Maggie’s Monologue

I find the quiet act of auscultation very arousing. There is something exquisitely erotic about the idea of a virtual stranger moving a cold instrument over my naked body to listen to my beating heart and dictate the slow and steady rhythm of my breathing, holding the charged silence as he listens to sounds inside of me that I myself cannot hear. It feels like one of the most intimate experiences two people can share.

But I didn’t always feel this way. As a child I hated going to the doctor. Like Pavlov’s dog, the mere suggestion of going to the doctor elicited such visceral feelings of dread and embarrassment that I avoided it at all costs. At that age I couldn’t imagine anything more horrible than having to submit to an unwelcome examination of my developing body by a man who also happened to be a family friend and someone I saw occasionally in social settings.

I’m not exactly sure how I’ve reconciled these two perspectives over the years. Dread and embarrassment still play prominently in my doctor visits, but where I once felt violated and helpless, I guess I now feel safe and helpless. That may sound strange, but choosing helplessness for myself feels infinitely safer than submitting to it because the choice has been made for me.