'During my routine pap smear, my doctor made a gobsmacking comment.'

No one likes a pap smear. My latest was worse than most. Instead of giving simple verbal instructions, the doctor awkwardly manoeuvred my legs into position. It was like dancing with a partner who doesn't know how to lead.

This is not the first time I've had to tango with a doctor who, despite years of experience with this very common procedure, acts like they've never been asked to do something quite as embarrassing as screening a woman for cervical cancer.

I recently moved and the only bulk billing doctors within reasonable distance of my home are male. Not ideal for a pap smear. I chose the practice with a female doctor, closest to where I live. At least I would be paying for a level of comfort and convenience.

In hindsight, that thought is laughable.

When we were through the worst of it, the doctor looked at my cervix and made a comment.

She said, 'You haven't had children…'

No doctor had ever raised this before, but my last test was five years ago when I was under 30.

She finished up and I got dressed. By this point, the appointment had clocked up about five minutes of her expensive time. I expected to be hustled out the door. Instead, she sat me down and launched into a lecture about fertility. I didn't ask for this, but my forms said I was 32 and my cervix said I'd never had a baby.

I didn't request information. I didn't even confirm that I wanted children. Regardless, she told me all about egg-death stats, miscarriage and geriatric pregnancy complications.

I don't know a single woman my age who is blissfully unaware of the biological clock.

We know.

We are reminded constantly.

Watch: Cervical cancer: what you need to know. Post continues after video.

The lecture was so unwelcome that I felt more pity than resentment for her inability to sense that she was putting her foot in her mouth. She told me about other patients — unnamed of course — stories to scare me into running home and mounting my partner post-haste.

I was unmoved.

Not a single fact was new information.

After 30, fertility is an inescapable subject. For me, crossing that threshold felt like stepping into a new reality. I spent most of my 20s in the girl boss era. The sparkly messaging was all hustle, career and casual dating. It felt almost shameful to think about babies, let alone voice 'family' as a goal. This is in stark contrast to 30+, where everyone from uncles to acquaintances wants to discuss my eggs.

The reality of my situation is, I would like to have a child, but I threw everything into the career of my dreams and it does not pay well. In my 20s, it felt like failing feminism to think about babies. After 30, it flipped. Expectation and disapproval press in from all sides, almost as if babies were meant to be a secret priority all along. The doctor taught me nothing. All she did was reboot my feeling of failure for not building an adequate nest before the egg timer tipped.

This was not my first unsolicited fertility lecture, but it was the most upsetting. Pap smears are already a vulnerable situation. Maybe that's why I nodded and smiled and sat through it.

The thing is, despite it all, I kept thinking it was nice that she wasn't in a rush. There was no one in the waiting room – no appointment immediately after me. It was a slow morning for her. I figured she just liked talking and probably thought she was doing a good deed.

I should have asked her to kindly shut up.

When she finally released me, I walked back to reception and was told that because my appointment was long, I would be charged $155.

I'm non-confrontational by nature, but this time I argued. I had booked the standard $80 appointment. I was told that because I was a 'new patient' I had been booked for a long appointment.

This was news to me. I booked online. I clicked 'standard' appointment. There was no notification of this policy on the fee-information page, throughout the booking process, or when I checked in at the desk.

I pushed back and was told that regardless of what I had booked, the length of time I was in with the doctor meant I had to pay the long appointment fee.

Listen: Childless by choice. Post continues after podcast.

By this point, my voice was a bit shaky. It felt so unjust. I tried to explain the situation. I said the doctor was chatty and I would have cut her off had I known. The thought of paying for the unwanted lecture brought reluctant tears to my eyes.

The receptionists were indifferent. The lack of empathy was astounding. I now understand why this practice requires bank card details before a booking.

I understand the whole situation perfectly.

There was obviously a miscommunication in the booking process, but regardless, the doctor looked for a way to stretch out the appointment. My age was her answer. If you want to hold a childless 32-year-old woman hostage, there's ample rope within easy reach.

I didn't stay and argue all day. I had work, and they had my card details. I paid the amount and thought that was the end of it. I told all the women in my life the story. They were horrified. I moved on.

A month later, I received an invoice in the mail from a pathology clinic. Pap smears are covered by Medicare once every five years. I was two months early and in penance I now owed $47 – bringing the gross cost of this ordeal to $202. An ironic knockout punch, considering insufficient funds is the reason I'm childfree.

Feature Image: Getty.