When she is done, she hangs the stethoscope back on the tray and pulls over a lamp with a flexible neck.
“Lie back. Legs apart,” she says, already snapping open a new pair of gloves.
The table has stirrups, wide and cold. She pulls them out with a clank, positions them at the end of the table, and motions for me to slide down.
“Wait, what?”
“Please, Miss Marcus. I don’t have time for this.”
I shake my head, “No, this can’t be protocol!”
“Do you want me to call the guards? They can hold your legs open, if you’d prefer.”
Tears collect in the corner of my eyes as I lay back, trying to cover my dignity. The paper bunches under my hips, my skin prickling.
She places my feet in the stirrups, then adjusts my knees so they are spread wide. I want to close my eyes, but I force them open, fixing my gaze on the floodlight above.
Her hands are cold as she manipulates my breasts, pushing and prodding all down my body, pushing hard on my stomach before she huffs and steps away.
I can hear the latex squeak as she lubricates the speculum, the snap as she breaks the seal on the swabs.
I feel the cold metal at the entrance of my body, then the slow, careful pressure as she inserts it.
“There may be some discomfort,” she says, but her voice is far away.
The pain is sharp, but I grit my teeth and hold my breath. I stare at the bulb above, watch the dust swirl in the glass.
She removes the speculum and sets it in a dish.
She takes a new glove, dips two fingers in lubricant, and inserts them inside me, pressing hard against the wall. With her other hand, she palpates my lower stomach, feeling for lumps or tenderness. Her fingers are thick, the glove texture rougher than I expect.
She withdraws, removes the gloves, and tosses them in a red plastic bin.
“You can sit up,” she says, already turning away to type notes into the laptop on the tray.
I pull my knees together, sit up, try not to flinch at the raw ache between my legs. My face burns, but my hands are steady.
She finishes her notes, then comes back and hands me a tissue. “There may be some residue,” she says, gesturing to my thighs.
I take the tissue and wipe between my legs. The lubricant is clear and sticky, and I feel like a specimen, a thing to be cleaned and put away.
She hands me a thin paper gown. “Keep this on for now. The doctor will be in shortly to complete the testing and the panel.”
The word doctor lands differently. I thought she was the doctor. I thought this was the worst of it.
But it isn’t.
She leaves the enclosure, pulling the curtain behind her. I sit on the edge of the table, clutching the gown to my chest, waiting.
The silence is complete.
I try to focus on the facts, the little things that don’t matter but give my brain something to chew on.
The texture of the paper under my hands. The hum of the fluorescent bulb. The smell of bleach, everywhere, like a second skin.
The curtain stirs. A man enters. He’s old, at least sixty, with a bald head and wire glasses. He wears a white coat over green scrubs, and his hands are already gloved. He doesn’t introduce himself, just scans the chart on the clipboard, then glances up at me.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
