SAY AHHH

SAY AHHH

I had the misfortune to have several bouts of strep last summer, and noticed some odd things at the doctor’s office.
I visited my doctor sometimes as often as every other week. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling the best, or as my Irish friend says, I wasn’t feeling the May West (large breasted and slutty??). As if I wasn’t unhappy enough, feeling like I had swallowed barbed wire, they still felt compelled to weigh me each time. Talk about adding insult to injury.
There are some mysterious things going on at the doctor’s office. Foremost is the secret little door in the bathroom. I know it’s for the patient to discretely put their pee-pee sample in. Personally, I think that it functions more as a biological speak easy, and some guy named Mugsy is on the other side of that door. This may have something to do with why I have such a hard time producing a sample. My other theories are that it is really a magician’s vanishing cabinet or maybe the white rabbit’s back door to Wonderland. I told you I hadn’t been well.
As children, whenever we needed to provide the doctor with a urine sample, my mother would hand us a LARGE empty peanut butter jar. We then, of course, would feel the need to fill it up to the brim. The jar was then placed into a brown paper bag, and we would bring it to our appointment, hoping that no one would be the wiser. I really thought that the other patients would assume we were just bringing the doctor his lunch. The nurse would peek into the bag and laugh. I would then die of embarrassment.
Speaking of embarrassment, I had a gynecologist appointment the other day and was quite amused when they asked for a picture ID. I wondered if they thought I was trying to steal someone else’s appointment time. Or is uterus identity theft on the rise? I never discovered the answer to this or as to why every year I have to fill out the same patient information sheet. I know my birthday and race have not changed since last year. I mean, if they are asking us to make a choice, I’d like to change my birthday to 1982 and I would now like to be Asian.
As far as your family’s medical history, I guess it could change or this time you could suddenly remember to mention Uncle Bob’s third nipple. Also, unless you are a shrinking senior citizen, my height will most likely be the same as last year. Again, if I’m getting a choice, I’d like to be 6 foot 4 inches tall, that way I’d be the perfect weight.
3 hours later, after I’m done with the paper work, I am brought back to an examining room and handed a paper gown that is 47 times too small. Now, for God’s sake, the nurse just weighed me, she knows I’m not a size 2. I know they have bigger gowns because they see enormous pregnant woman in their office all the time. I can’t complain too much, because I figure the doctor is going to be seeing all of me in a few moments anyways. The nurse very nicely gives me a paper blanket to cover my naughty bits with, which I use since it’s a real pretty pink color.
In all honesty, I’m always happy to see my gynecologist because she is so nice and she delivered one of my children. I also like her because she never points at me and giggles when she sees me around town.
The doctor has three kids the same age as mine, so we catch up on what has been going on with our darlings. We compare notes on their activities while she is giving me a breast exam. We talk about our last family vacation as she asks me to scoot down further, and we discuss our challenging middle children when…well for those faint of heart, when she is making sure my girl parts are working. It’s then that I realize that woman have perfected the art of conversation. We are so proficient at it that we feel as completely at ease chatting over coffee as chatting during an exam of our nether region.
There is no mystery as to why I so look forward to any doctor’s appointments. First of all, as a mom, you spend so much time looking out for your kid’s well being, that it’s nice when it’s our turn to be taken care of. Most of all, I cherish any time alone that I can get. If I have to go to the doctor because I’m sick, I think, at least I’m not at home serving up chicken nuggets, while I’m trying not to lose my nuggets. When I’m having a mammogram, I figure there are no crying kids present, so bring it on. When I am half-naked in an ill-fitting paper gown, I see it as an opportunity to catch up with another mom, all while making sure my hoochie is healthy.
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