Sunday, 16 August 2009

• Confessions of a doctor phobic mom

   by Mama Seahorse
  
  

  
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  The dreaded day had arrived.  The last time I had visited this office was for my 6-week postpartum check-up after having my youngest... who is now nearing 3 years old.  gulp.  So its been a while.  Don't you judge me.  Who puts "make gyno appointment" at the top of their to-do list?  It's one of those things that falls behind veeery easily: "Oops, didn't call again today, I'll call the office tomorrow..."  Right?

  Checking in, I had to fill out paperwork again because a job change had required insurance change.  The office was nice.  Newly remodeled and more efficient too.  I sipped my caramel frozen coffee and clutched my wallet with my insurance card in it.  I've had this insurance for a year and never had to use the card...

  I walked back towards Room 1 tall & strong though I felt anything but.  I made jokes with the medical assistant to make myself feel better.  There isn't much worse than the gynie office, after all.  I'd rather have a dentist appointment every day for a week than one g-damn pap smear a year.
  

  She followed me into the room asking my height & weight.  I told her.  She weighed me anyway- I was 1/2 pound off.  (see?  I said, I'm not a woman who lies about that)  Room 1 had the typical examination-room feel: small and slightly claustrophobic, bare white walls, light wood touches (for a homey feel I'm guessing?) and the lamp.  That damn lamp.  We all know where that thing has to shine.  Why use a lamp anyway when the lighting in here was so effing bright?  [insert sarcastic tone] Glowing from above, like two large rectangular-shaped full moons, the fluorescent lights beamed down, casting bad light on everything.  I was wishing for the dimmer, more flattering lighting of my familiar massage room.  Here I could hide nothing. 

  I pulled out a small mirror- god!  Where did these bags under my eyes come from?  And the wrinkles?! And why is my make-up so poorly matched to my skin tone??!  I put the mirror away with a hopeless toss.  I could hear the dr. still chatting with the patient next door.  Was I supposed to be undressing?  They gave me no gown & I'm not laying naked on that butcher paper table there. Not until I absolutely have to. And not until somebody turns up the heat- man!  Why do they insist on having these rooms so cold?  Certainly not conducive to encouraging one to relax. 

  I picked up the book I brought.  I thought I was being so very clever remembering to bring a book with me.  And maybe I would look studious too.  But I laid the book on my lap and fell into a more popular American pasttime: texting.  My fingers went furiously across those keys to chat with someone, anyone, about anything but what was facing me. 

  Finally a gentle knock on the door and the doctor entered.  Smiling, he remembers that he delivered the last two of my three children.  He is warm and open, as always.  Ancient and bearded, I like to use the word "kooky" to describe him.  Some might think this is not desirable in a doctor, but I think its endearing.  Plus, he knows his stuff.  I mean, reaaally knows his stuff.  He was a surgeon, turned private practitioner.

  I came for some problem symptoms I had been having, and I realized as I described my symptoms in medical terms that this was the first appointment I had for myself since my training into the massage therapy field.  Knowing medical lingo definitely changed the way I interacted with the doctor, and he stepped right up to my plate, delivering factual, medical-termed answers to the many many questions that I tossed his way.  I felt more like an active participant in my experience rather than an unwilling victim.

  There was one "kooky" moment, he always has at least one with me... when we talked about HPV, he asked me, "Have you ever been slutty?"  Excuse me?  He repeated the question.  "I'm sorry to say it that way, but that's just how it came into my mind..."  Um, no.  "What about your husband?"  Nope.  "Well,"  he grins largely, "You have almost no chance of having cervical cancer then, isn't that wonderful?!"  He looked at me like I should be rejoicing, but I was still back on the "slutty" part.  But when his grandpa-meets-santa-claus beard grins at you, you can't help but smile back.  He makes you almost want to sit on his lap and tell him your wish list... in the fun-little-kid-way, not in the creepy-old-guy way.

  There was no clock in the room.  I just realized this now.  At first I thought this was a bad thing, but on second thought, I realized that maybe this was good.  After all, if the doctor wasn't glancing at the clock, he might be more at ease spending as much time with me as I needed. 

  He smiled, our appointment was nearing a close.  And he shook my hand and walked me right back to the receptionist.  We chatted about the upcoming birth that I am hosting at my house, which he is on-call for, and we both decided that this weekend would not be a good time for that baby to decide to arrive.  Laughter all around, and a happy send-off for me, and I walked back into the sunshine.  This time I felt different.  In charge.  Maybe... empowered somehow?

  Still... even with the empowerment, I'd rather see the dentist.  I sipped my coffee and drove away, wondering if it would take me another 3 years to venture into this territory again...

  
  

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