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?
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.