Part Two: The Exam Room and Everything After
By late morning, I learned why the day was dragging—two nurses and two doctors had called in sick. No wonder the wait was endless. Nearly five hours after I arrived, I finally heard my name.
When they said, “Rose St. Claire,” I had just enough energy to unplug my charger, toss my things in my handbag, and shuffle to one of the few private rooms near the nurses’ station.
A few minutes later, a bearded man in glasses walked in. Let’s call him Dr. Ben. He listened closely as I described my symptoms. When I mentioned the urine test, he smiled gently:
“No, Ms. St. Claire, you’re not pregnant.”
I exhaled hard. Thank God. The thought of another ectopic ordeal was more than I could bear.
With pregnancy ruled out, we still needed answers. I described the pain in my lower abdomen wrapping to my lower back on the left side. He asked about fever, blood in stool or urine, vomiting—none applied. He decided to do a vaginal exam and went to get a nurse.
He handed me a gown and a blue pad (yes, those ones that look suspiciously like old-school cloth diapers). I climbed onto the exam bed, removed my underwear, and waited.
They returned. The nurse stood silently while Dr. Ben used a plastic speculum—thank goodness the heavy metal ones are retired. He followed with a finger test and, based on my discomfort, ordered an ultrasound.
Dr. Ben wrote the referral and personally escorted me to radiology, even stopping by to brief the technician. I was told to drink fluids, so I downed the rest of my juice and waited.
The Cuban technician from Guantánamo greeted me warmly, and we traded a few words in Spanish. She took her time—over twenty-five images from every angle. As I left, I spotted the printouts laid out like Polaroids. She said the doctor would get the results and sent me back to the ER.
A nurse came to draw blood—“Perfect veins,” she said, prepping like she might start a drip. Then another nurse approached with a second needle. I held up my arm, tubing still in place. “Nah,” she said, “this one’s for your thigh.”
Excuse me? Apparently, the first needle was too thick for my arm. I braced myself and took it like a big girl.
Back in the ER, I waited as results trickled in. Around me, chaos continued—an army vet accused staff of racial bias, others complained about being skipped. A mini staff meeting was underway too; judging by the tone, not everyone had been pulling their weight.
Finally, Dr. Ben returned: fibroids and ovarian cysts. That explained the pain. It could have been other things, but we’d ruled those out.
By 4:30 p.m., I was discharged—tape and tubing removed, prescription in hand. It took another stretch to get through the cashier and pharmacy, but by the time I had my meds, the relief outweighed the frustration.
Cost? Five US dollars.
Final Thoughts
Ladies, get your physicals. Don’t ignore unexplained pain. Fibroids and cysts are more common than we think, and they don’t always shout for attention. Advocate for yourself. Ask questions. And when your body speaks—listen.
It might just save you… even if it means an eight-hour shift in triage.
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