When doctors and nurses tell you that something will be “uncomfortable,” they mean that it’s really going to hurt.
When they tell you it’s going to be “pretty uncomfortable,” they’re explaining graphic, bloody, searing pain, the likes of which you have never experienced, enough so to make you contemplate never having children, so that they never have to experience it either.
Telling you that something is uncomfortable is like asking you if Mr. Pibb is okay, and the only reasonable response is “No. It’s fucking not.”
Uncomfortable is how you feel on a long flight. Unreasonably scarred and forever traumatized is how you feel after major medical procedures. Just to clarify.
As women, we have a high tolerance for pain. And for making polite conversation while people put their faces into our wobbly bits. Meanwhile our legs are spread as wide open as eagles’ wings (read: spread eagle) and we’re wondering whether we have time to stop by the coffee shop on our way back to work. We have periods and cramps and pap smears and mammograms and at the end of every well-woman exam we have the balls to smile and thank the medical professionals for scraping out our innards (without anesthesia) like ripe avocados on Superbowl Sunday.
If a headache is bad enough that a woman complains, it’s probably a headache that would bring her husband to his knees in agony.
Today I’m getting my boob-drain removed so I can heal a little before my next surgery, and my PA will tell me to take a deep breath, because this is going to be “pretty uncomfortable.”
And, topless in front of a room full of strangers who always seem to be taking notes, I will tell her that it’s going to be “pretty uncomfortable” when I slap her in the face for being a liar.