About 5 years ago now, I had been taking antibiotics for something or other I’d picked up during my clinical rotations and got the subsequent yeast infection.
So after school one Friday, I trundled off to the pharmacy and absentmindedly grabbed the cheapest Monistat cream–hey, I was a poor college student–I could find and headed back home, eager for some relief.
I’d had a case of the yeasties before, but never one that was quite so…irritating. If you haven’t had one, be grateful. It’s itchy and uncomfortable and gross all in one big pile. And there’s no good way to itch oneself in public without drawing major attention to it and I’ve never had the luxury of staying home to lay around with a fan blowing on my naked crotch.
This may have been the only time I’ve ever prayed for camel toe.
I’ve never been so happy to go home and shove something gross up my vagina before. After I’d inserted the first of seven pre-filled applicators, I noticed a little tube of what I can only describe here as ‘œClit Cream.’ I’d never used it before, but man, it sounded pretty good. I would have happily slathered horseradish down there if I had any idea it would relieve my pain.
I sat back, lubed myself up, and laid down for a nap. I fucking heart naps.
Several hours later, I was abruptly awakened to an even MORE uncomfortable feeling; it felt as though my entire crotch was on fire. I rushed to the bathroom, quickly applied more ‘œClit Cream,’ figuring this was a particularly nasty bug, and took a look at my privates. (not something I ever relish doing, TRUST ME)
Even taking a crap post 4th degree tear (thank you, enormous baby head) has not made me scream so loudly. My mother came running. I kept screaming. My delicate girly bits had swollen to the size of a fucking grapefruit.
It was Friday at about 4:30 PM. My doctor’s office was about to close.
I hobbled my broken crotch down the stairs, crying out from the pain as I made my way to the phone. I couldn’t imagine going to the ER or Urgent Care for a broken vagina and I wasn’t about to use any more over the counter shit.
I got Pinhead, RN who was ready to leave for the day and most unhappy that I was asking for a prescription for Diflucan.
An approximate recounting of the conversation:
Me: “I have a yeast infection. I need a prescription for Diflucan.”
Her: “Take a hot bath.”
Me: “I need a prescription for Diflucan. My crotch is busted.”
Her: “Eat some yogurt.”
Me: “I need a prescription for Diflucan. I’m in pain.”
Her: “Get some over the counter Monistat.”
Me: “I had an allergic reaction to that. My crotch is now the size of an inter-tube. I am not putting any more stuff up there. Now I NEED a prescription for Diflucan.”
You would have thought I was asking for a Dilauded drip.
Since it was Friday, Ben and I were heading out to our apartment in Oak Park (ed note: this was the norm back then), so I had the nurse call the coveted prescription in to the Osco out there. I was also instructed to get a vinegar douching kit and some hemorrhoid pads. Can we talk about sexy shopping lists or WHAT?
Ben and I got bundled up to combat the January cold. To provide some relief, I shoved a plastic baggie full of ice in my pants. At the time, my car was a manual transmission vehicle, and during the first 5 minutes of our hour long trek the bag busted a leak.
I was now sitting in a pool of cold ice water, in January, with an aching burning crotch. Every time I had to shift–which was about every 3 seconds–more water spilled out onto my pants. I have never been more done with a day.
The icing on the cake was that I had Benner with me. I had to look for The Worst Shopping List of All Time while trying:
a) not to noticeably drip water down my leg so that it looked like I had totally had an accident and
b) wrangle a 2 and a half year old child while
Ben jaunted happily up and down the aisles, playing the bongos on a couple of packs of Depends while I slowly realized what being pecked to death by a chicken would be like.
By the time I got back to our apartment, I had given up on being upset about the whole thing and decided to see the intrinsic humor in the whole situation.
After locking myself in the bathroom for awhile to take care of my crotchal region (imagine me gesturing wildly. It’d be funnier) I rummaged through our kitchen to find a Sharpee.
Rather than try and be all discrete and shit, I festooned the container of Tucks with the phrase, ‘œASS PADS!!!’ which I left out for all to see, proudly displayed on top of our toilet tank. If your privates are swollen and aching, they might as well be PROUD privates, right? More importantly, I wanted to see what other people would do if face-to-face with such a container. The reactions could have been Pure Comedy Gold.
The only people who managed to see it, though, were my super-conservative in-laws, who probably never had seen such vulgarity until The Daver brought me home. Is it any wonder they don’t adore me?
Don’t answer that.
Okay, bitches, your turn.