“Some people have said it reminds them of an airport or a bus station,” the woman says of the new office composed of more frosted glass than actual walls. I look at the curve of open desks housing half a dozen receptionists in this strange space that replaced the cozy, intimate former office of my OBGYN.

I move towards the plastic stairs with a wooden pattern on them and walk slowly up, very aware of my butt and my legs moving me along. There is a woman in maroon scrubs waiting to take me to the exam room. She gives me two shots there, one in each arm and leaves me to wait for the doctor. “Don’t take off your clothes yet, she likes to talk to you first.”

And she does. “History of anything else in your family other than diabetes?”

“Prostate cancer…”

“Okay,” and she types it into the computer as if I’m at risk.

“Okay! So I’m going to step out of the room and I need you to put that hospital gown on over there and I’ll come back and we’ll complete your exam.” The doctor steps out of the room and I remove all of my clothes before stepping across the small room to pick up the backless exam gown. There are tiny pink flowers all over it, and when I pull the cloth over my head the laundry detergent smells like a bunch of people I know.

I sit in the chair and have some time to myself to feel the cold pleather on the part of my ass cheek that lost out on the “backless” part of the gown. Eternity passes and there is a small knock at the door.

“Alright, we’re going to have you put your feet in these,” the doctor with spiky brown hair and magenta glasses points to the horseless stirrups. I abide, and she adjusts the chair so that I face the ceiling at an angle that is meant to intentionally drain pride out of the tops of women’s heads.

Her small talk is mundane and I continue to laugh nervously as she awkwardly prods at me and tells me what’s going to happen before it does, I’m sure, for legal reasons. “Feel my hands.” They are ice.

“So I recognized your last name, are you related to a Mike?”

In a normal situation, I’m never related to the person they are referring to. But of course, here, as she inserts the old, metal speculum into my special place I respond,

“Yeah…he’s my dad.”

“Ohh no way!” she works a long cotton swab into what feels like the undersides of my stomach. “We went to high school together! We go way back. What is he up to these days?”

“Umm…” Cotton swab. “He’s a painter.” Adjustment of speculum.

“Oh yeah? Let me tell you we go way back to the…”

I tune her out and make small laughs and chirps in response  until she’s done and I feel the chair moving into the upright position again.

“Well that’s it! Everything looks good to me, just make sure you throw the gown in that bin over there and schedule another yearly downstairs.”

“Mmmkay.”

And as I start to take off the gown that I feel barely covers the essentials anyway, she pops her head back in the door, “Oh, and make sure to say hi to your dad for me!”

Sure, woman who has just cranked me open and swabbed my womanhood…that’s at the top of my list.

Luciana, 25