Now I grant you the words “smear” and “peace” do not usually go together. But such is my life, at the moment, that taking the time to lie down in the middle of a morning and not having anything I must do - isn’t the worst thing.
I still loathe the speculum - that evil metal vaginal umbrella they open up in you to perform a smear test. But I am so much more familiar with them now I am an unwitting IVF veteran (they are used during the embryo transfer stage), that they have lost some of the horror.
So a few weeks ago I went along blithely for my smear test, and while I was getting comfy on the bed, preparing for my little “rest”, I didn’t mind the sing song chatter between the health professional and myself.
It quickly escalated though.
A very good natured woman, she asked me why there wasn’t a second child; a sibling for my son.
Depending on who you are, where I am and how I am feeling that day, dictates how well I do with that question. And also how honest I want to be.
This day I felt quite strong, able to ride out some awkwardnesses and was in the mood for candour.
I replied offering: “Oh we have tried, but it’s not happening.”
Most people in my experience take the jumping off point neatly offered in my response. They usually reply something along the lines of: “Oh I am sorry. Well, I guess it’s about being grateful for what you have.” Or some other platitude which helps the world spin around and us both get out of this situation without much further thought or social ickiness.
But no, not this woman. Not this day. And weirdly, I found myself respecting her stubbornness and confidence to keep going.
She then said: “Well you do need to keep trying. Really hard and don’t give up. It’s worth it. Keep going and going.”
At this point, with the speculum now fully open inside of me, I felt I could be, well, fully open. I could hardly get up and leave could I?
“Well, we have really tried. We have had five rounds of IVF which haven’t worked and a recent miscarriage,” I shared softly but concisely. Convinced that would then do it and buy me out of this exchange.
But no. As she swabbed away, and without missing a beat, a sympathetic noise was made and she advanced: “Mmm. Have you thought about adoption? I see a lot of babies who need homes via the local hospital. I think this could be a really good option for you.”
Granted she was seeing more of me than most, as she invited me to sit up and pull my knickers back on. But we really don’t know each other. And now she’s putting me forward to adoption. But the examination wasn’t over yet, even if the smear was.
I tried to reply to something about the adoption suggestion but before I could, this well-meaning woman had an even better idea she was chomping at the bit to tell me from behind the curtain as I pulled my tights up.
“Emma, do you know what you need? A dog. A dog will really complete you and your family. That could be it!”
She was so proud of this conclusion, delivering it in the same sing-song manner she had told me to adopt a vulnerable baby only two sentences earlier, I almost had to laugh, as I reappeared from the behind the folding curtain.
For once, I was speechless. Plastering on a smile as I thanked her for both smear and her ideas about the most sensitive part of my life right now, delivered with the speed and gentleness of bullets at a firing range.
I left with her trilling “good luck” in my ears. Knowing she actually meant it and felt she had done some good at the same time as performing an important health check.
Once the door was shut and I was back out on the street, getting into the car, my own response surprised me. I roared with laughter.
I couldn’t not. Having been so used to people asking that question and then running for the hills as we then try to engineer our way out of it in the least painful way, her crassness and desire to help in someway was a thing to behold. Refreshingly awful, yes. But refreshing.
All I know is, on a different day, with a different mood, my response could have been the opposite. Dark. Flat. Bleak and even anger.
Even a few weeks earlier, closer to when the miscarriage happened, I couldn’t have ridden that out in the same way.
She was lucky that day and so was I. But the internal scriptwriting that goes on when someone asks where “the second baby” is, as you prepare for the rest of your day to be slightly coloured, darkened and saddened, is real.
Oh and my smear test, was negative by the way. For once a negative medical result I was happy to receive.
Trying…to have a smear in peace
A dog.... It just feels unreal sometimes, the advice people are so keen to offer. Anyway, happy to be here. Male, went through IVF with my wife in 2006, she was diagnosed with breast cancer shortly afterward and died in 2014 leaving me with a gorgeous 7 yo daughter. She is now 15, as I approach 50. And I am just so grateful for the round that worked, as I am blessed to have my daughter channel the spirit of my late wife - annoying me every day, just as her mum did. I love them both to the moon.
After 6 rounds of IVF and a recent miscarriage, I’ve experienced a lot of well meaning health professionals advice and commentary like this.
In the same way Emma describes in this article, how those comments land depends on what stage of the rollercoaster I’m on that day.
However, I always try to be as empathetic as possible towards medical teams - they have their own trials and tribulations they’re dealing with, as humans in very stressful jobs do.
That said, I think training around how professionals speak to those struggling with their fertility has to be improved. From the terminology around medical conditions such as ‘hostile womb’ or ‘incompetent cervix’ to how sonographers deliver the news that you’ve lost your baby. In my singular experience it’s out of touch across the board in both private clinics and NHS hospitals.
Awareness and changes in approach would go a long way to improving the mental process of ‘trying’. I hope this project Emma is starting helps.