When you move, you need lots of new things.
New house keys.
New way to get to work.
New utility company.
New stuff in general.
You also get the bonus, if moving far enough away from your current location,
a new cha-cha doctor.
I’m not talking about a dance instructor either.
First of all, the one thing I can’t get over in my mind, is
W H Y?
Would a man want to be a gynecologist?
It’s not like the female nether-region is a beautiful thing to look at.
Who wants to look at those?
After his 50th one, would he not be bored?
No doubt, the next time his lover wants to strip down and have a passionate love making session……he is going to have one of several thoughts:
Eh, I’ve seen better.
Ugh, I don’t want to see another one.
Wow, if they were all as lovely as yours.
I don’t get it.
Which is why I always go with the female gyno.
Besides, she gets the whole concept of having a coochie.
So today I started my day with a visit to my new obgyn.
Excellent. Can’t wait.
First off, I tried to find someone close to my office.
Check. Under 6 miles away, however in Boston that could still be 30 minutes of travel time.
Second, had to be female.
Third, had to have a good reputation.
Fourth, I had to be able to pronounce their name.
There is nothing worse than someone saying, “What’s the name of your doctor?” And the only thing you can say is, “Well, it starts with a SK….”
I turn on my WAZE app – and The Terminator – directs me to the front door of the new doctor’s office. He avoids traffic congestion so I traveled this morning through some neighborhoods that were overflowing with mansions. Tiny, winding, two lanes, through the woods kind of area….and enormous….gargantuan homes. Big enough to hold a medium sized fortress of warriors if necessary. Beautiful.
The downside to this morning’s drive is that I had NO IDEA where I was going and I’m sure the people behind me were very much screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” I’m literally dazed and confused.
Sorry folks, keep calm, I’ll make up my mind in a moment. Okay, it may be two moments. Stand by….I’m waiting on The Terminator.
With fifteen minutes to spare, I arrive at the office.
I’m always late, so this fifteen minutes is obviously a mistake.
I didn’t actually get lost on the way over!
Up to the office I go and check in.
They give me the standard clip board to respond to the various questions.
Do you smoke?
Do you take drugs?
Do you drink?
Do you wear a helmet?
Do you have any allergies?
Do you wear a seatbelt?
Do you drag race?
Yes, seriously, it asked if I wore a helmet.
When they asked me in person, I said, “well, not in daily life.”
Then into the health questionnaire I go….hang on to your hats.
There must have been 100 possible health issues.
At the top it said the usual: check mark if you have / had any of the following:
Belly Dancing Fetish
Heart value complications
Hot single last-nerve complex
You get the picture. It was all you would think they’d ask and then everything else.
I didn’t even have a chance to complete my paperwork before they called my name. It was the helmet question that hung me up. I should have taken a photo.
Into the little room I go to verbally answer the questions that were on the paper. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.
What I’ve discovered is that I should have check marked, memory failure.
In the interview I was expected to remember things that happened 30 years ago. Seriously. Who remembers when they got their first period? What? No clue. When did I first have sex? What age did I learn to drive? What? When was my first obgyn exam? How old was I when I discovered the truth about Santa? I make them up and advise them of such by adding an “-ish” on the end.
How old was your father when he died?
No clue. Sad. But true.
My answer tactic, is……I turn my head to the left, look out of the corner of my eye to the right, squint and say, “65-ish.”
How old is your mother? I turn my head to the left, look out of the corner of my eye to the right, squint and say, “65-ish.” This, I know is a lie…
Because of the next question….
What age did your grandmother die? I know this one, cause my mother says it all the time, “You know Grandmom died at 65, I shouldn’t live this long.” She is obviously older than 65 – The Mother.
You see a pattern here? I also say out loud that I really need to put this stuff down on a piece of paper. I just don’t remember these things. I only have so much space in this walnut of grey matter. I can barely remember my own phone number let alone how old people are….and when I got my first period.
This concluded our historical overview of my life. I was then advised to get undressed and the doctor “will be in really quickly.”
What doctor ever arrives quickly?
Quickly according to whose watch?
Do you mean quick in patient time?
Quick in a doctor’s time who may or may not always be running late, so today they’re closer to on time?
Doesn’t matter…I do the one thing I can do:
I stripped faster than a dancer at a tits & ass club.
Then I sat.
Then I realized I had to pee.
In Alaska, they take a pee sample. So I’ve been waiting to go. There was no mention of peeing in a cup.
I open the door and stick my head out into the hall.
Fear not, I have my gown, which opens in the front – wrapped tightly around my body.
I see a young doctor – MALE – down the hallway.
I don’t see my nurse.
So I wait inside the door. Not two minutes later she comes bounding in – scared the both of us. Apparently the young MALE doctor alerted. Good doctor! Good boy!
I explained the previous doctor always took a sample “What for?” was the response. Well, to test whatever it was they wanted to test.
Then she advised me the gown should go with the opening to the back.
REALLY? This is great news!
Down the hall I go, pee in a cup and turn my gown around.
I return to my little room and not two minutes later in walks my new doctor.
The first thing she tells me, while staring me straight in the eyes is she is an instructor at her hospital and she has a doctor in training.
Would I mind if he came in for the appointment?
She then said some more things but I couldn’t get past: MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING.
I had flash backs to all those hospital shows where the esteemed doctor brings in the interns to see how it works. What?
A MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING.
The interns gather around the bed. Ask crazy questions. Prolong the experience.
A MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING.
Do I want not only another doctor looking at my YaZoo but a MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING?
He’s learning. Not leering.
Meh. Blech. Seriously, is it rude to say no?
I finally snap back into reality and advise her, it’s fine but when it’s exam time – he needs to go.
She waves Dr. Jordan into the room.
Oh My God. It’s the same doctor person I saw in the hallway 5 minutes ago.
He is so young. I don’t even think he shaves yet.
I immediately reach back to make sure my butt is covered in the gown.
He introduces himself and I shake his hand.
His hand could compete with a freshmen boy at a dance for the sweat factor.
He was more nervous than a short person in a room of giants.
More nervous than the chicken trying to get across the damn road.
Okay, I’m the naked one here.
Are you certain you want to work in this profession?
There’s nothing to be nervous about – seriously.
I mean, if I fall off this table and you see everything cause my gown will have exposed my entire being – then hell yes….we have an embarrassment factor. Overload in fact. But, no need to worry about it, cause I’m not going to fall off the table.
The doctor and I reviewed how I got here, why I moved, my health, the goal for the day etc. I spoke to both of them. They couldn’t believe my age. When I said, I was very dull, she insisted I was quite entertaining. Alright then. Then I literally thought, “oh if you only knew how entertaining….I have a blog.”
Eventually the young and impressionable and awkwardly placed Dr. Jordan was asked to leave the room.
Breast exam. Check.
Feet up. Check.
Poke. Poke. Poke. Check. Check. Check.
I didn’t have to sit and wait in the lobby.
No peeing in the cup on demand.
I wear the gown with the opening in the back.
I get nervous learning doctor with sweaty hands.
The exam is focused and no nonsense.
I’m in and out in an hour.
Really? We’re finished. Is this good or bad? No idea, but I’m delighted I don’t feel like someone should have bought me dinner after the whole thing.
Now I need to make a note to remind The Mother to send me a note with everyone’s death dates, causes of death and when they discovered the truth about the Toothy Fairy. Someone has to know these things – either than or its off to Ancestry.com.