I like my gynecologist, at least as much as a woman can like a man who tells her medical future by ramming his fingers up her inside parts while telling her to please relax her stomach muscles. He's a nice man with kind eyes. He takes his time to answer my questions, and he actually listens when I'm talking to him. However, despite the many brownie points I give him for his excellent bedside manner, a trip to see him still entails all the things I hate about going to a gyno appointment.
First off, I hate the fact that I have to get on the scale when I'm really at the hospital to get something checked that has nothing to do with how fat or fit I am. I suppose the fact that I hate the scale has a lot to do with the fact that I am more fat than fit but, I digress. There is usually some chatty medial office technician rambling on and on in small talk language who I secretly wish had an actual zipper on her face that would close her mouth. After suffering the humiliation of the scale and a quick check of my blood pressure, it's on to the real fun in the examination room.
After further questions about why I'm there and when was the first day of my last period, the medical assistant tells me to further embarrass myself and possibly my gyno, by taking off all my clothes and putting on the pretty hospital gown with the gaping hole in the back just in case one wasn't suffering from enough chagrin already. During the disrobing process I find myself doing what I'm sure many other women do; I fold up my clothes leaving them in a neat pile on the chair then fold my bra and panties to the tiniest proportions possible and hide them between my top and pants. I don't really know why this is the protocol since the person I'm visiting is about to see parts of me I haven't even seen before. It's just some unspoken rule amongst women that undies are not to be left in plain sight even if one is clothed in a very unflattering hospital gown.
It seems as if the wait for the doctor is either too long or too short. Either I'm sitting on the examination table, cold and uncomfortable, reading a Ladies Home Journal from 1991 with Jane Seymour dressed as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the cover OR the gyno knocks on the door and enters just as I'm bent over with my soon to be hidden panties around my ankles. Of course it is also baffling why I jump and try to cover up when his entry precedes me getting on the gown considering the fact that I'm going to bare all in the near future. I sit on the table while we talk about any concerns I may have. After the niceties, the dreaded examination begins. It starts with about three palms full of lube followed by a speculum which I believe is an ancient Greek word for "evil instrument of torture made expressly for women".
The doctor gets a sample of what's happening with my innards, then helps me sit up and remove my feet from the stirrups. Now, when I was a young, pre-OB girl, I thought of stirrups as those awful looking leggings with straps for one's feet. Now I've come to think of them as an unfortunate yet necessary evil. Surely these things were created by a man because anyone who has had to put her feet in a pair would know the deal. Why don't stirrups move to the sides the way my feet move to the sides? They aren't really supporting my legs if I'm using my toes to grip the sides of the stirrups in an effort to avoid falling off the table. Oh, the horror!
After the exam, my gyno tells me I can get dressed and open the door when I'm finished so he can come back in and finish speaking with me. He hands me a box of tiny ass tissues that are almost too small to wipe a newborn baby's nose so I can clean up the 64 ounces of goo he used on me before the examination. Who's idea was it to use the smallest tissues known to man? Frankly, after an appointment with the gyno, I need a roll of soft ply paper towels to get myself to my original state. I wonder why he is even bothering to leave the room at all. The conversation started with me wearing that stupid gown so there's no reason why it can't end with me donning the same thing. I can't imagine that it's for modesty because a man who just had his fingers on my cervix should certainly not be embarrassed about chatting with me further while I'm wearing an open in the back gown. Maybe it's just me, but I doubt it.
All told, a trip to my gyno or any other gyno can be a trying experience. It is one thing I'm glad I only have to endure once every other year, sort of like smog checks. At least with those, I get a certificate. Happy paping.
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