A Very Transparent, Very Honest Day in the Life of My Lady Bits

Today was one of those days, the kind where transparency isn’t just a vibe, it’s a survival mechanism. So buckle up, because we’re diving straight into the glamorous, glitter-free world of women’s health.

Yes, this is a smear-test-adjacent story. No, I will not apologise.

The Appointment (a.k.a. The Dreaded Three-Year Torture Ritual)

Some people breeze through smear tests like they’re popping into the shops. Others dread it. Others still cry, sweat, swear, and momentarily leave their physical body.

I am category: “excruciatingly painful, please someone sedate me, why is this my life.”

My very first one set the tone: the nurse cheerfully joked she might “need to get a foot in there” to get the speculum in. You know… the kind of humour that makes you laugh, then internally scream forever.

My body, bless it, has its own architectural quirks. Things don’t sit where textbooks say they should sit. My cervix likes to drop down like it’s doing a dramatic fainting scene in a Victorian play. Add the fact that I'm gay and don’t use, shall we say, “assorted equipment,” and you’ve got a recipe for a very snug situation. Let’s just say my internal geography is less “open-concept design” and more “converted attic with low beams.”

Past Smear Adventures: A Greatest Hits Album

I’ve had smears that required multiple nurses, multiple positions, and one particularly humbling round that ended with me being sent to the hospital for a camera-guided precision manoeuvre. Honestly? That one was the easiest of the lot. The woman who did it was a genius, quick, confident, and blessed by the gods of correct angles. I thought nothing could top that experience. Reader… I was wrong.

Today’s Episode: The Coil That Never Was

Because my body seems to be allergic to my own progesterone, yes, you read that right, I’m in early perimenopause, having wild hormone issues, and we’re testing whether a progesterone-releasing coil might help. You cannot have oestrogen without progesterone unless you’d like to increase your chances of cancer, so the coil was the Plan A, B, and C.

My wife came along because I have done too many surgeries alone and frankly, sometimes you just need the person you love to hold your hand while someone attempts medieval feats with medical instruments.

Now let’s get to the speculums.
Plural.
Because of course.

Speculum #1:

A size up from extra-small. Failed entry. Did not pass Go. Did not collect £200.

Speculum #2:

Smaller. Made it in. Immediately felt like someone was opening a rusty gate… inside me.
Painful, but she got it open.

Until she noticed she could literally see my skin tearing.
Yes, tearing.
10/10 would not recommend.

Then, under pressure, it broke.
Not metaphorically, literally shattered and collapsed inside me.

Spectacular. Iconic. Traumatic. Horrifying.

Honestly, I’m shocked it didn’t turn into a medieval jousting accident.

Speculum #3:

Tiny.
Made it in, but she still couldn’t see enough to get the job done.

The only option? Go back up a size and risk:

more tearing
another instrument exploding inside me
me achieving astral projection from pain

We mutually vetoed that.

By this point I felt like someone had driven a spiked bus up there, reversed it, and parallel parked.

And the Aftermath?

Hours later I still feel like a crime scene.
The coil never even made it into the same postcode as my cervix.

So:
Plan B = a combined patch.
Will I react to it?
History says “lol yes,” but hope springs eternal.

Also, and this part deserves an honourable mention, the nurse very diplomatically suggested I may need to… “introduce some bedroom accessories” to make things, um, more pliable.

She was trying SO hard to be clinical while essentially telling me:

“Please go buy a vibrator. For medical reasons.” I nearly applauded her effort.

Where We’re At Now

I’m bruised, sore, bleeding, and still slightly traumatised.
The patch is on its way.
And if it doesn’t work?
I swear on my own ovaries I would genuinely prefer a hysterectomy to that experience again.

Not even being dramatic. Just honest.

Because I KNOW I’m not the only one.
Some women breeze through these things.
Some don’t.
Some are told to “just relax,” while their inner organs are reenacting a horror movie.

Being a woman means going through embarrassing, painful, humiliating, downright absurd situations simply to manage the hormones we never asked for.

If you’ve been through something similar:
you are not alone, you are not weak, and you are not imagining it.

Sometimes the bravest thing you’ll do all week is lie on a medical table and try not to kick a nurse in the forehead.