Today a man (who looked like, and may have been, a frog) I had just met asked when my last period was. Quite a forward frog he was. I replied anyway, these are forward times and you’ve got to keep
up. Go with the flow. "I’m on it. It’s now. It’s
happening, as we speak!", I said, in a challenging tone, matching his
forwardness and raising it some.
Ribbit.
His bull-frog
face stiffened momentarily before the professional behind the frog re-emerged
to ask: ‘How many days ago did it start?’ A forward frog indeed. I couldn’t
remember precisely. My mind was boggling like his eyes.
He was, of course, at least officially, a doctor with a professional interest in
my blood work. We didn’t just meet on the street or by a pond. No. He was about to get down deep
and dirty with my blood, as he duly informed me, not in so many words. He
intimated that it would be in his hands – I didn’t look – that I was about to put my bleeding
uterus and vagina.
Prior to this last-minute pre-surgical consultation out of
which I could not get without unwinding at least five months of preparation
and another year of procrastination before that, I had been led to believe the operation would be performed by a female doctor I had met several times who went by the elegant and trustworthy name of Abir. Now this frogman stood, well
sat, in her place.
I can’t recall his name, given quickly, and there was no real explanation for
this substitution, other than a small box at the bottom of a long form to be
checked by me that waived my right to elect a specific doctor, or even species of
doctor (apparently), to perform my procedure. I checked it with a brave, almost perceptible grumble.
Why do men get into gynaecology? Hmm... Frogs might have additional
motives, too. Perhaps a spell had been cast that only baptism by vaginal blood could undo and prince he could become once more. Stranger things have happened. The
fact that I would be asleep during the procedure did not alleviate my concerns. And what had he done with Abir?
He hopped away, leaving me to change into my sexy backless hospital
smock and shower cap and to think. Always to think. Is this regular? Why was nothing said before? Am I always the last to know? On the other hand, what's the big deal? So a half man half frog is replacing an elegant Arab woman as my vaginal surgeon at the last minute. It happens. First World problem. Get over it. Also, I used to collect tadpoles as a child, so I was probably asking for trouble with a frog eventually.
He did ask me if I wanted to keep my removed tissue. Perhaps that was his way of getting the permission he needed to take off with my tissue and clone it into a real woman of his own who he could force to kiss him and so be returned at last to his princely form. Who wants to keep their tissue? I nearly said yes.
Ribbit. Ribbit.
Post-op update: Alive and all but intact, other than what was taken of my tissue by a frog with an attitude (and a scalpel) while I slept. Not yet hopping.
Taking that as a good sign. Frogman wasn’t there when I woke up. Most suspicious.
