Ninth-floor transfer from an eight-floor hospital / Mrs. Pap

Turfed to eternity was how we euphemized
death. When the urosepsis in 807 lay
burning in her terminal coma, the nurse
tried to get me to sit and hold her hand
on the theory that no one should die alone.
Just because everything medical students did
was useless didn’t mean we had nothing to do.
So I didn’t stay with the dying woman,
went to gather reams of duplicative data
on other patients instead. When at last I returned
she was cold, her mouth a collapsing “O.” I bought
yellow roses from the gift shop, ringed her
body with them. The nurse tidied them
into a urinal before the nephew arrived.

Mrs. Pap

Andromache Mavroyenous, daughter
of a high-ranking military officer,
was educated, spoke French,
played piano, and (in her teens)
dressed fashionably.

George didn’t ask for her hand,
but offered marriage like a deal.
He laid down the rules: no children.
You will assist me in my work.
She accepted the terms.

Mrs. Papanicolaou let her husband
the doctor, swab her cervix daily.
He called her “my victim,” his
“special case.” As his unpaid assistant,
she procured women for him to swab.

Before that, he inserted cotton swabs
into guinea pigs’ tiny vaginas.
Then she became his darling guinea pig
climbing onto the exam table
every morning for 21 years.

Monuments laud millions of lives
Pap tests saved. He is women’s hero,
she the ultimate doctor’s wife.
Her hair is grey, her smock a sack.
She looks away from the camera.

They married before Gräfenberg’s IUD.
How did they prevent children?
Did he ever bed her?
Or was the daily swab
the only act of love?