My legs hung over either side of the table and were similarly tied, my feet pulled nearly together under the table by a rope tied to each ankle.My legs hung over either side of the table and were similarly tied, my feet pulled nearly together under the table by a rope tied to each ankle. It was a very awkward and ungraceful position to be in. Despite my newfound inner 'coolness' (read cockiness), I was becoming very embarrassed again. By lifting my head and looking down the length of my body, I could see my badly out-of-focus reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. The table was wide enough to hold my legs well apart, and with my knees hooked over the edges of the table, I really couldn't get into a position to pull them together--which I really wanted to do: even though I am nearly legally blind without glasses, I knew the view was grossly, GROSSLY embarrassing, and I was grossly embarrassed. I have felt far less exposed and vulnerable in front of my gynecologist. He was standing behind my head, so I had to watch him in the mirror or try to lift my shoulders and twist to the side to see what he was doing. Rattling noises. Metallic scraping and a hissing noise. In the mirror, I could see well enough to tell he was lighting a blowtorch!! [After he read this, he told me to correct it to propane torch, as if such details would have made any difference to the way I felt.] "What are you going to do to me!?" I cried, my voice cracking, suddenly on the edge of hysteria. I wasn't absolutely sure if I should actually BE hysterical or not, but I was not going to pretend to be cooler than I felt. He looked at me impassively, a look I had seen before. "You haven't learned yet, have you? You're going to have to learn to trust me," he said, and left the room. I DO trust him, but Jesus, a BLOWTORCH! That's REAL scary stuff. I was entitled to some kind of reassurance, wasn't I? Some explana- tion? Well, I had already had all the explanation I was going to get: "You have to trust me. |