On a Friday morning in early September, I went to our neighborhood clinic. Iíve been going there for the last fifteen years or so, for my yearly pap smear and mammogram. I rarely go in otherwise, since Iím not terribly fond of the medical profession. If they just refill my scripts, test me occasionally for testable things, and otherwise leave me alone, I can work within the system.
Actually, I usually have a pretty good time. I can never resist the opportunity to torment patriarchial, anal retentive types. This encompasses most doctors, lawyers and accountants. Itís almost like the Goddess says, ďHereís a nice, big, over-confident, and arrogant mouse for you to play with, little LeoĒ.
The Pap and gynecological exam went as normal. The doctor (an attractive, youngish and very uptight African-American man), commented that I was bleeding. I explained I had gotten my moon early, and was on the last days. I didnít see any reason to postpone my visit. Since Iím peri-menopausal (I love that term), Iím less regular than in the past.
The nurse was standing there. I couldnít resist telling her that in my religion, bleeding time was sacred, and that contact with the sacred blood was really an honor. She immediately perked up with interest and started asking me about my religion. I started in on my standard lecture regarding the Goddess, menstrual huts, the patriarchy, the Craft, paganism in general. All while the doctor was trying to maintain his composure between my legs to get the Pap smear.
Iíve been coming to the same place for a long time, and know the people there rather well. Iím not exactly shy and retiring, so I make friends (and enemies) quickly. The radiology technicians are two Russian women who have been in America for about ten years, but they still have heavy accents. I love to speak Russian with them, although Iím not very good at it. Native Russians always see my attempts as hilarious. I really donít know why.