Oh, vagina. I hate to give up on you, I truly do – but you leave me no choice. I’m tired of the lies; tired of worrying myself sick – and to what end? I’m no closer to an answer now than I was when I was 5. I’ve been too confused for too long, and although it breaks my heart, I have to accept what is and simply walk away with the remainder of my dignity held high.
I can’t get a follow up appointment for the Mysterious Pains of ’10. I know this isn’t my vagina’s fault outside of hurting in the first place, but I’m frustrated and it’s easier to be frustrated at my own orchard than it is all of Vancouver’s health care. I’ve tried since LAST YEAR to schedule myself in to the Vagoplasty Unit (not to be confused with vaginoplasty; I don’t need a labia lift) at Vancouver General at the behest of UBC’s Urgent Care clinic, who were unable to solve the Mystery of the Aching Tubes. The doctors want my vagina to be thoroughly tested on account of my astronomical white cell count which could be a Secret Infection, so they asked me to go to the foremost expert on vaginal complications. Unfortunately, said experts are only available from 9:47am to 10:21am on alternate Wednesdays unless the date ends in a two or the moon is waxing and also they are stupid. Every time I call I’m told they either can’t find my paperwork, or the office is just plain closed and please try back during office hours. That’s all fine and good, except they don’t actually tell you what those office hours are – IT IS A MYSTERY. And one that I, frankly, no longer care to solve. I’m done. I wash my vagina of it all. The tests I did have showed that I am neither full of baby nor lumps, and it’s been fairly quiet in there lately. That will have to be good enough. I am tired of playing vagina tag.
In other news, this is what I look like whilst smoking a tiny pipe: