Rachel Steele - Gyno Exam File

Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. She pressed again, slightly deeper, on the lower left side.

She started the car and drove home, the weight of uncertainty pressing on her chest. But beneath it, a small, stubborn pulse of gratitude. Dr. Vance had been right. The next step wasn’t fear. It was just the next step. Two weeks later, Rachel sat in Dr. Vance’s office. The MRI results were in.

“Now for the bimanual,” Dr. Vance said, discarding the speculum. “I’m going to insert two fingers and press on your lower belly with my other hand. This checks the size, shape, and position of your uterus and ovaries. Let me know if you feel any sharp pain.” Rachel Steele - Gyno Exam

Then she paused.

Rachel sat in her car in the parking lot, the engine off, the succulent in the passenger seat. She had declined a sedative, wanting to feel clear-headed. The paper gown was gone, replaced by her soft jeans and cashmere sweater. But she still felt exposed. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly

It had been three years. Three years since her last annual exam. She knew it was irresponsible. She was a savvy, in-control woman in every other aspect of her life—closing million-dollar deals, leading a team of twenty, running half-marathons. But the moment she saw the stirrups, the cold speculum, the bright overhead light, she became a terrified teenager again.

Rachel looked at the tiny succulent on the table. Its green leaves were uncurling toward the fluorescent light. Something alive. But beneath it, a small, stubborn pulse of gratitude

Dr. Vance measured it. 4.7 centimeters. She took several images, her jaw set. Then she withdrew the wand.