Sausages and eggsMy husband broke my vagina. We were on our second honeymoon. Same guy, second honeymoon, yeah I know it’s weird but you can’t get too much of a good thing. Well, actually, you can.

So we’re in Germany for several reasons, one of them being our probably perverted fascination with Nazi’s, and overly excited at our cool little East Berlin apartment that in reality had utterly no connection with the cold war Germany except location, we had a vigorous root.

Older but not yet wiser

It did hurt a bit but that sort of thing has become increasingly par for the course. Ever since the painters stopped showing up earlier in the year the twat feels different. All sensitive. Annoyingly sensitive. Like some kind of hideous return to the sort of ghastly sex I endured as a teenager where foreplay was a halitosis laden kiss and a massive tongue shoved in your mouth like one of those slugs you find in the compost bin, and lubricant a gob of beer flavoured spit.

Over the next day or two my vagina kept reminding me of its presence. You’re not meant to be aware it’s there really. The snatch is ideally silent. Unless you happen to see a poster of Daniel Craig advertising the upcoming James Bond movie. Or it’s cooking up some bad shit. I figured it was thrush. The bastard had delivered that to me only recently, god knows why, again a horrible reminder of my younger years where I really suffered from it on a regular basis and would walk around with half a tub of yoghurt in my knickers.bayer

So off to the pharmacist I went. They are called Apotheke in Germany. Which makes me think of evil old men with long beards cooking up weird shit in their labs. Having done a German for Travellers course before I left I was, of course, an expert. In saying Spraken de English? Inevitably German people say ‘a little’ but they are being modest. However this pharmacist – a man – did indeed have only a little and I found myself saying ‘fungal infection… vagina… thrush’ and wondering why the hell we have called anything so unpleasant after a nice little bird. He got me to write it down. He looked it up on the computer. Recognition crossed his face. He gave me the usual medication, and relieved, I thought to myself, yep that’s sorted.

Out of the frying pan into the fire

A couple of days later I noticed it had become painful to piss. Then, on the train from Berlin to Nürnberg, I realised I was dreading going to the loo. I was on public transport and prior experience in less civilised countries including our own has taught me that train toilets are almost always disgusting stench-filled pits and your privates need at all times to be protected from exposure to these places. In fact any place where men go to the same bog is usually the last place you want to go.

However ever since I read about someone actually expiring from holding in their wee (it was a royal thing and clearly they were an idiot) I’d had a healthy respect for my bladder. It doesn’t always return the favour but that’s another story. So I made my way down the carriage and waited for the toilet to be free. The toilet was great. Got to love the Germans. Is there anything they don’t do well? The pissing was agonising. Like pissing glass. You know that saying about the heart sinking? The short lived ‘thrush party’ lost all their funding and got the sack.

The ‘cystitis party’ now stepped up to the podium with a shit-eating grin. It’s not the first time those cruel pricks have taken power. Only the year before they had performed a sneaky coup on my vagina on the return from our holiday in Japan. Where incidentally the husband proposed in an incredibly romantic gesture on a helicopter over Tokyo, except I didn’t hear him and it turns out he didn’t actually manage to say the actual word marriage. But that, too, is another story.honey

Cystitis is it’s own special hell, as any of you who have had it know. Not only is pissing agony, your bladder tells you that it wants to piss ten god-damn minutes after you’ve just been and there’s nothing god-damn in there. That was my first experience of it for which I should be thankful, but my doctor initially gave me the wrong antibiotics which meant a couple of very unpleasant days until the test results came back and I got the right stuff. All I can say to any suffering sisters out there is a cold wet flannel right on the twat really helps. Inelegant but effective. And if you really want to torture the husband – and let’s face it, we all do – pop it right back in the shower for facial use.

But weirdly enough this time there was no urgent need to go. Just the pain. And the whole kit and caboodle was very very sore, in fact in the shower next morning a little water ran down onto my snatch and I actually yelped out loud. There was nothing for it but a visit to a doctor. A German doctor.

Excuse me, what is vagina in German?

Panic set in. First up there’s the appointment. I mean my German pretty much consisted of hello, I’d like coffee and cake, can I have the bill, and thanks very much. Now I needed to make a doctor’s appointment. So first port of call was the receptionist at our hotel. At first he looked befuddled. A local doctor? Sick? For a moment I thought wildly perhaps these are foreign concepts to Germans. Then he rang. I could hear in the stream of foreign babble that he thought I was American. I sucked it up. That was the least of my concerns. Then – relief. Yes there was a doctor, just down the road, and I could go any time before 11 that at desk

Breakfast was a sorry affair. The husband is never happier than over a buffet breakfast, his eyes constantly peruse the offerings as he dreams of his next course while he shovels down whatever is currently on this plate. And the German breakfasts. Don’t get me started! However this particular morning he was given curt orders to get a move on.

When we found the place, and several of the nurses had good English, and they figured out that yes, I could pay cash and see someone that morning, I relaxed a little. We were told to take a seat in the waiting room, which was packed. When someone new showed up a short time later, she came in and before taking a seat, said hello to the whole room, and people greeted her in return. I figured she and her friends must be frequent visitors. Real sicko’s as it were. Then later, it happened again. The Germans – so friendly! If someone walked into a waiting room here in Australia and said hello they would meet a wall of blank stares. Be friendly to a stranger? Are you insane?

The miracle that is the German health system

About three quarters of an hour later they called for me. The room they took me into was spacious. The doctor introduced himself and shook my hand. His English was very good and he sent me off with a nurse and a small jar in which to piss, informing me they would then be able to test my wee IMMEDIATELY and know what was going on. My mouth must have dropped open because he then clarified that they couldn’t tell what bacteria was busy munching on my twat but they could tell that yes, there was bacteria and that would be a start. In our part of the world, an instant result on anything but your visa card would be a miracle.

I did the obligatory pissing into a too small container and blind freddy could see there was something up. It was not the usual cheerful lemon tinted clear liquid but all silty and cloudy like an off bottle of spirits left too long in the back of the cupboard. It was disconcerting having to hand my bottle of pee to one of the nurses at the busy reception, but there’s also something refreshing about such openness. Plus they think I’m American.

After a short wait in another room, the doctor returned and told me he could give me antibiotics but he would rather I saw the gynaecologist for a confirmation of my symptoms. Before I could scream “gynaecologist are you kidding that will take weeks to get an appointment and my twat is on fire!” he said in his now incredibly endearing German accent “my nurse will call and you will go upstairs and see someone today.” TODAY. THIS MORNING EVEN.

male doctor standing

So feeling much more cheery I sent the husband off back to the hotel to do some work or whatever the hell he gets up to when I’m not around, and I trekked upstairs and this time only had to wait half an hour before I was called into the gynaecologist’s rooms. A man of course. A big German man for whom I was going to have to drop my knickers and spread em.

But as any of you know who has had a disease or something weird happening down there, the time comes to leave all dignity at the door. I was sent behind a small screen to de-knicker myself, then I was instructed to climb up on a scary looking chair and put my legs up on the leg-rests either side. Charming. I hadn’t had this much fun since IVF.

The doctor came in, poked where I suppose my bladder and kidneys hang out and when I replied no, that didn’t hurt, moved quickly on to the matter in hand. He actually said “I see” when he laid eyes on my snatch which made me feel immediately better. There’s something about a doctor quickly recognising symptoms (in this instance a scabrous twat) that fills one with relief.

Five minutes later, dignity partially restored, I was rushing down to the chemist with a script in hand, 20 Euro’s lighter in pocket. THIRTY DOLLARS to see a specialist, and the very same morning I rang for an appointment.

Relief at last 

bottle and capsules

That night I inserted what was to be seven nights of some gross cream business up my love tunnel, hoping and praying that his “I see” confidence would be repaid. And after a long three days, during which I finally googled the name of the cream I had been given and realised I had a staph infection IN MY VAGINA, the cream stuff did actually begin to work, and the burning slowly receded like a house fire finally sizzling out under a deluge of water.

At one stage during this distressing time when my vagina was under quarantine, the husband came out of a German public toilet with a gleam in his eye and announced there had been ‘travel vaginas’ on sale in a vending machine for 4 Euro. That’s like 6 bucks. Cheap! I’d like to say he was tempted but when you get a look at one of those plastic freak shows it’s pretty easy to see why those who can get it keep coming back for the real thing.

Needless to say there were quite a few sunsets before I let the husband within cooee of my vag, and when I finally succumbed to how damn nice he was being, we were mightily slow and careful.

Lessons learned? Don’t let anybody tell you the Australian health care system is the best in the world because that is crap. Get thee to Germany. I wonder if they will let me retire there. And you know how it’s best not to dress like a teenager when you are in the middle of your middle age? Perhaps it’s best not to root like a teenager either.

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