I was leafing through a magazine in the waiting room of the gynecologist’s office. They leave these shiny things in a pile that seem to exert a magnetic pull over me. I read an article about how young women are creatively waxing their pubic hair. There’s all kind of designs: a heart with an arrow through it, a gift box with a ribbon on top, the Louis Vuitton logo and so on. I thought how equally horrifying and hilarious these reveals must be. After that the doctor called me in.

I tried to talk with her very honestly about the fibroids and my concerns about extreme medical solutions but I couldn’t get everything I wanted to say out. I start strong-ish and then lose my way. The doctor said something had to be done, since the things to try aren’t working, and she suggested three options that all require other specialists who popped out of closet doors in the exam room one at a time. Each one was framed by lights twinkling from round bulbs and confetti rained down on their heads before they made their cases one by one.

The first doctor — well, it was really her assistant. The doctor herself didn’t say a word. She just stood against the wall with a whip in her hand. She was wearing black leather from head to toe. She had cruel eyes, the bedside manner of an assassin and exuded disgust and precision. I had the feeling I’d be in very good hands with her. Her assistant was kindly. She asked me all the same questions my general gyn asked me:

When was your last period?

Do you want to become pregnant?

Do you have a history of sexual abuse?

Would you like to support the hospital with a large donation?

The second doctor I really liked. She reminded me of a young version of myself. She said she’d perform a one-inch laparoscopic incision on my abdomen and then cut my uterus out and put it in “her little bag”. She held her thumbs and forefingers very close together in the OK gesture as if to demonstrate just how small the bag was. It was hard to imagine my uterus in her adorable bag. I asked a few questions but her pitch deck was fairly immovable so I stopped.

Doctor number three had a boyish face and very small eyes that I could see far away behind rainbow glasses on slinky springs. He was jolly and confidant and told me he’d burn the fibroids out of me with sand-sized pellets of plastic and then said in a few months they might come back! There was no way to be sure! We know almost nothing about them! He said it like that with all the exclamation points.

My doctor came back at that point and tried to talk to me like we’re taking now. Like girlfriends, very conversational.

She said, “your uterus is killing you,” really sympathetic-like and then added, “whichever one of the doctors you pick will win a $10,000 cash prize.”

I asked, “is this procedure necessary for my health?”

She said, “no,” and she seemed a little sad.

I said, “I’ve had this uterus all my life.” I even smiled to let her know I was well-adjusted enough to joke about it but she didn’t respond.

She added, “we know that fibroids are fairly common for African-American women.”

That was troubling information but also odd to hear under the circumstances since I’m white.

Collecting my coat and purse felt odd while the lights were flashing and the doctor(s) waited for my answer. It felt as though there was a much larger audience and I was trying to become invisible to them while I slipped off of a stage. Outside I walked past high-end jewelry shops that used to be art galleries and billboards of beautiful women selling perfume without hardly noticing them. I escaped with my uterus intact but only narrowly.