When one moves to a new country, one inevitably compares their new country to "home." Things are done differently here and there. It's not always good or bad, just different, although one's stage of culture shock can color the comparison.
In the early stages, the honeymoon period, ones sees only the positives of the new country and feels secure in the decision to have moved. They can't breathe in enough of the crisp, clean air. The beautiful scenery astounds them on a regular basis. Medical care is free. Crime rates are low, literacy rates are high. It's cold but not THAT cold, and summers can actually be quite pleasant and warm.
In later stages, comparisons become less favorable. People begin to have doubts. They begin to wonder -- wonder why the hell they ever let their husband drag them to the end of the planet where one could buy a small plot of land in the rest of the world for what it costs to fill up the tank of a car, where people don't tell you to have a nice day, where it is never, ever, ever, EVER warm, and for the love of all that's good in the world, why the hell don't people hold the damn door open for those that follow?!?!?!
Oh, sorry. Lost my train of thought. By the way, it's not as if
I've ever thought those thoughts. I'm just sayin',
hypothetically speaking. . .Where was I going with this?
Vaginal exams, right.
Didn't see that coming, did ya? Since I didn't move to a country with a vastly different culture from my own, I was never hit with big waves of culture shock. Instead, it was always the small things that would startle me into the realization that, yes, I've moved to a different country. It's in the subtleties that I notice the difference.
Small things, like in the control of the underlife.
(Tee hee. Norwegians don't understand why sometimes their lovely language can send me into peals of laughter. A womanly exam is called an underlivets kontrol,
meaning an underlife appointment
, but kontrol sounds like control. . .get it?? Voice tapering off as no one else finds it quite so amusing.) So while the big picture is not much different, it's in the details.
In both countries, when a woman submits to this decidedly unpleasant but medically necessary part of preventative health care, she is shown in to the examination room and told to undress.
In the States, after a woman undresses and lays her neatly folded clothes on the chair.
I can't be the ONLY one who does this. She puts on a paper gown and drapes a paper blanket over her lap while she waits for the doctor to come in.
You know, to protect her dignity for later when she is laying back on the table, legs in stirrups while a total stranger inspects her most intimate regions with a spotlight. Many American doctors also have some kind of picture on the ceiling for the woman to stare at while they are trying to pretend they are somewhere else.
Oh, look! Pretty flowers! I'm in a garden. Twirling! Dancing!As much fun as you could have making light of all these little niceties,
hours of unadulterated laughter, I'm sure, you miss those niceties when they're gone. Desperately.
In Norway, there is no paper gown.
Do you hear what I'm saying?! No paper gown. This means that once you're undressed, you stand there, naked (or, at least, half-naked). What exactly are you supposed to do when standing naked in an unfamiliar, well-lit room? Just get on up in the chair, put your legs in the stir-ups, and wait? You don't want the doctor to think you're unprepared, do you? Or start rifling through the drawers to take your mind off the fact that your ass and, gulp,
front are just hanging out in the breeze? We're never more free than when we're naked, so maybe we could just start dancing to pass the time.
The worst was, the worst was, please don't tell anyone. I'm just sharing this with you. . .and everyone else with an internet connection, but really, it's private. The worst was, shortly after my daughter was born, I had to go in to the doc for a check to make sure all was okay with my underlife. I had only recently moved to this country and didn't understand the no-paper-gown-thing. The dressing/undressing area was at the back of a cavernous exam room, which was roughly the size of a football stadium. I dutifully went back, undressed, and looked desperately for the safety of a thin paper gown. There was none. The doctor and the nurse and, I think, half the hospital staff waited for me to come out. Finally, someone asked me if everything was okay, clearly expecting me to walk out in all my post-baby nakedness to the exam chair, which was placed on the other side of this gigantic room.
If I think about it now, it was probably that moment I began my descent toward Stage 2 (everything in the new country sucks) culture shock. And of course, there are no pictures on the ceiling here. Doctors don't chat away. Instead, they do the exam in cold, stony silence.
Generally, I appreciate the European/Norwegian attitude toward nudity. I think it's much healthier than our puritanical American attitude. Nudity is natural. It's not that people run around in the streets naked (too cold), but children's butts aren't blurred out on the television either, because really, we're talking America's Funniest Home Videos not depravity.
I also think this attitude lends itself to healthier body images. In any case, people shouldn't feel uncomfortable in their own skins. I can respect that. A commonplace medical exam is not exactly the time to be modest. All of the other stuff is simply unnecessary. I can understand that, too.
But seriously. What the hell is so wrong with paper-gowns?!
Then, finally, FINALLY her hair began to grow out. First, it was her bangs. I thought I would let them grow out and just put them back. Clip went in her hair, two seconds later, little baby hands took them out again. Clip went back in, one second later, little baby hands took them out again. It was a battle of wills. I, of course, lost. Poor thing went around looking a little shaggy until I finally gave in and cut her bangs on a regular basis. 
I will wait until after Christmas pictures, at least, but I don't know if I can wait until she's 7 or 8.
