Thursday, December 6, 2007
It’s been two weeks and my writing job order is still stuck on reproductive health or should I say the total lack of it. Now it seems my prolonged encounter with descriptions and images of disease-infested reproductive organs has successfully squashed my appetite for—EVERYTHING. More importantly though, it has also finally convinced me to visit my gynecologist three years after she told me I was due for a pap smear.
The images that have turned my stomach inside out have finally convinced me that reproductive cancer is not the way to go, at least not in the Philippines where instant deaths (like instant noodles, instant juice and instant white skin) are infinitely preferred over expensive languishing. Yep, a quick heart attack or getting swatted on the highway is a whole lot better.
The doctor’s visit was hardly pleasant. My undignified position on the clinic bed made me feel like a cockroach on its back about to be stuck with needles and torched dead by a 4 year old sadist. Nonetheless, the seemingly endless swabs and poking were far better than the pitter patter of cancer cells. My doctor says I’d have to bear the indignity over and over again for as long as I live. Married women, she says, are at great risk of contracting sexually transmitted diseases and the HP virus that could cause cervical cancer.
I don’t think though that married women are the only ones at particular risk anymore. If the figures are right, 25% of sexually active teenagers in the U.S. have STD. One in four get STD infections every year. Among women in America, gonorrhea is most common among teenagers 15 years old and up.
That kinda ruins the seemingly pure young adolescent love that we so often read about or see on the Disney Channel. Imagine a boy with just a hint of his first facial hair about to lean over to kiss his first girlfriend when the car stereo suddenly spits out a tune that eerily fits "gonorrhea" when you say it in singsong.
Should my third world sensibilities be shocked, alarmed, agitated? Does this prove beyond a reasonable doubt that man isn’t a better philosopher than beasts under the sway of the pleasure principle? That’s as far as I dare go about what I think lest I be pelted with sticks and stones by both the prudish and the liberal alike. Besides I’ve already strayed too far from my musings on feeling like a cockroach.
*Image credit: Powerbacks