Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“Yes, but?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. Wanda sighs.
“Well, I was doing some research on plastic surgery for an article I was writing, and I stumbled upon a procedure called a vaginoplasty.”
I scrunch my nose.
“What’s that?”
Wanda tut-tuts into the phone.
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either when I read about it. But evidently, it’s just like a nose job, except instead of being for your nose, it’s for your pussy.”
“What?” I squeal. “Wait a minute, is this where transgender men turn into women? You know, bottom surgery?”
“No, no!” Wanda says quickly. “That’s totally different. That’s gender reassignment surgery, whereas a vaginoplasty is totally different. It’s when the vaginal walls have become loose for whatever reason, and you go in for surgery as a tune-up.”
I’m silent for a moment as my heart pounds. Oh my god, I had no idea that this procedure even existed. But should I look into it?
Wanda clucks her tongue, as if she can hear my doubts.
“I’d go in for a check-up,” she says in a firm tone. “After all, it can’t hurt right? Just go in for a consultation and get yourself looked at. I bet that it’s nothing, and that that guy you went out with last night is just a dick,” she says with finality.
“But what would I say?” I ask in a flustered tone. I’ve always hated going to the doctor and get really nervous when they ask you all sorts of probing questions while you’re wearing nothing but a thin paper gown.
“Just tell them the truth,” says Wanda firmly. “This is actually good because if it’s a medical condition, then it can definitely be fixed. Not that I’m saying anything’s wrong with you,” she says quickly. “But it doesn’t hurt to get it checked out, right?”
Wanda’s right, and I nod silently. There’s rustling on the other end of the phone, and suddenly my friend pops back on.
“Besides, I have just the referral for you,” she says. “When I was doing research, I talked to two prominent plastic surgeons in New York. Their names are Doctors Ryder Stephenson and Ranger Stevens, MD.”
“Ryder and Ranger?” I sputter. “What kinds of names are those? For surgeons, no less?”
“I don’t know, but your first appointment is the perfect place to ask,” replies Wanda sassily. “Now do you have a pen? I’ll give you their number. Don’t mention me though,” she says in a rush. “They won’t remember me anyways.”
With a groan, I do as she commands. I grab a pad of paper and quickly write down the office phone for Epinine Medical. After all, my friend could be right. Maybe a little look down there by professionals won’t hurt. I’ll just be out a co-pay and half an hour. It’s worth it, right?
After a few more laughs with Wanda, I hang up, looking ruefully at my cell after I place it back on the table. My friend is so wacky, and yet, she’s smart. Wanda knows what to do, and not only did she come up with a plausible diagnosis, but she also came up with a path forward.
Giggling again, I change into my PJs and get into bed. I’ll book an appointment with Doctors Ryder and Ranger tomorrow. Hmm, what intriguing names. My heart flutters because these guys sound like they could be straight out of a soap opera, with gleaming blue eyes and wavy black hair.
But then I snort as my head hits the pillow because there’s no way that’s true. These men are likely short and stout, with bald pates and nerdy glasses. Hell, they might even be seventy years old! After all, it takes a lot of studying to become a doctor, and Wanda recommended them as the best. Rolling my eyes again, I shut my eyes and drift off to sleep.
3
Bethany
Nerves overcome me as I step into the plush offices of Epinine Medical. It’s a neutral setting: blush pink walls are decorated with framed portraits of flowers, and the furniture is a soft dove grey.
“Hi, I’m Bethany McLeod,” I say tentatively to the receptionist. “Here for a five o’clock appointment?”
The blonde woman nods her sleek head and gazes at the computer.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “If you’ll just take a seat, Dr. Stephenson will be with you shortly. Oh, and if you could fill out our questionnaire,” she says, pushing a tablet into my hands.
I walk to one of the chairs and gaze at the tablet dumbly. What is this? But my name is on the front, and I press “Go” with the stylus. Oh, I see. It’s taking me through a bunch of routine background health questions, such as do I smoke and how often do I exercise. No biggie.
At the end of the short questionnaire, the tablet prompts me to pay my co-pay. This gadget can do that? Stunned, I take out my credit card and swipe it through the slot on the side. It whirs a bit, and then it’s done. I’m all set.