is an addiction, even if you’re buying acrylic paints and spools of copper electrical wire. That’s not only an addiction, that’s a WEIRD addiction. But I digress.
What was I going to write about…? How about the lidocaine shot? That’s a fun one.
So sometime before I began my physical therapy sessions, Specialist Doctor wanted to see if a local injection of lidocaine in the vulvar vestibule would ease my insertion of Q-tips, tampons, and other common household items. (Actually, inserting things like hairbrushes probably wasn’t high on his goal list. But hey, if I can comfortably fit the handle of a hairbrush in there, I may well do it just because I CAN.) While the idea of having an injection down there was pretty terrifying, I was hopeful that dilating might someday feel less like scraping my labia against a 100-grain sandpaper.
The actual procedure took place about nine months ago, so I’m a little fuzzy on the details. (The twilight anesthesia may be somewhat to blame for that.) My husband had just started a new job that week, so my mother was recruited as driver and chaperone. Together we were escorted past the normal exam rooms into a separate wing of the building, one lined with starched white hospital beds, separated only by flimsy powder-blue curtains. I changed into the equally flimsy paper sheet that is a pathetic excuse for a “robe,” and struggled to hold the back shut while waiting for my anesthesiologist. (They’re going to have a front-seat viewing of my ladybits, do they really need to see my ass too?)
Specialist Doctor greeted us in blue scrubs, cap and surgical mask, and ushered in my IV. Thankfully my previous experiences with anesthesia were all positive, so I wasn’t afraid of that. But as they wheeled me away from my mom and into a brightly lit room with a large window overlooking the parking garage, I was a bit nervous. I still felt perfectly aware of everything around me. There were far too many surgical assistants in the room (do we really need five people to inject a shot?). When the doctor took a dry, scratchy Q-tip and poked my sensitive introitus muscles, asking if it hurt, I was still awake enough to say, “OW, YES!”
… Next thing I remember, I’m back in the waiting room. Specialist Doctor is giving my mom a packet of aftercare instructions and bringing in my departure wheelchair. Anesthesia is a rather awesome little invention, isn’t it? I can think of a few other memories I’d like to have blocked out like that.
Unfortunately, the lidocaine injection didn’t help much at all. Topical lido ointment, as it turns out, is much more effective for me than an internal shot. But, I can dilate without that awful vaginal-rugburn now, and I can now honestly say that I’ve had a needle stuck in my vagina. That should earn me some bragging rights among my friends and sisters, I think. Or at least some horrified looks.
The Defective Woman 