Today I’m calling my GP again. I explain to the receptionist that my vulva is on fire. It itches and feels as though I’ve rubbed fresh pepper on it. When I looked at my holy temple with my makeup mirror, it seemed different from normal. As if I’d had surgery, as if I’d thought, those labia minora are too large, I’m going to trim them a little. And voilà, suddenly I had a much smaller vulva.
During the consultation hours, I’m sitting in the waiting room with a true Rotterdam woman. She clearly feels like having a chat and starts talking about the weather. ‘Girl, it’s such a shame summer is over again. I can just feel in my bones that the cold is back in the air. Why are you at the GP today?’ I swallow; I don’t think that’s a question you’re supposed to ask at the GP’s. She looks at me inquisitively and continues: ‘You don’t have to tell me what you don’t want to share, you know. I’ve been having so much pain in my stomach again, I’m practically dying from it. You know, those stabbing pains that feel like knives. I’ve learned to live with it, but really, it isn’t normal. I’m so done with it.’ I nod; I recognize that feeling. I lived with a uterus affected by adenomyosis for far too long; the tissue attacks the inside of the uterine wall, and it is terribly painful. It took 20 years before I got the diagnosis. Women’s health is apparently something incredibly complicated.
I hear my name echo through the waiting room, wish the Rotterdam lady a nice day, and the GP walks ahead of me toward her office in long strides. Two minutes later, I’m lying with my legs spread on her examination table, thinking about her view. How many penises and vulvas would she see in a day? What is she thinking now? She’s hanging very close to my flower; did I wash it well enough? I hope she can’t smell anything. At the thought, I start to break out in a sweat, and my back sticks to the paper covering on her table.
‘You have a yeast infection. I’m sending a prescription to the pharmacy; you can pick it up within five minutes.’ I sigh. Another yeast infection? I cautiously ask whether she can refer me to my gynecologist. I would really appreciate having her take a look at it. This is my 5th prescription this year, and I think something else is going on. My GP falls silent and looks through my file. After some digging, she comes across my most recent diagnosis and seems to remember that, at the time, I also had to insist quite a lot on further testing. She proceeds with a referral, and within two weeks I’m called for a new appointment. I wonder how all those women manage who don’t dare to be as clear and don’t insist on more tests. Do all those women continue living with these symptoms?
The gynecologist only needs one look. It’s Lichen Sclerosus. I swallow. I feel a lump rising in my throat. ‘I’m going to die, I have cancer,’ echoes through my mind. I feel my eyes filling with tears. I stammer, ‘How serious is it, and how long do I have left?’ My gynecologist looks at me kindly; I see the tiniest little smile at the corners of her mouth. She gestures for me to sit at her desk and explains that living with Lichen Sclerosus does not mean I have cancer. That it is quite possible to live well with it. But that it never goes away. Staying faithful to my treatment schedule is very important: Dermovate at night and greasy ointment during the day after every trip to the toilet. She tells me I don’t need to worry, that the important thing now is to calm my flare-up as quickly as possible and make a plan. She explains that stress can have an influence, and some doctors also claim diet does, but that more research is actually needed. That the right Lichen Sclerosus underwear can help. That there is still so much we don’t know. That every woman needs to find her own rhythm and balance when it comes to LS. That I can get a great deal more information and that there are also support groups where I can talk to other women about LS. The information makes my head spin. ‘Can I never have sex again?’ I ask her, my voice trembling. Because I’m still young; I want to be able to make love until I’m very old. The gynecologist says, ‘You never have LS alone; it affects your relationship, your surroundings, and your life. And you can simply have sex whenever it feels right for you.’ She assures me that everything will be all right and that it will get better.
On my bike ride home, I feel the first autumn drops falling. I throw my head back and stick out my tongue. The rain on my face feels like a refreshing beginning. From today, a new chapter begins. LS and I, hand in hand, never alone again, until death separates us. As well, beautifully, and completely as possible. Because it will never be the way it was yesterday or in all the years before, but knowing is always better than leaving things as they were.
