Friday, October 24, 2008

Kick'n Up My Heels!


Yesterday I had to take another trip to the doctor’s office . Don’t presume that I’m a hypochondriac. I’m not. I’m a woman. We HAVE to go at least once a year. That’s why its called an “annual” boys and girls.

I dreaded it more than usual and cancelled three appointments before I finally ran out of excuses. When I walked in they shuffled me off to the weigh-in scale conveniently located in a major thoroughfare so that everyone can hear how much I weigh (with all of my clothes on!). That’s when I spotted Lydia, an old friend from the last town I lived in. By the look of her clipboard, she must work there, although I’ve had an ongoing fantasy about walking around “off-limits” places with just a clipboard and a serious look on my face and getting away with it. But Lydia has never been that type of a person, so I believe she actually does work there. We made quick small talk and I was moved into the exam room.

I wonder if Lydia thought I was there for a disgusting STD or something. What if she thinks I have vaginitus, whatever that is, it sounds horrible. The nurse walks in and I compliment her on her frock. I tell her “If I was a nurse, I would wear that” but of course, I’m not a nurse, I’m a patient and they’ve already picked out my paper outfit for me. When she opened the paper gown armoire, I noticed different shades of blue and different size square piles. She seemed to know exactly what to pull out for me. “Here’s the top and here’s the bottom, please strip down to your socks.”

I’m not too sure about the size she selected for me because the top is a big giant square and the bottom is simply a long tablecloth. Who does she think she is? I know for sure she’s just given me a tablecloth. Who were the other shades of blue for? Are they secret signals to the doctor? Does the doctor walk in and know exactly what kind of a woman she’s dealing with based on the shade of blue?

Example:
Light Blue: Hypochondriacs and Whiners
Bright Blue: Sluts and Skanks
Dark Blue: Unstable Crack Addicts

The next time I am provided with a tablecloth for clothing, I’ll turn it into a Project Runway assignment. I’ve found a great instructional website so that I can learn how to wrap my own sari so the next time I visit the doctor, he’ll know exactly what kind of woman he’s dealing with. Not just some run-of-the-mill light blue tablecloth patient.

As I wait there for the next thirty minutes, I’m noticing all their free literature. This is the kind of stuff they never have out in the waiting room because who’s going to run over to a stack of Urinary Confidence Group – The Key to Successful Bladder Control pamphlets and shout “Hey! Look over here Mary, I’m totally going to this!” There is a flyer for laser treatments with a discount coupon. I’m skeptical about a cosmetic surgeon that accepts coupons.

I see there is a metal tray on wheels that has been prepared for the doctor and me. On it is a giant swizzle stick, a tube of Surgilube, and a bottle labeled “Cytology Fixative Poison.” What the hell is going to happen here? I lie back on the crackly paper table and stretch out my legs straight, sort of practice my position. I feel my back crack down low and I’m relieved for a moment and then I remember that the peace will end soon when Dr. M enters the room.

I look to the ceiling for distraction but there’s nothing in this exam room but an acoustic ceiling. I think they should put some kind of puzzle or word-find up there to keep my mind off the work at hand. This would have been a great place to bring my iPod.

Dr. M comes in and gives me a warm handshake. For which I’m relieved because a cold handed gynecologist is nightmare, right ladies? He pokes around, takes things on and off the tray while I’m trying to avert my eyes, I practice my breathing, and after some small talk and a couple of laughs, its over. He declares me “normal” and exits the exam room.

As I got dressed I felt like a little piece of me was missing or maybe slightly exploited. So I looked around to see if anything would make me feel better. That’s when I found this big giant Q-tip and just had to have it. I didn’t consider this theft because I plan on bringing in my old magazines next time I visit. I dropped it in my purse and felt like we were even.

7 comments:

  1. Just tell me that it was one of the sterile one, and not your used up, nasty one!
    And, I am totally cracking up. My favorite part about this visit, besides the obvious swoosh with the giant q-tip, is when the nurse asks me, 'would you like to step on the scale?' to which i really want to respond, 'of course i do NOT want to step on the scale. i know i am fat, why do i need to let you in on the secret too, you skinny little waif?!

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  2. I LOVE that you took a picture with that giant q-tip in your mouth...but, echo the sentiments of the previous commenter!

    At my Doctor's office they put little cartoons on the ceiling for you to look at. Problem is, they only put one. And they aren't that funny. Certainly not worth the effort of some poor candy striper intern to have had to climb a ladder and stapled it to the ceiling!

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  3. You are one sick puppy and that is why we are friends!
    By the way, I loved all your 10 questions innterview on the blog site. You were hilarious. I can truly picture you looking a little touched in the head by rapping ont he table and looking into space. HILARIOUS.

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  4. Do you know where you can get those q-tips? - they look like fun to me! I can think of many uses for them...

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  5. Wouldn't it be nice if there were pictures of gorgeous men with their shirts off on the ceiling? I wonder what that would make the "annual" like. hmmmm

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  6. You deserve a parting gift because you had to wait so long for the pleasure of a stranger fondling your parts! I like to stock up on the rubber gloves...I find those useful for so many things. And I figure it's owed to me, although I do not know why I feel that way.

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  7. I cannot believe you stole a vagi-swab. I've always wanted to take one but never had the guts. You are an inspiration. And thanks for the reminder that I've got to reschedule my damn PAP too.

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