woman jabbing another woman
Between a mother and a daughter, between doctors and strangers—what does it mean to be a woman under examination?
Jenny knows her mom probably means well, rushing ahead on the way to the hospital. Jenny is not in a great mood either, dragging her feet behind, passively pissed about the early morning gynecology appointment her mother scheduled for both of them. “You’ll thank me later,” her mom had said.
Jenny lags further behind, watching her mom slice through the city streets. Light gray sneakers with yellow soles, hips moving fast. She walks like a gust of wind, cutting through the actual wind. If she were young, she’d be like the popular girls in Mean Girls (starred Lindsay Lohan and Rachel McAdams), pushing through a crowd with a spell, Move, move.
Jenny’s mom walks like she’s nervous about other people yet dominates the scene at the same time. That ponytail swings like a metronome. She wears navy blue gym clothes, ready to run, but her pear-shaped body holds her back. If she could, she’d zoom like a rocket through space, land at her destination instantly—but she’s bound by gravity, by her weight.
And by the way she walks, you know there are a billion things running through her mind:
Her sister’s ovarian cancer report from last week.
The dull ache in her lower belly—uterus or intestines?
And her daughter Jenny’s clenched jaw, period pain — the kind that makes the girl curl in bed like a dying insect.
Jenny once heard that women with uterus problems are those who reject their femininity, or suppress it. Career-driven women. Caregivers. Women who have to hold themselves together to get shit done, who are forced to be tough, to be men.
This whole gynecology appointment was prompted by her aunt’s uterine cancer diagnosis. Not late-stage, thank god, but bad enough. The sister would survive—as long as she got rid of her uterus in its entirety.
Oh, the uterus. The organ that causes nothing but pain — monthly cramps, stretching by men in sex, stretching for babies, tearing apart during childbirth. And when it finally stops bleeding at menopause, it threatens cancer, dropping one last bomb before going silent completely. That’s why women in pain wake up in cold sweats at night, swearing they’ll be a man in the next life.
***
Jenny and her mother sit on the bus now, headed to the hospital. A man across from them wears a suit, the kind that carries a smell. A man smell. Jenny pulls up her mask.
At their stop, his polished leather shoe blocks her path. She considers stepping on it, ruining the shine, but he moves just in time. She steps past. Her mother struggles to get through as well—the man doesn’t move for her either.
It’s always the small things that men do that annoys women, like didn’t put down the toilet seat, using the last bit of paper roll without replacing it, unintentional mansplaining, or sometimes with a disclaimer “Sorry for mansplaining but”. The list could go on.
Men, men, the number one problem in the world.
She once had a friend who ranted about this, how her gay best friend and her boyfriend bonded over complaining about women’s periods.
“They just don’t get it,” her friend had said.
“The pain when you drop birth control pill. And the fear of needing an abortion—again.”
And her other friend, cheated on twice, whose boyfriend confessed that he thought sending nudes to another woman is no big deal, “it’s just like watching porno,” he said. In his defense, he hadn’t had sex with anyone in real life and thus made it more forgiving.
***
But when a woman acts like a man, it’s scary.
There’s a kind of attack by women—not the kind men do, slamming fists on tables, beating the shit out of each other until one bleeds. No, this kind leaves no visible scars, no wounds to dress. It stays inside, buried deep, like the way a woman’s body is built—inward. The weapon? Language. Accusing words, words that twist, words that burrow into the mind and body, slicing wounds deeper than any knife could ever reach.
Contrary to common belief, Jenny’s father is the passive-aggressive one in the family. Too old now to lay hands on her mom, he’s turned to weaponizing her words against himself. Whenever mom makes a degrading comment, he repeats it back, like an echo chamber of self-inflicted wounds. I’m useless. I’m worthless. I’m nothing but a cook in this house.
Inside the public hospital, Jenny’s mother goes first for the ultrasound.
Jenny presses her ear against the door, hears her mother’s voice rising, talking loudly to the doctor. And when her mother comes out, she rummages through Jenny’s bag for the doctor’s slip, looking flustered.
Jenny knocks her mother’s hand away and walks in.
The doctor holds the ultrasound probe in her right hand. It looks like an alien head—long, rounded tip, wrapped in a condom.
“Have you had sex?” the doctor asks.
“Yes. I’m sexually active. With a stable partner.”
“Drop your pants to your ankles and lay down.”
Jenny unbuttons her jeans. The denim bunches at her ankles, trapping her legs. Shoes still on, she feels like a dog being forced onto its back, legs up, exposed.
The probe jabs into her vagina. Her whole lower body contracts in response.
“Ah!” she yelps. The tool pushes deeper to search its target.
Another high-pitched yell escapes her throat.
The woman at the computer monitor laughs. “Oh my god, I’ve never heard someone react like this.”
The doctor sighs. “You could just say ‘be gentle,’ you know? People are gonna think I’m trying to murder you.”
Jenny forces herself to stay still, even as the probe twists inside her.
The doctor mutters, “Your muscles are clenching so tight, I can barely move in here.”
Jenny swallows and apologize.“Sorry. I get nervous. Also, the pants, the shoes, they’re in an uncomfortable position.”
The probe slides out. Jenny takes a breath. Adjusts. Pulls her pants off one leg entirely, kicks her shoe aside.
Second try. This time, she focuses on the numbers the doctor calls out.
“0.4, 4.5 by 2.8, 3.0 by 2.5, 2.6…”
Coordinates. Like planets in a distant solar system. Roger that, Jenny thinks. Floating in space, half-dressed, the ultrasound probe controlling the ship inside her vagina.
“It could be chocolate cyst. And you’re done here.”
The probe slides out. Jenny is free again.
The doctor points to the mess on the bed — the used paper tissue, the condom, lubricant. “Clean that up.”
Jenny glances at the computer screen. The inside of her vagina feels torn.
Vaginas are resilient organs, they don’t scream when they hurt. They are often muted organs. But that’s why it’s dangerous, because you don’t feel the wounds unless it really hurts.
The whole checkup took less than ten minutes. And Jenny wonders how many vaginas the doctor jabs at daily before she stops feeling anything.
Outside, another woman walks in.
Neither of the doctors look at Jenny. She waits for her report. Says nothing. She steps out. Men glance at her. By the expression on their faces, they heard her yell.
Her mother is waiting and said: “It’s not like you are the first woman to go through it.”
***
This wasn’t her first vaginal ultrasound. The last time was at a private clinic, back when she was living with her ex. She’d seen a white, middle-aged doctor with brown hair and moved his hands in a instructed manner. “Please lower your pants.” And he placed a cloth over her legs and added, “This might hurt a little.”
On the screen, he showed her how to read the ultrasound.
Left was right.
Right was left.
“It looks healthy,” he reassured her.
She was struck by how alive her uterus looked—a pulsing, beating heart inside her.
But when they were waiting for the result, the nurse told them there was a serious problem. Jenny watched her boyfriend’s face change—from shock, to fear, to quiet acceptance. They were in it together. But an hour later, the nurse came back and said it was a mistake. They were fine. Her boyfriend almost cried with relief, kept muttered “Thank god,” which surprised her, she didn’t even know he believed in god. And for a second, Jenny thought, maybe he would propose. A few months later, they broke up. She knew their bond wasn’t that serious, she never took him to meet her mom. And that was a decision she can make for herself, without guilt.
She never intentionally hid her mom from friends or partners. Her mom was pleasant to strangers on their first meetings. But sometimes she’d talk shit behind people’s back, making Jenny confused about what she really thought. She’d thank her friend’s gifts, then comment on their poor facial structures. She’d accept strangers’ kind, then question their motive. She often assumed people were bad before she got to know them. She was an open window, welcoming every interaction, but her heart shuts like a stubborn clam shell. And she was perfectly happy living inside it.
Jenny’s mom takes her to get the blood test. She is on edge, scrolling through her sister’s cancer report, muttering about the stages it might be in. She’s still talking when the nurse tightens a tourniquet around Jenny’s arm. It makes a sound like a clap.
“Tighten your fist please,” the nurse says. Jenny does. She feels a slight cooling sensation as the nurse wipes the spot with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. Then a sting, sharper than expected, sinking deeper into her vein than her thoughts can read. Her grip loosens a little.
“That’s probably enough time,” her mom says, before Jenny even presses the cotton ball against the spot where the needle just left.
They wait for the new reports. All the numbers look normal, except for the chocolate cyst. Her mother smiles at her phone screen and says: “See? We are all good!” She reacts positivity to the cyst, even suggests they come back in six months or a year to monitor its size.
Another report is due in two months. On the walk home, Jenny kept her eyes on her mother’s ponytail, swinging like a metronome again. Jenny still feels something sharp inside her. She knows it’s a feeling that might take a while to dissolve.