Die Padda Dokter

I do not expect anyone to know what this refers to, so I will give you the literal translation: “The Vagina Doctor”. This is my name for a gynecologist. Apt name imo.

(Padda is pronounced pah-dah, Dokter = doctor, edit: the literal translation for padda is “frog”,  but in my culture it’s used to refer to one’s vagina)

I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t dread these visits. Every year from the day you hit puberty, until you reach 40 your vagina and co is subjected to some unwanted and intense scrutiny (and vandalism imo). After 40 it becomes every 6 months. “Spare me the mortification and humiliation please” I ask.

The only time ANY woman would willingly submit to this ordeal is because they
1. are having a baby
2. are planning a baby
3. want to have one but the gearbox (uterus) isn’t working as designed (or the design is screwed up)
4. want to have said gearbox removed.
5. are having some serious issues with gearbox and co

I hate these visits like a passion. In the past, I would often skip a year or two in-between visits – at my peril I know, because these visits are useful to prevent and detect some nasty things happening to gearbox and gear-shift (vagina).

Clearly it’s just one of those things we have to do. The only consolation to me is this: men have to subject their own ball(s)-and-tackle to unwanted scrutiny and violations. But what fills me with greater satisfaction – their plumbing has to be checked (i.e. backdoor) out too. The horror on my husband’s face the first time he was subjected to this was reward enough (is it wrong that I am smiling with glee at the thought of guys going through that shit?).

At this point you must be wondering if there is a point to all this. Yes there is.

Now going to a PD here, in Germany, is much of the same, but much of it isn’t.

If you are a prissy cherrie (pronounced: cherry, aka woman), the PD procedures here would have your delicate sensibilities deeply shocked. And leave you feeling even more violated than normal.

Now I can only speak for myself and my experiences with PDs in South Africa. And what I remember about my visits is this – utter deference to you as a woman, sensitivity and understanding that what you are being subjected to is utterly embarassing, and highly sensitive. You come in, have a chat with PD, who listens intently, making the right (sympathetic) noises, who puts you at ease, and then gently points you to the dressing room where a pleasantly pink gown awaits you. You strip, but at least you have the protective armour of that gentle piece of pink fabric around you.

When you go into the exam room, PD has thougtfully left the room, giving you enough space to get comfortable (as you possibly can) and relax (well as much as you possibly can). The entire exam proceed with deference (that word again) and sensitivity to the whole unpleasant business which you are subjected to. No way will he/she directly look at your wooha without checking if you’re ok with whatever it is he/she is doing. Apologies abound for the cold instruments and the discomfort you feel. After all is done, you can pick up your pride and get dressed feeling relieved, with a measure of your dignity and delicacies intact.

Will the Germans be that sensitive? Hell NO!!! They won WW2 man, why should they approach this with anything other than German precision?!?!

They approach a vagina the same way they would a war: with clever tactics, the right tools, military precision and NO bullshit at all.

You are interrogated (not gently prodded and encouraged to share) about how, when, how many times, how long, why????! Interruptions during your explanations are common – but clearly they need to understand a few things (even though you had explained the whole wooha situation a dozen times) so they can plot and plan the next step in the mission as expediently as possible.

And then the examination.

There is no private room to get undressed in, just a little corner with a screen where you can get on with business, and no fluffy pink robe to hide behind. No sir, you have strip bare to the bottom (I kid you not), walk a mile from where you undressed to the exam chair (all the while trying to protect your delicacies) and hoping to God that no one else comes into the room (happened once before).

And then the dilemma – barefoot or with socks? I tried it once barefoot, and well, I felt even more exposed than I already was. I know this seems stupid, but somehow the socks gave me a sense of security. But the picture….there is NOTHING sexy about this.

Finally, you have to climb onto The Chair
that leaves you more exposed than the day you were born. Your legs are spread and on eye-level, feeling like the proverbial turkey being readied for stuffing. The doc comes, and starts cranking the chair up until, well, until your wooha is eye-to-eye with her. How rude. How mortifying. At this point I am literally counting the seconds until she’s done, trying to keep my pose, not letting on how absolutely humiliating this whole shebang is. And she continues about her business asif she’s browsing through a catalog!!! (ok granted, this is their business, but this is MY wooha, dammit!!)

And do you know that they do the backdoor without even asking permission? The first time she did that I almost jumped off the chair!! OMG!!! “Ehhhh!!!! Why?!?!” I asked, the bloody woman told me that they normally check the backdoor at this age, since it’s another way to detect abnormalities, etc. Fine, but I felt like screaming “I will tell you what is abnormal – me shoving my hand up your ass without permission!!!” I felt so violated, it took me weeks to recover from that. Thank God I’m not the only one this happens to.

Then I’m told I have to come back in 2 month’s time… Are you fucking kidding me?!?! I almost said that to her.

I walked out of there feeling that I needed a stiff bloody drink, and a therapist.

Men, it is any wonder we withhold sex, become raving lunatics during PMS and go mental on your asses when you don’t dance to our tunes? It’s because of all this bullshit we have to go through!

It bloody sucks balls to be a woman.