Why Not Obstetrics?
For an elective rotation in Obstetrics and Gynecology I signed up for a thirty-day stint at The Providence Lying-In Hospital. What better way to get exposure than to be in a place dedicated entirely to the biology of the human female and her reproductive system?
Sleeping quarters were provided in a building that also housed female nursing students on the floor above us.
Imagine fifty horny nursing students locked up in the same building as three or four male medical students as being almost as good as a seminary student getting to live in a nunnery. At first, I could not imagine what stupid logic went into that demographic, but as time went on I came to understand the point to be moot and irrelevant.
Things got off to a bad start, when on the first day I was assigned to an Obstetrical surgery case; a hysterectomy. The problem being that as no one had taken the time to teach us how to do a sterile scrub and don, the attending surgeon went berserk at our awkward fumbling. This delayed the case while exposing his own paranoia that the operative field would be contaminated. He threw us out of the operating suite.
That illustrates one glaring fault about medical training, especially in a nonacademic satellite facility: Not knowing how much the student does or does not know and usually assuming that he knows more than he actually does; without really asking first; or sometimes not seeming to really care. In this case, the seasoned nurses came to our rescue by kindly showed us how to scrub in and put on a surgical gown.
There is also another glaring deficiency in the tritely overused expression that in procedural medicine all you need to do is to: “See one, do one, then teach one.” I doubt that anyone would agree this axiom should apply to cardiac valve surgery.
Nor did it apply to the situation I found myself in when I had only assisted at several post delivery episiotomies, a procedure whereby the lacerated vagina and perineum is sewn back together after the baby rips it apart while coming through.
The vagina happens to be a very accommodating organ; as both birthing baby heads and “fisting “perverts have empirically discovered; but like everything in life there are always certain limits.
The OB Resident, having been completely exhausted by his duties, delivered a baby, then turned to me and announced as he took off his gloves:
- Hey, I’m really tired. I’m going to bed. You sew her up.
This was the same resident who had previously taught me to carefully suture so as not to hook the bladder or the bowel and to pay extra special attention to the final purse string cinching by making sure that the vaginal opening at the perineum was nice and tight.
- That’s what I call ‘the husband stitch’ and there are probably a lot of grateful men out there who don’t even know why their sexual satis-friction is all because of me.
Yes, unless the husband happens to be thirteen-inch-Long John Holmes and it won’t ever fit in there again. Or if so, maybe it just gets stuck.
So, there I was, expected on my own limited experience, to sew up a lacerated vagina as well as to correctly place the husband stitch and make this mother neo-virginal again. I had a serious crisis of confidence and whimpered softly to the vacating Resident:
- Please come back. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll even send a copy of your personally autographed photo to all the happy husbands so you won’t have to live in un-adored anonymity anymore.
No such luck. Yet once again the senior nurses talked me through it, although to this day I have no clue as to where the stitches really went, or how tight the final cinching turned out.
I had nightmares for weeks about a crooked vagina, a loose vagina, an ultra-tight vagina or a nasty vaginal-rectal fistula which would be followed by having to deal with a vendetta from a very ungrateful husband; not to mention litigation.
To back up a bit, this OB rotation was organized into weekly segments that included:
- Prenatal clinic
- Postnatal clinic
- Routine check up clinic
- One of many potential routine problems clinic
- VD clinic
- Labor and Delivery
- Obstetrical night call
Also, no matter what weekly clinic we were assigned to, we had to be on standby call every third night for labor and delivery. So, although there are probably some perverts out there who might think that unlimited access to peering at female gonads could be fun, better think again.
This activity is cold, indifferently clinical and involves handling women who would rather be doing anything else than have a frigid slime covered speculum pushed up their crotches, or an equally slimy finger stuck up their rectum; and sometimes simultaneously. They do not like it and they do not like you for doing it.
Next, not everyone looks like a Playboy model, as well as the fact that one is required to examine ages that range from nine to ninety, including all builds, shapes, sizes or body types with levels of hygiene that range from the immaculate to the totally neglected.
There is nothing worse than examining a three-hundred-pound woman who does not believe in soap and water, or who may have a yet unidentified species of fungus growing within the folds of her breasts or her labia.
Then, although the “Routine Check Up” clinic was relatively innocuous, there was always the dread of discovering the unknown surprising disease entities lurking in the cracks at the “I Think I Have a Problem” clinic: Yeast, gonorrhea, herpes, chlamydia, syphilis, vaginitis, urethritis, cystitis, trichinosis, and chondyloma. It was a great day indeed if the symptoms were only related to a benign ovarian cyst.
Women of all ages, from all walks of life; from rich to poor; ugly to beautiful, anorectic to obese, hygienic to unbathed with a wide assortment of troubles; with the best part of it all sometimes having to tell the parent of a minor that her good little supposedly virginal daughter had recently been up to quite a bit less than good and wasn’t really virginal anymore. Or worse: knocked up.
Of course, this was the era before HIV and because condoms were not necessarily all the rage, VD and STDs were more a nuisance than a death sentence. But it was still at a time when teen-age sex was quite verboten or severely stigmatized; especially so in Providence, Rhode Island which being a suburb of Vatican City, had no nightlife at all and in 1972 had little to offer a date but a front seat six pack followed by a back seat boogey.
It all became a female genital blur. Pretty pussy, ugly pussy, hairy pussy, shaved pussy, clean pussy, dirty pussy, messy pussy, sweet pussy, sour pussy, pregnant pussy, laboring pussy, lacerated pussy; and then various combinations or permutations of adding to that: big lips, small lips, large clits, little clits, and crotch zits.
After the daily assembly line of “pussy galore” I would fall off to sleep at night with visions of pussy-plums dancing in my head.
Now top that off with taking care of women in every stage of pregnancy, finally culminating in the counter-joy of having to listen for hours on end to a large open labor ward housing a dozen or so women who all raise their voices in completely non-syncopated timing as they scream out the raucous chorus of the opera known as the: “The Throes of Parturition.”
And although a baby’s birth can never be timed for perfect convenience, some of the attending Obstetricians would add an alcohol drip to the usual regimen to time the delivery by more propitiously delaying its occurrence from the middle of the night toward a reasonable hour the next day.
This made the operatic chorus all the more interesting for the added feature of having a room full of inebriated laboring women and the interesting quirky things the booze did to their personalities. Some of them became quite psychotic and had to be restrained. It was atavistically primeval.
Then on to the delivery room, where although a rapturous joy for the parents, I found nothing joyful at all about the gush of pee, blood, baby, baby shit, mommy shit, amniotic fluid, placenta; and then secondarily the effect that gallons of all of these body fluids did to the only pair of shoes I owned.
It got so bad that I cancelled a weekend tryst with the woman I was dating at the time by making up some lame excuse, and then told her I would call her back in a few days.
She did not take it well, then made oblique references to the fact that I was probably cheating on her with some nurse or nursing student in Providence, while she was alone, lonely, and horny back in Boston. I could not at all get through to her that worse than that; I simply had no desire whatsoever to see her naked, much less do anything else with her body parts or any woman’s body parts for that matter. Like writer’s block, I had developed a serious case of libido block that could be best characterized as nothing more than a bad case of female genitalia burnout.
- Sure. I’d believe that just as much as I’d believe you didn’t want me anymore because you and that stupid roommate of yours were gay. I knew that anyway. Goodbye and Good luck.
No chance of cheating anyway, as even the female nursing students had also evoked as much negative libidinous attraction as alien body snatchers that came out of vegetable pods. Add to that the fact that their recreational drug of choice at the time was Quaaludes (“Sopors”), which did not exactly make them a boat-load of fun at social gatherings. There is nothing like going to a party where everyone passes out, and truthfully speaking, date rape with a limp dish rag was not my cup of tea.
Yes, lets all get to the point where not only do we not know what we did, or who we did it with, but also do not remember if we even liked it. My preference for pussy was to have it alert, awake and even faking interest if necessary; but not semi-comatose and diffidently snoring.
Despite my girlfriend’s innuendos, it was not even a case of latent homosexuality because I knew I did not harbor the slightest hint of homosexual tendencies. I honestly and truly liked pussy! It was just a simple case of overexposure resulting in a negative feedback loop. Too much of what otherwise might have been a good thing, so to speak because it just wasn’t the Hugh Heffner presentation.
After the OB experience in Providence, I also knew that I would never look at sex and the human reproductive cycle in the same way; and that if I ever chose the OB-GYN discipline as my medical vocation, I would probably want to eventually go ahead and just have myself neutered.
Pussy Galore: No problem for Agent 007