Gabby Mijalski-Fahim

Both of my legs are spread and hoisted at 90 degree angles. My gown is made of paper but it’s the most feminine outfit that I’ve worn in years. Between my legs, a window peers into campus. It’s Springtime outside of the health clinic. Almost everything in Oregon has bloomed. I turn my attention to a cluster of plaster in the ceiling until the OBGYN materializes with a medical tray. She slumps into the office chair adjacent to me and rummages through an open drawer, retrieving a fresh pair of gloves. We exchange some remarks about seasonal changes and final exams before she launches into today’s program. I attempt a nodding movement in my supine position but most of her spiel goes unheard. My focus is elsewhere. This will be the first time, since high school, that I am fully penetrated. Of course, I won’t mention this as I am visibly lesbian and this may fuel some of her preconceived notions about sexuality. God forbid reinforcing one college nurse’s antiquated stereotypes. Most importantly, you’ll need to remember to breathe, she gently concludes.

She reaches for the medical tray. The speculum is the center piece, glistening under the fluorescent light. Its silver beak gapes at me like I’m fresh bait floating to the water’s surface. The nurse’s rubbery fingers pinch my inner thigh to hold me in place. She counts backwards from three then inserts the speculum. The cold metal immediately stings my skin and I clench up. I hear her perform deep breathwork for me to imitate. I fill my lungs as my insides spread. Cold metal hikes up my spine and freezes my head. I notice the overhead light fading more and more each time I blink until my eyes eventually shut.

When they reopen, I am surrounded by nothing but water as thick and coppery as stew. My paper gown strips into one long ribbon, twirling into the dark water below me. I breathe out and release a field of bioluminescent plankton. They spread in several directions, creating what appears to be an underwater firework spectacle. Their bodies form contemporary paintings and multi-colored expressions. R E L E A S E, the last firework reads. You really need to release, I hear my nurse start to panic. I open my eyes to the overhead light, all the more belligerent. My hair is glued to my cheeks with sweat and a stabbing pain returns down my spine, meeting her gloved finger where she tugs the speculum out from me. My eyes catch hers for a fleeting moment and I breathe out, expelling the device.

Glowing currents gently break on a black shore. I dribble sand down my leg and watch the moon. Two of her craters stare back, slowly blinking. They’re eyes. Welling with tears above mine. You blacked out. You’re safe, the nurse assures. In a lower voice, she offers, You know, sometimes we forget the things that our bodies remember.

A) It’s the fifth of July; the summer before my senior year of high school. I’m complaining to a friend at track practice about missing the fireworks yesterday. Clearly you were preoccupied, she gestures to the wine-colored splotches adorning my neck. I’m quiet for the rest of practice. Partly due to embarrassment, mostly due to confusion. I don’t remember much from last night. The last memory that I can recall is stealing a bottle of tequila from my parents’ stash and splitting it with my girlfriend. This morning, I woke up feeling weird. Not hangover-weird. Weird in addition to the hangover. Once I’m out of track practice, I call my girlfriend. We were drunk, she says then changes the subject.

B)  In the locker room, I make an awkward admittance to my friend. My…down there. It’s never felt like this before. She folds her running shorts then re-folds before placing them in her locker in an attempt to buy more time to think of a response. I’m not sure what you’re getting at. The room suddenly feels smaller and less ventilated. After a minute of dense silence, she adds, I mean, it’s not like women are even armed, the last word is delivered with a half-suppressed laugh.

C)  It’s the fifth of July and I’ve learned that the least feminine thing that a woman can do is be touched, let alone violated by another woman.

My body is heavy as I swing my legs over the edge of the examination table to sit upright. The nurse shuffles her hands through a busy shelf then produces a bundle of tissues and two juice boxes with cartoon apples. I can feel the sting of the apple’s face, devilishly smiling at me as my sniffles turn into loud sobs, coming from the deep end. Tears and snot decorate my paper gown. The nurse’s blurry hand enters my vision and patiently hovers by my knee. After a few seconds, I reach for her hand and hold it firmly in mine until my eyes dry out. Neither of us exchange a word or a glance because neither is necessary. We’re just two women sipping juice in the middle of Spring.