Nonfiction
"Pubes, Yeast, and Blood"
By Nneoma Kenure
By Nneoma Kenure
It’s confirmed. I am pregnant again, and I am not ready. Not after everything I went through the first time. Fortunately, I can’t think straight, because this time, instead of the Lilliputian pricks that were my symptoms in the first pregnancy, all I must suffer now is the worst yeast infection. My brain is overburdened, and all I can handle is worrying about not scratching in public.
It's my first prenatal appointment, and I tell the doctor I think I have a yeast infection. She insists on checking it out because the itching may be a result of other disorders. As soon as my legs are open, she says, “Woah, this has to be the worst infection I have ever come across.” The brown-skinned doctor shows me her gloved fingers covered in frothy cottage cheese. I laugh with some pride; I will take any awards, even disgusting ones.
“You definitely have a yeast infection. I will send this to the lab just in case, but I recommend Fluconazole,” she tells me.
It’s a tiny pill I take immediately. There is a slight lull in my scratching calendar, but I am soon back on schedule with renewed vigor.
Just in time, the doctor calls with an update.
“Looks like you also have a urinary tract infection. You will have to take some antibiotics for the UTI. Unfortunately, the antibiotics will exacerbate your yeast infection.” This makes sense to me. There has to be major warfare between microorganisms going on down there – Clash of the Microbes – because I am a mess. When it’s scratch time, I go all out, until I have to take out some A4 paper from the printer to fan my hoo-ha because it’s now also burning. If I slapped on some flour, walahi it would make a nice sourdough bread. My vagina is going to jump off and walk away one day because it can't stand the heat.
I start the antibiotics and another interlude begins.
The doctor is on the phone again with more bad news. “You also have bacterial vaginosis. We will change your antibiotics prescription, which will of course intensify the yeast infection.”
Oh Lord, Mere m ebere. Take this vulva away from me because this is too much. Naanị m, three different infections!
It is time for another doctor’s visit. I’m still in bed when the phone rings; it’s the hospital calling to let me know my regular ob/gyn would be unavailable. The lady on the phone wants me to pick from a list of equally daunting names.
“Are any of these women?” I ask.
“I'm sorry ma’am, they are all male.”
Aren't they always? I think to myself.
I liked my original doctor who was Indian. I wonder if my connection to her was because she was ‘ethnic’ or because she was a woman. I pick a random name.
I soon begin ablutions for my appointment. My sister Ulo walks into the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth and notices my nether regions.
“Aren't you going to shave that?” she asks with blatant disgust on her face.
“Nope,” I quip.
“You cannot be serious. You are not that pregnant that you can’t see what’s happening there.”
Now, it's true that I was rather unruly down there, but I had decided I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I wasn’t bothered, why should any doctor be? I've always liked my pubic hair. Friends and family who've had the good fortune of being acquainted with it have always had the most comical reaction to it. Everybody is so structured nowadays; I personally like things a little haphazard; a little color outside the lines never hurt anybody.
Ulo is clearly disturbed by my ‘full’ look. I pause and try to explain my stance to her.
“You know how when you travel, and you forget your bathing sponge… well, I like to get a rich lather from my pubes.”
She stares at me, her face obviously thinks this is the most disgusting information ever shared. In a final attempt to convince me, she goes to her bedroom and comes back into the bathroom waving a shaving stick and a pair of scissors that I firmly ignore. This is my bra-burning moment, and I'm sticking to my pubes on this one.
“You have to tell me one practical reason why you need all that hair,” she begs.
“It’s prettier like this.” I turn around to give her a better view of my lush strands, combing them with my fingers and ignoring her deepening look of revulsion. “Remember when daddy came to visit me in school and I walked past him. I didn’t recognize him because he shaved off his moustache, and his lips looked like the two most pathetic fish out of water?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Okay, how is this? When I shave it and pee, the pee seems confused and doesn’t know which way to go, and then there’s pee down one leg and everywhere. When there’s hair, it’s just one stream. The hair, apparently, is a crucial pathfinder.” I nod my head as I speak, encouraging her to find reason with my words. She shakes her head slowly, like someone who just received sorrowful news and walks out, muttering to herself in Igbo. “It also looks like a plucked chicken when I shave,” I yell at her retreating back.
I’m not sure there is a downside to having an untrimmed look, other than maybe when I take a shower after wearing a pad instead of a tampon and the floor looks like Carrie’s shower scene. It takes a while to wash it all out when large clots of blood matte onto the hairs and I have to stop to untangle it, or push out my pelvis under the scalding water to melt it away slowly. It’s pure fun for me. I have no issues with menstrual blood either. I don’t understand the fuss or the need to hide it, especially from other women. Men act like menstrual blood is one big demonic cult– one they can’t run fast enough from.
The only time I ever got period-stained in public, I was taking an okada to my cousin’s house in Owerri, when a heavy shower of rain descended on us mid-journey. I didn’t mind. Whizzing past traffic on an okada is the most liberating feeling, and the rain only added to the ambiance. If my life was a Hollywood movie, I would wrap my arms around this not bad-looking young man and we would find a sunset somewhere to ride into. My daydreaming ended when I reached my destination, paid and walked away to the gate. The driver called out casually, “Sista, sorry oh, you don stain.” We both turned instinctively to look at the seat of the motorcycle I had just jumped down from. It was wet and bloody, exaggerated by the rain. He brought out a rag and wiped it away so nonchalantly that I almost fell in love. Why was this not an issue for him? Why wasn’t he disgusted? Didn’t he know that most people think period blood is the dirtiest of all blood? He waved away my apology with a huge smile and zoomed off dodging large pools of water.
*
The appointment goes on well. The new blonde doctor is kind and funny and insists I must have some German blood in me, a joke that goes over my head. I think he is referring to my perceived pain tolerance. When it's time to strip, he steps out of the room and Ulo eyes me with profound disapproval.
“He'll think I look like that down there too,” she whispers.
“Why?”
“Because we are sisters.”
“If you want, I can tell him we have different fathers and my dad is really hairy, while yours is bald.”
“This is Wisconsin. He is white; you’re probably his first African.”
“Why would he think that? It’s not like I have cowries on them.”
“He’ll just think it’s an African thing.”
“Maybe it is?” I shrug. I’m enjoying her misplaced unease.
“Everyone I know is clean shaven.”
I think about it. It’s true, my friends all indulge in some form of ‘landscaping’ or at least, they have the good sense to not let other people see them when things are out of hand. I shrug off her shame and ready myself. The doctor and a nurse step back into the room. I can see the embarrassment on my sister's face as my legs are placed on stirrups, and I pull a face at her to show I really couldn't care less.
But the doctor never actually looks into the ‘light.’ He sticks his fingers in, while still chatting with Ulo, but I am sure he must have felt it, my proud un-conforming thoroughbred African thicket. This one is for the culture.
He says my cervix is nice and closed; unfortunately, I still have a bad yeast infection and he wants me to take Fluconazole. I refuse. I have already had two courses of this one tablet therapy– I had been given another one when I was done with the antibiotics– and I'm now reluctant to expose the baby to anymore. He agrees, and says I'll just have to live with it, as it will probably pass as soon as the baby's born.
“Isn't there anything else we could try?” I ask in desperation. “Dr. Sandhu had mentioned trying to wash the cervix with a purple liquid?” I ask tentatively, not sure if I had remembered right.
“Oh! That's old fashioned. I’m certain this will go away as soon as the baby’s here.”
This man does not understand how heavy this yeast cross has been to carry. He says I should live with it. Would you live with it if your balls were constantly on fire? I think to myself.
This yeast infection is a roller coaster of sensations. On some days, it's an annoying tingle, and on others, I scratch like a fool in a Martin Lawrence movie. I return to my trusted Dr. Google. She has never forsaken me. She has always been there, introducing me to fellow neurotic persons with the same real or imagined symptoms. She was there when I needed to unclog my mother-in-law’s toilet really fast. She was there when I spilled red nail polish on my sister's new beige rug just when she called to say she was on her way back home from a night shift, so if anybody could save me, it was Google MD.
The prognosis isn't good. When I type in the words ‘yeast infection won't go away,’ I am appalled to find how many women are living their lives with a yeast infection. Some for years and years. I begin taking Lactobacillus with 500 mgs of vitamin C. Oh God, please let this thing leave as soon as I have this baby. I am well and petrified as I have just finished a scratching session, ending it with making jerky motions on the bed. In my desperation, I've also begun another course of treatment I had scoffed at a few weeks ago. I bought some natural plain yogurt, which I inserted morning and night with tampons. Nothing happened. There was no change– when I needed relief, I would use some Monistat and there would be a lull for a day or two.
I am thirty-six weeks pregnant and there are few things I have control over; not my sleep, not how much I have to pee, or even my exacting toddler. If I could control one thing, just one little thing, I would make time reel by like the gears of a cassette tape whirling around a pencil, just so I could get to the end. But I can’t, and like my smiley new doctor said, I will just have to live with it.
It's my first prenatal appointment, and I tell the doctor I think I have a yeast infection. She insists on checking it out because the itching may be a result of other disorders. As soon as my legs are open, she says, “Woah, this has to be the worst infection I have ever come across.” The brown-skinned doctor shows me her gloved fingers covered in frothy cottage cheese. I laugh with some pride; I will take any awards, even disgusting ones.
“You definitely have a yeast infection. I will send this to the lab just in case, but I recommend Fluconazole,” she tells me.
It’s a tiny pill I take immediately. There is a slight lull in my scratching calendar, but I am soon back on schedule with renewed vigor.
Just in time, the doctor calls with an update.
“Looks like you also have a urinary tract infection. You will have to take some antibiotics for the UTI. Unfortunately, the antibiotics will exacerbate your yeast infection.” This makes sense to me. There has to be major warfare between microorganisms going on down there – Clash of the Microbes – because I am a mess. When it’s scratch time, I go all out, until I have to take out some A4 paper from the printer to fan my hoo-ha because it’s now also burning. If I slapped on some flour, walahi it would make a nice sourdough bread. My vagina is going to jump off and walk away one day because it can't stand the heat.
I start the antibiotics and another interlude begins.
The doctor is on the phone again with more bad news. “You also have bacterial vaginosis. We will change your antibiotics prescription, which will of course intensify the yeast infection.”
Oh Lord, Mere m ebere. Take this vulva away from me because this is too much. Naanị m, three different infections!
It is time for another doctor’s visit. I’m still in bed when the phone rings; it’s the hospital calling to let me know my regular ob/gyn would be unavailable. The lady on the phone wants me to pick from a list of equally daunting names.
“Are any of these women?” I ask.
“I'm sorry ma’am, they are all male.”
Aren't they always? I think to myself.
I liked my original doctor who was Indian. I wonder if my connection to her was because she was ‘ethnic’ or because she was a woman. I pick a random name.
I soon begin ablutions for my appointment. My sister Ulo walks into the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth and notices my nether regions.
“Aren't you going to shave that?” she asks with blatant disgust on her face.
“Nope,” I quip.
“You cannot be serious. You are not that pregnant that you can’t see what’s happening there.”
Now, it's true that I was rather unruly down there, but I had decided I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I wasn’t bothered, why should any doctor be? I've always liked my pubic hair. Friends and family who've had the good fortune of being acquainted with it have always had the most comical reaction to it. Everybody is so structured nowadays; I personally like things a little haphazard; a little color outside the lines never hurt anybody.
Ulo is clearly disturbed by my ‘full’ look. I pause and try to explain my stance to her.
“You know how when you travel, and you forget your bathing sponge… well, I like to get a rich lather from my pubes.”
She stares at me, her face obviously thinks this is the most disgusting information ever shared. In a final attempt to convince me, she goes to her bedroom and comes back into the bathroom waving a shaving stick and a pair of scissors that I firmly ignore. This is my bra-burning moment, and I'm sticking to my pubes on this one.
“You have to tell me one practical reason why you need all that hair,” she begs.
“It’s prettier like this.” I turn around to give her a better view of my lush strands, combing them with my fingers and ignoring her deepening look of revulsion. “Remember when daddy came to visit me in school and I walked past him. I didn’t recognize him because he shaved off his moustache, and his lips looked like the two most pathetic fish out of water?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Okay, how is this? When I shave it and pee, the pee seems confused and doesn’t know which way to go, and then there’s pee down one leg and everywhere. When there’s hair, it’s just one stream. The hair, apparently, is a crucial pathfinder.” I nod my head as I speak, encouraging her to find reason with my words. She shakes her head slowly, like someone who just received sorrowful news and walks out, muttering to herself in Igbo. “It also looks like a plucked chicken when I shave,” I yell at her retreating back.
I’m not sure there is a downside to having an untrimmed look, other than maybe when I take a shower after wearing a pad instead of a tampon and the floor looks like Carrie’s shower scene. It takes a while to wash it all out when large clots of blood matte onto the hairs and I have to stop to untangle it, or push out my pelvis under the scalding water to melt it away slowly. It’s pure fun for me. I have no issues with menstrual blood either. I don’t understand the fuss or the need to hide it, especially from other women. Men act like menstrual blood is one big demonic cult– one they can’t run fast enough from.
The only time I ever got period-stained in public, I was taking an okada to my cousin’s house in Owerri, when a heavy shower of rain descended on us mid-journey. I didn’t mind. Whizzing past traffic on an okada is the most liberating feeling, and the rain only added to the ambiance. If my life was a Hollywood movie, I would wrap my arms around this not bad-looking young man and we would find a sunset somewhere to ride into. My daydreaming ended when I reached my destination, paid and walked away to the gate. The driver called out casually, “Sista, sorry oh, you don stain.” We both turned instinctively to look at the seat of the motorcycle I had just jumped down from. It was wet and bloody, exaggerated by the rain. He brought out a rag and wiped it away so nonchalantly that I almost fell in love. Why was this not an issue for him? Why wasn’t he disgusted? Didn’t he know that most people think period blood is the dirtiest of all blood? He waved away my apology with a huge smile and zoomed off dodging large pools of water.
*
The appointment goes on well. The new blonde doctor is kind and funny and insists I must have some German blood in me, a joke that goes over my head. I think he is referring to my perceived pain tolerance. When it's time to strip, he steps out of the room and Ulo eyes me with profound disapproval.
“He'll think I look like that down there too,” she whispers.
“Why?”
“Because we are sisters.”
“If you want, I can tell him we have different fathers and my dad is really hairy, while yours is bald.”
“This is Wisconsin. He is white; you’re probably his first African.”
“Why would he think that? It’s not like I have cowries on them.”
“He’ll just think it’s an African thing.”
“Maybe it is?” I shrug. I’m enjoying her misplaced unease.
“Everyone I know is clean shaven.”
I think about it. It’s true, my friends all indulge in some form of ‘landscaping’ or at least, they have the good sense to not let other people see them when things are out of hand. I shrug off her shame and ready myself. The doctor and a nurse step back into the room. I can see the embarrassment on my sister's face as my legs are placed on stirrups, and I pull a face at her to show I really couldn't care less.
But the doctor never actually looks into the ‘light.’ He sticks his fingers in, while still chatting with Ulo, but I am sure he must have felt it, my proud un-conforming thoroughbred African thicket. This one is for the culture.
He says my cervix is nice and closed; unfortunately, I still have a bad yeast infection and he wants me to take Fluconazole. I refuse. I have already had two courses of this one tablet therapy– I had been given another one when I was done with the antibiotics– and I'm now reluctant to expose the baby to anymore. He agrees, and says I'll just have to live with it, as it will probably pass as soon as the baby's born.
“Isn't there anything else we could try?” I ask in desperation. “Dr. Sandhu had mentioned trying to wash the cervix with a purple liquid?” I ask tentatively, not sure if I had remembered right.
“Oh! That's old fashioned. I’m certain this will go away as soon as the baby’s here.”
This man does not understand how heavy this yeast cross has been to carry. He says I should live with it. Would you live with it if your balls were constantly on fire? I think to myself.
This yeast infection is a roller coaster of sensations. On some days, it's an annoying tingle, and on others, I scratch like a fool in a Martin Lawrence movie. I return to my trusted Dr. Google. She has never forsaken me. She has always been there, introducing me to fellow neurotic persons with the same real or imagined symptoms. She was there when I needed to unclog my mother-in-law’s toilet really fast. She was there when I spilled red nail polish on my sister's new beige rug just when she called to say she was on her way back home from a night shift, so if anybody could save me, it was Google MD.
The prognosis isn't good. When I type in the words ‘yeast infection won't go away,’ I am appalled to find how many women are living their lives with a yeast infection. Some for years and years. I begin taking Lactobacillus with 500 mgs of vitamin C. Oh God, please let this thing leave as soon as I have this baby. I am well and petrified as I have just finished a scratching session, ending it with making jerky motions on the bed. In my desperation, I've also begun another course of treatment I had scoffed at a few weeks ago. I bought some natural plain yogurt, which I inserted morning and night with tampons. Nothing happened. There was no change– when I needed relief, I would use some Monistat and there would be a lull for a day or two.
I am thirty-six weeks pregnant and there are few things I have control over; not my sleep, not how much I have to pee, or even my exacting toddler. If I could control one thing, just one little thing, I would make time reel by like the gears of a cassette tape whirling around a pencil, just so I could get to the end. But I can’t, and like my smiley new doctor said, I will just have to live with it.
