Suspect DDM (Ev 18)

About five years into my marriage, I had gone to India and swapped rooms with my mother-in-law (I had started looking forward to this ‘me time’, when she came into my bedroom. She sat at the foot of my bed and said she had spoken to a specialist about ‘my problem’, implying my vaginismus. She said she had booked an appointment for me to see the doctor the next day. I thought it was yet another consultation, so agreed. Obviously, it was incredibly embarrassing – but after so many years, I had seen a series of doctors, psycho-sexual specialists, hypnotherapists, etc and nothing had worked. I had reconciled myself with the view that I would die a virgin, and the stench of the chewing tobacco and red spit was a reminder that I wasn’t missing much anyway.

The next day, the Ogre, my mother-in-law and I walked into a posh hospital, who informed me that I was going to have a surgery under general anaesthetic. I was petrified. My ex-husband started begging me, saying that as we had tried everything, it must be something physically wrong with me, and this was our last shot. My mother-in-law defiantly spoke on my behalf and consented to the surgery which was to be carried out that day.

It turned out that they were going to pull apart my vaginal opening to see if it helped penetration.

As I sat in the hospital gown and waited to go into the operation theatre, I thought of my own family back home who had no idea what I was about to do. Like Juliet just before she takes the potion, I wondered whether I would wake up, and what would happen if I didn’t.

It turns out I did wake up. The surgery was useless and surprisingly didn’t cure me. What it did do was give me a lifetime of bladder problems.

When I came around, my mother-in-law was standing there, holding an extortinate bill, which she presented in my hands.