Discourses “Down There”

I’ve never minded dentists, but gynecologists are a different story.

My first gynecologist was found in a hurry after college, when I happened to read a magazine article that said women were supposed to start seeing gynecologists after age 18 (Jane’s mind: “Yipes, I’m four years late! WILL I DIE?”).

Smart, patient, and funny, she took my concerns seriously and told me what she was going to do before she did it. When she moved to a different practice forty miles away in South Weymouth, I was devastated. I’d only seen her maybe three times, but I knew she was going to be hard to replace.

And she was.

The next gynecologist I tried was on the North Shore, after we moved to Salem. Other than an embarrassing misunderstanding involving an ultrasound and vast amounts of water being drunk too late, our relationship was largely punctuated by her lack of interest in me. She was one of the few doctors I’d met who was actually more excited and happy when I came down with strange symptoms and illnesses. I was glad she liked me, but I wasn’t thrilled that she became disappointed when I started getting better.

When we moved to Woburn, I switched to a brisk, efficient woman who appeared greatly in demand. An annual appointment with her meant calling on the first Wednesday of the month, three months before I wanted to see her. This was when the hospital opened up their scheduling calendar, and if I didn’t call that day, I could forget about seeing her that quarter.

We moved again a few years later, and after looking up my busy gynecologist on Docboard and finding out that she had paid to settle a malpractice suit in the past, I decided I might as well get a new one that was closer.

I selected my new gynecologist very carefully: she was the only one within fifteen miles with whom I could get an appointment before our medical reimbursement period ran out.

I arrived punctually at 9 AM on the day of my appointment. That early in the day, I figured there would be little to no chance of the doctor running late already. After checking in, I went into the waiting room.

As an experienced waiter, I knew at a glance that this waiting room was subpar. There was no obvious bathroom nearby, no water cooler, and worst of all, no good magazines. The magazine selection consisted primarily of baby, parenting and motherhood magazines; I didn’t fit into any of those categories. I picked a British gossip magazine entitled “Hello!” and settled down with it.

By the time I finished the magazine (dated February of this year, when the big news over there was that the last season of Friends was just starting), I was starting to wonder where my doctor was. I changed seats and had just begun to read a US Weekly that was older than most of my dogs when a nurse finally called my name and brought me into an exam room.

“Please stand on the scale,” she directed me.

I stood. She measured.

I hopped off the scale and she said, “How tall are you?”

“About five foot four,” I said. At least, that was the height I wanted to be. I wondered why nurses always trusted patients to say the truth about their height, but not their weight. After all, the height affected whether the weight was in the appropriate range. Maybe I should have answered five foot nine, just to see if she’d notice I was a short five foot nine.

She took my blood pressure and then told me the doctor would come in for me, and would probably take me into her office for a short talk as this was my first visit.

I was bored waiting for the doctor, so I wandered around the exam room. A poster of Prenatal Supports was on the wall, and I leaned in closely to look at the picture of the Natural Embrace. Why, that was perfect to carry a small chihuahua in!!

The doctor came in shortly afterward, and after she introduced herself, I followed her into her office where she rapidly ran through my answers on the new patient questionnaire. She then brought me back to the exam room. “Put the johnny on with the opening in front, and the sheet in your lap, and I’ll be back,” she said.

After she had closed the door, I took off my clothes, wondering, as always, whether or not I was supposed to take off my socks. Why should I? I mean, no one was going to be examining my feet. But it seemed weird to leave them on, too, and I was pretty sure most people took them off. Rebelliously, I decided to go against peer pressure, and left my socks on.

I slung the johnny around me, and studied the strings. Was there anyone who knew how to tie these? I settled for knotting them loosely across the top and waist.

I sat on the exam table and spread out the paper sheet in my lap. As far as I could figure out, the paper sheet was solely to protect women from seeing their own nether regions as the doctor examined them. This seemed pretty stupid to me, because I certainly didn’t shower in a swimsuit to protect my eyes from myself, but the paper sheet manufacturers were probably pleased with themselves.

The doctor knocked on the door, and after I said, “Come in,” she entered.

She deftly untied my johnny at the top and began the breast exam. Unlike other doctors and previous episodes of ER, this breast exam was barely noticeable. If I concentrated very hard, I could almost feel what seemed to be the wind lightly passing over my chest.

“So you’re thinking about having kids?” she asked.

“Well, I’m not sure,” I said. “They’re a lot of work.”

“Lie down,” she said. I did. She ran her hand over my chest again and then asked me to sit up and move to the bottom of the exam table.

I slid down and she draped the sheet carefully over me and adjusted the light by her chair.

“I mean, I don’t have much time left,” I continued. “Isn’t the best age to have a child around 35?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “Fertility starts to go down after 35.”

“But does the baby have to be born by 35, or just conceived by–” Hello! What was going on down there? I guess the Pap smear had started.

She continued jabbing me with various implements.

“Just conceived by 35,” she said, as though nothing had happened. Some advance warning would have been nice for me, though.

She yanked out the speculum — owwww!!! — and scooted her stool backwards. She grabbed a tube of lubricant, and the next thing I knew, her finger was in my vagina. My goodness. And I barely knew her.

Even my last gynecologist, the one with the various malpractice payments, had told me what she was going to do before she did it, and if she didn’t, her assistant was right there explaining things.

At age 30, I didn’t need someone to hold my hand through this, but I was a bit alarmed at the rapidity of the whole exam. It had taken me forty-five minutes of waiting to see the doctor, and now she was sending me away in fifteen. Surely any potential breast lumps would require more time and pressure to discover?

After I got dressed, I made my copayment and staggered out to the car. I did value efficiency but in this case, a little less would have kept me from mapquesting South Weymouth as soon as I got home. Forty-one minutes to my first gynecologist’s office? That sounded just inefficient enough to make me happy.

Posted by: Supersonic Jane | May 24, 2004 | 6:27 pm
Posted in: This Life