The First Time I Went to the Gynecologist, My Mother Said to Bring John Lennon – Isabel Spiegel

The First Time I Went to the Gynecologist, My Mother
Said to Bring John Lennon

So here I am, legs spread, feet wedged into floral oven mitts, and
John sits in the corner forming chords on the cover of Teen Vogue.
John, I say, I respect you for not making any low jokes. Like, you
could be saying, imagine there’s no cunt-ry
, but no. He smiles, and
flowers fall from the ceiling, marigold petals covering my belly, on
the shoulder’s of the nurse’s white coat. First time? she asks, as
she gels me up. It’s cold. This might hurt a little. Try to relax. So I
focus on world peace, but it’s so big, all I can think of are her
fingers up there. Then I remember my date at a rocket launch with
an engineer twice my age, his hand spacesuit sweaty, while we
watched a white tube thrust into the universe. I flinch as metal
plies me apart, feel the fumble of latex. John adjusts his Rajasthani
vest over his linen shirt. A sitar plays from nowhere, an Indian
raga. I see the nurse take out a swab as thick as a small fist. I look
over to John for support, and he makes a V shape with his fingers.
The plastic handles of the chair turn velvet guitar case lining. The
swab is taken. What form of contraception? I expect John to say
something predictable, like All you need is love, but his eyes are
closed. Maybe he’s meditating. There’s a stain I haven’t noticed
where his heart should be, and it’s growing larger by the minute. A
crash, the boom of metal hitting tile. He slumps to the floor. I
scream. I dropped a speculum dear, says the nurse, who doesn’t
seem to notice red rain dripping from the ceiling. Now the room
smells of wet steel and rubber gloves. I shut my legs tight. The
nurse leaks blood down her pants like she’s lost a life. I jump off
the table, cradle John’s head in my lap. I feel for a pulse, but there
are only drums. I stroke his long, wet hair. I remove his glasses,
put them on. Light dims to a pinpoint. John, I whisper, did it feel
like a normal day?



Isabel Spiegel is fiction writer and poet living in Los Angeles. Her work has been previously published in Corium. She is a recent graduate of The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University, in Vancouver Canada.


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