Nicolettus-Stiffneckus

At 17, in my last year of school, I had never held hands with a boy, kissed a boy, or even thought of boys in any other way than ‘a friend who was not a girl’. I’d always been tall for my age and with it came the assumption that I was more mature than my friends. The truth was that I was almost more than innocent: my ignorance bordered on not even knowing the acceptable roles for men and women.

So when my tummy started to get bigger, the last thing on my mother’s mind was pregnancy. I thought it was a gross case of constipation. My mother and I went to the doctor together. When he saw my firm tummy pushing against my clothing, he pronounced the happy occasion with mirth, “Your daughter is pregnant!” (Note no examination was deemed necessary.)

I recall my mother turning to me and asking “Are you pregnant?” Just those three words and a look that could turn the sun into a wasted star. I said, “No!”, shocked that she could even think that. The doctor ignored me, and said quietly to my mother, “They always deny it, sometimes right up until the birth.” My mother, of whom I am

sometimes afraid, slowly turned to me and said nothing, but her eyes said, ‘You had better prove him wrong’.

I was reeling with shock and lost in a capsule of confusion. I had just recently discovered that I could bring myself pleasure by touching my body. I hadn’t even found the right word to name it yet. Could this be the result—a baby? Burning with embarrassment, I asked the doctor, “Is there any way of getting pregnant other than by sleeping with a boy?”

My mother quickly interjected before the doctor could answer my question. “She is definitely not pregnant.” This statement brought the doctor round to admitting that there could be another reason other than unprotected adolescent sex. I stepped alone into the examination room, terrified, not knowing what to expect.

After the examination, he stuck to the initial diagnosis: “I can feel the foetus and hear the heartbeat.” I felt horribly exposed and violated and I stuck to my story, “No, I am not pregnant.” Blood was taken and the result came back inconclusive. What did that mean? By then I had become an interesting case for the doctor and a second test was done. It came back negative and I was whisked off to a specialist.

What the doctor had heard was not a heartbeat, nor had he felt a foetus; it was, in fact, an ovarian cyst pulsating rhythmically.

Since then I have only trusted female doctors; their bedside manners are so much more refined.

Nicolettus-Stiffneckus (her blog name) enjoys a hearty laugh and is preparing for a zombie invasion.