Dr. Hottie and the Biopsy

I'm not going to lie: when I was dropped off early at the hospital for my procedure, I stood on the steps and cried. I was scared, overwhelmed, and alone. I knew that I was going to cry, but I didn't think it would be that early. 

"Are you okay?" the security guard asked. I nodded, but he walked over to me anyway. I rolled my eyes. If men aren't ignoring me, they are bothering me when I am trying to have a private moment. I wiped my eyes and followed him inside where a man with a crutch was already waiting. We were the early birds, waiting for 6am to go up to get prepped for our surgeries. I sat there listening to Glorilla, praying that things would go my way. I had never had any type of surgery or anesthesia, and I was mortified of not waking up. My fears were not calmed when I was told I was sent to the wrong area and that I had not paid money I had a receipt for paying. By this time, my mind was all over the place. If one more oopsie was made, I was going to make a run for it! 

By the time I was checked into pre-op, I looked a hot mess! Sadness and worry were graffitied all over my face. I looked tired and upset. Looking in the mirror after giving my urine sample, it dawned on me that I looked the worst that I had ever seen myself! But the party was just beginning. I got changed into the backless gown that no one likes and sat still while a woman rubbed by back and butt down with antiseptic wipes. Then Nurse Heavy Hand rubbed my right arm down so hard with an alcohol cotton ball that she bruised me. How hard do you have to be rubbing me to bruise me with a piece of cotton? She couldn't find my vein. My left arm looked like a pin cushion, only for Nurse Tiny Little to find my vein on the right arm and get me with one prick. Thank. God. 

Once my doctor arrived, I was relieved and ready to rock. She came with the resident I had been seeing during my visits, which made me more comfortable. I almost allowed my shoulders to relax a little before a tall, brown brotha with beautiful eyebrows and lashes showed up at the foot of my bed. He was introduced as Dr. Hottie, another resident that would be helping out with the surgery. 

Oh no, I thought to myself. I looked like SH&T! Of course I did. When I was in high school and had bad asthma attacks where I couldn't breathe, my respiratory therapists always looked like they had hopped out of an Abercrombie ad. I was beyond embarrassed. 

However, the humiliation didn't come until I got into the operating room and needed help getting on the operating table with Dr. Hottie right there. I could have died! My butt cheeks were exposed and ashy. They don't allow you to wear lotion on the day of a surgery! I would have done anything for just a squirt of Nivea. 

Once I was in recovery, I looked over at the nurse's station and he was sitting there, working, looking good. I could tell he was fine, even with his face mask on. He even looked like he smelled good. I could feel myself smiling goofily at him and then it dawned on me: THIS FINE MAN HAS SEEN MY VAGINA! If I weren't completely out of it, I would have screamed!

However, once everything did wear off and I was getting ready to go home, I thanked Dr. Hottie and told him I was sorry if I was acting weird. I just wasn't expecting a man in the surgery. He said it was okay and smiled. I have to tell you, I felt something in that moment. But I cannot be sure if it was a sensual connection or post-surgical vaginal pain. All I know is that next time, if there has to be a next time, I am sneaking a travel container of lotion into pre-op in my bra. 

Scared Stiff

So, what we know for sure is that God doesn't put us through anything we can't handle. I then deduce from this that there is a reason for everything we endure. I am choosing to believe that God is going to petrify me so thoroughly with life stuff that at some point I won't be able to be scared ever again. That day, however, was not the other day.

Sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, I am scared. Very scared. I'm so scared that I was not even having my usual pity party I'm-so-alone-in-this thoughts. I'm was just sitting here calmly, scared.

Waiting to be called for my appointment, I thought about a big museum, the types they show in movies. I envisioned children on a field trip being led through a dinosaur exhibit until they make it to me. I am frozen, immortalized in a maxi dress and ballet flats, sitting against a piece of wall from my room. 

"This is Holly Clay from 2024. As you can see, she has been fully preserved. The pressures of going through life a lone and panicked literally left her scared stiff. Her family donated her body to science as a warning to future generations about going into middle age un-partnered."

The kids and their teachers would take pictures before moving on to a display called "Obsolete", where they would get to play in a pool of old phone books. 

At some point once I got home after my visit, I found myself hysterical. What else is new? I called my doctor, some friends, my mentor. Just when I thought I couldn't feel more alone, another situation proves me wrong. I didn't feel like I had anyone in the world. After three hours of tears, I finally went to sleep. My headache was splitting. I can't say I'm trying to be strong because I don't think I have any strength left. I'm totally pooped. As my medical team told me, I need to pray. More shit storms are on the way; this is the dinosaur in the room. 

Ain't Never Scared pt 1: The Vixen and the Baby Daddy

I think I need to get into my Bible. No, I know that I need to get into my Bible, because when I start thinking nasty, gross, inappropriate things about men that I know, that usually means that I am beginning to backslide back into the state of sticky, grotesque, thick horniness that I had previously been delivered from. 

"What is bringing all this about Holly?" 

Okay, I will tell you. 

One of my homegirls Reese recently texted me a picture of a beautiful woman in a flowing dress with a baby bump. A man was standing behind her, holding her baby bump with his hands around her waist. 

"Bones," I said to myself. I recognized him immediately. 

"Is that Bones?" Reese's texted asked. He had his head down in the pic, but it was definitely him. I was shocked. He has had a kid before, but none of us could ever figure out who the baby's mother was. What a difference a few years makes. For baby number two, he took styled, professional photos that were then blown up to enormous posterboards to be displayed at a chic, trendy baby shower where guests could partake in mommyhitos handpicked from an elaborate wall refreshment display. 

Let me be clear: I am happy for Bones. He's fine. Mrs. Bones is fine. And chances are that baby is going to arrive catalogue model ready. Bones is just representative of someone that I used to like and didn't tell. And let me be clear again: I am in no way Bones's type. He likes cheerleaders and women that look like they were created by Mattel. I didn't say anything in college because I was scared, and I didn't say anything after college because I was mortified. The closest I got was writing him a poem that I only shared with Liz and that I will now share with you. 

Asked the vixen to her master:

"Where do I touch you?"

Said the master to his vixen:

"Touch me where you touch yourself."

I remember that Liz was silent on the other end of the line. After about two minutes of deliberation, she said, "Don't ever send that to him. If you ever want to send it to him, send it to me, and I will respond like I am him." 

Okay, Liz was probably right. Erotic poetry was probably not the way to let my feelings be known. 

"But Holly, why would you tell him you liked him when you know he wasn't going to like you back?"

Good question. And the short answer is so that I can stop being scary. As you know, a closed mouth does not get fed, which is probably why I am love starved as we speak. Bones is just one of many, and as I get older, I have become more and more impatient with my being scared. And this isn't just with men, it's with everything! One day I want to confidently be able to proclaim, "I ain't never scared!" and mean it. Until then, I'm just a vixen without a master. But I'm working on it. I can't be scared of being scary anymore.