Despite what you may have heard, rabies shots aren’t all that common; it took the Department of Health an entire day to even find a hospital that had the vaccine on hand. And the medicine comes in these giant syringes that look like Halloween props—evidently the rabies people think safety needles are for pussies because this thing could stitch a leather couch together. I always mentioned that to the nurse, that the needle was huge and the vaccine was viscous so if she could, you know, ratchet down the enthusiasm… and then she’d JAM! the needle into my arm with one eye closed and her whole fist wrapped around the thing. Like she was smacking a suction-cup dart against a window.
Turns out the doctor was a pretty good salesperson; it’s a sign of the economic times when a patient shows up for a rabies shot and gets upsold to a pap smear, but that’s exactly what happened. Granted I was an easy mark:
“So you’re here for the rabies protocol?”
“That’s right.”
“Got a few extra minutes and the urge to take your pants off?”
“That’s right.”
Imagine my disappointment when he reached for a speculum.
HEYYYY-OHHHH! That’s not how it happened.
But I did get talked into a physical and a well woman exam that came with this whole Q&A interrogation wherein the doctor tried valiantly to find some other more expensive shit wrong with me but alas, my thyroid is aces and I don’t need medication for anxiety or mania or sadness or boredom.
There were also fifteen or twenty THOUSAND questions thrown in there in an effort to determine exactly why it is that a healthy 33-year-old woman in a ten-year relationship doesn’t have any children. I think the first few were probably valid and then, flummoxed, she started improvising.
“Have you ever been pregnant?” No.
“Are you on a birth control pill?” No.
“Are you currently trying to conceive?” No.
“How are you preventing conception?” When my period’s late I drink warm tequila and throw myself down some stairs for a few hours. Not really. Vasectomy.
“How’s that working for you?” I haven’t gotten pregnant yet so… great?
“Are your periods regular?” I don’t know, what time is it?
“Have you ever taken any kind of fertility drugs?” Like Boone’s Farm? No.
“Have you ever been pregnant and miscarried?” I thought we covered this.
“Have you ever been told you were infertile?” Guaranteed I would have mentioned it to you by now if I had.
“So… you just don’t want children?” Correct!
“Well!” she said, the victor, finally. “And that’s just fine.”
Oh, is it? Is it fine? Thanks. Thanks for that. I feel so much better now that I have your tepid approval. I guess now we can bypass the rest of your investigation:
“Do you have a family history of a horrible genetic disease that’s preventing you from fulfilling your true and only purpose as a woman?”
“Do you have something against blessings?”
“How many babies have you hit over the head with a hammer?”
I’m just going to start telling people I’m using my uterus to store my bakeware. No room for a fetus, sorry, that Creuset roaster takes up a lot of space.
In the interest of bringing this series of misadventures to a close, I’ll tell you that Jessica sent me this fantastic rabies bunny the other day and, Dora bandage notwithstanding, she thus helped end the whole stupid ordeal on a positive note. She better get “malaria” and “wet leprosy” bunnies ready for me because I’m feeling pretty fearless with all this superblood rolling through my gig. I’m going to be out there touching all KINDS of shit, you don’t even know.
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