I was sixteen, and it was in the year of our Lord, 1987. My family and I were wrapping up a nice trip to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, where we had a great time amongst the incredible mountain vistas of the area. On the last day there, I developed kidney stones. The pain was excruciating, and being a little tuffy wuffy as I am, I never said anything until later on, when the pain finally began to wear me down. I finally broke and informed my family that I needed to go to a hospital. Quickly. It felt as if an alien symbiont was about to come bursting out of my urinary tract and shoot up the room with explosive bullets.
There was only one catch, in the area where we were (on the way back home), there wasn't a hospital or a clinic open, but there was a gynecology clinic. I refused at first, but continued to be relentless. Imagine everyone's surprise when I showed up, signed-in, and sat in the waiting room, grabbed a magazine and acted as if nothing unusual existed about this scene...
They took me reluctantly down a dark passageway back to a torture room filled with bizarre and unusual looking equipment. The lighting added to my mounting fear with its chiaroscuro patterns canvasing this medical dungeon and resembling something right out of a Vincent Price film. They moved me toward a ghastly table with two leg extensions that opened wide. Unsightly and horrific looking instruments lay nearby. I knew instantly that this was hell, or at least some screening room prior to a departure to hell at any rate. Nothing about this room looked like a medical office designed to heal and comfort. No, this classified itself as purgatory. And to add to the mounting uneasiness within me, I had none of the natural immunities women inherently have. For instance, none of these painful looking tools or instruments were designed for my anatomy. I had major strikes against me just walking into this assortment of horrors.
"I don't know what to do with you," the lady (presumably a gynecologist, whatever that is) proclaimed abruptly. I asked her to kindly stop the pain, no matter how it's done.
"Give me some of that stuff you give birthers," I pleaded. "Just render me unconscious and quickly!"
She looked around uneasily and then she shot me up with morphine, and the next thing I remember is waking up 15 hours later glad that I am not a woman.
God bless you.
There was only one catch, in the area where we were (on the way back home), there wasn't a hospital or a clinic open, but there was a gynecology clinic. I refused at first, but continued to be relentless. Imagine everyone's surprise when I showed up, signed-in, and sat in the waiting room, grabbed a magazine and acted as if nothing unusual existed about this scene...
They took me reluctantly down a dark passageway back to a torture room filled with bizarre and unusual looking equipment. The lighting added to my mounting fear with its chiaroscuro patterns canvasing this medical dungeon and resembling something right out of a Vincent Price film. They moved me toward a ghastly table with two leg extensions that opened wide. Unsightly and horrific looking instruments lay nearby. I knew instantly that this was hell, or at least some screening room prior to a departure to hell at any rate. Nothing about this room looked like a medical office designed to heal and comfort. No, this classified itself as purgatory. And to add to the mounting uneasiness within me, I had none of the natural immunities women inherently have. For instance, none of these painful looking tools or instruments were designed for my anatomy. I had major strikes against me just walking into this assortment of horrors.
"I don't know what to do with you," the lady (presumably a gynecologist, whatever that is) proclaimed abruptly. I asked her to kindly stop the pain, no matter how it's done.
"Give me some of that stuff you give birthers," I pleaded. "Just render me unconscious and quickly!"
She looked around uneasily and then she shot me up with morphine, and the next thing I remember is waking up 15 hours later glad that I am not a woman.
God bless you.
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