Nothing says "Happy V.D." quite like the telephone call I received last Tuesday, the day before Valentine's Day:
"Yes, this is your doctor's office calling - your test results came back positive for Gonorrhea and Chlamydia."
"My - say wha?"
"You've tested positive for Gonorrhea and Chlamydia, and it's very important that we get you started on some antibiotics right away."
"Hm. Ok - could you hold on just a moment?
Honey? I need you to come up here NOW. . . . Is there something you want to tell me?"
After I explained to Patrick the reason for my question, he promptly and almost laughingly assured me that, no, there was nothing for him to tell - did I have anything I wanted to tell him?? "Seriously?" I thought - I think I was almost flattered that he'd even ask. And despite the alarming nature of the telephone call, we quickly reached the mutual conclusion that there must have been some mistake at the lab, if only for the reason that neither one of us could think anything other than "Really - when would he/she have the time??"
Still, there's nothing like reported V.D. to throw a couple into the marital crucible. I immediately requested that a repeat test be taken, but that would have to wait - of all the times for something like this to happen, we were in the midst of a serious snow/ice blizzard that shut down most of the city, including my doctor's office, for several days.
However, the neighboring metro health department was a little braver. When I called the next morning (Valentine's Day - how perfect) to inquire about walk-in screening with same-day results, they said, "sure - come on down - there's no wait right now." Perhaps because we were still in the middle of a Level Three snow emergency? Nonetheless, I decided to brave the roads and the humiliation, donned a baseball cap and some dark glasses and headed to the city.
The main roads were fairly clear, and I finished the trip in relatively good time. Mercifully, the parking lot was almost empty, and the waiting room near the area marked "SEXUAL HEALTH" was deserted. Completely deserted - no one was even at the reception desk. I heard someone shuffling around in the next office, and I waited, and waited, until finally a clinic worker walked out, slipped on his coat and barely smiled at me before shutting off the light. It was then that I noticed the sign that said "Wednesday Hours: 8 a.m. - Noon." It was 12:45. Like, could they have even mentioned that on the phone? Alas, the ordeal would continue.
The next day, I tried again. However, this time I'd had to attend a hearing in the morning, so I was forced to make my trip to the much busier health department and very busy STD clinic waiting room in my not-so-inconspicuous standard issue lawyer attire. I knew there was no way that this was going to be quick or painless.
The receptionist calls my number, then speaks to me in a voice so soft and discreet, I can hardly make out what she's saying without reading her lips. No, I don't want to be tested for HIV - that's already been done and came back negative, I explain. "Can't I just get tested for these two things?" I say pointing to the "C" and the "G" words on the slip of paper she's been referencing. Unfortunately, they do not offer "ala cart" screening and I will have to be tested for the entire smorgasbord of usual STDs. And no, it's not just a urine test - it'll be a complete physical exam. Won Der Ful.
But before that fun starts, there's the matter of payment. The fee is based on whatever income I am willing to disclose. The receptionist quotes me a nominal dollar figure and asks, "Can you pay?" "Fine." I say, pushing my credit card toward her. Not that easy. I have to take that slip of paper - the one marked "SEXUAL HEALTH CLINIC" across the top - downstairs to the cashier and pay her, then bring my receipt back to sign in. Great. Be right back.
I go downstairs and hand my slip to the cashier, trying to discretely cover the words "SEXUAL HEALTH" with my credit card. "Sorry - cash or check only." I should have known. But wait - there is an ATM machine in the lobby. An ATM machine that for some reason refuses to complete my transaction and instead spits out receipt after receipt that reads "TRANSACTION CANCELED." I take a deep breath and walk back to the cashier. "I can't pay." I tell her. She tells me to go back to the clinic receptionist and talk to her. In the elevator, I smack my head against the wall and repeat aloud, "I will not cry. I will not cry." I talk to the receptionist. She gives me an envelope and tells me to mail in my payment later. She marks something on my form and asks me to have a seat again.
The wait is not long, and I am soon escorted back to an exam room by a very loud-speaking nurse with a heavy eastern European accent. She begins asking what I guess must be the typical questions:
"Ya havink any burnink? Dischawge? Anyting?"
"Ya have muwtipal zex patnas?"
"Ya havink any da owal zex in da past tiwty dez?"
I answer "no" to all of her questions, hoping that's the right answer. The doctor comes in (a no-nonsense, seen-it-all female, thank God) and I again explain to her that I'm just there for some verification - there's been a mistake, a mix-up at the lab or something. Maybe because of my demographics, or my right answers to an additional battery of questions (or maybe she asked me again the same questions the heavily-accented nurse asked me just to be sure - Have I had sex with a prostitute? No. Have I had sex in exchange for drugs or money? No. Please, lady, do I look like I have that kind of excitement in my life?) but, for whatever reason, she actually seems to agree with my theory that there had been a mix-up at the lab.
With one brief, unexpected exception, the rest of the exam is quick and uneventful, and the preliminary results come back negative. Not to be underdone, I still go to my OB's office that afternoon to have them do a re-test as well - after all, I don't want those records to go uncorrected - and yes, both the final results from the health department and from my own doctor come back clean and clear. I REPEAT: NO VD HERE. We do not nor have we ever had V.D. Whew.
Looking back with the little hindsight I now have, I am thankful that Patrick and I spent those few days in the crucible reassuring each other with humor rather than letting suspicion and worry eat away at our relationship. Not that it was an easy thing. Our marriage, like many, is a worn and weathered being. I think of the trust element of our relationship in particular the way you might think of a bone that's suffered a fracture but has healed to be even stronger than it was before the break. I think of our children as the super glue that bonds us even tighter, for their sake if not ours. And I am especially grateful for the endless support and empathy Patrick showed for what I had to endure to get to the bottom of this (particularly the unexpected anal probe, pardon the pun.) And believe me, he would have been right there with me at the health department for his own share of the fun had the kids not had a snow day.
And that, my darling, dear third-child-to-be, the child that I will now and forever more think of as my child of hope, is how I begin to chronicle your existence.
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