If you're a guy, and you value the mysteries of women in the slightest, this is your jumping off point. Seriously, I'm generally known for telling it like it is, and in this case, it's not how the Madison Ave boys have spent 150 years trying to convince you fellas that it is over here in Woman World. Still convinced you want to read on? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...
So for the ladies and the three guys that are still reading this blog post, today's topic is your annual girly parts inspection, a/k/a, your pap smear and breast exam. Unless you are the type who charts your bowel movements and knows by heart what your baby's Doppler heartbeat was at every check up for all of your pregnancies, you greet this appointment with all the enthusiasm that you would a six a.m. alarm clock after you have been up all night with a vomiting child. I'm in the latter group.
Let's start with booking the experience. (Do you like how I kinda made it sound like a cruise or a trip to Disney? Yeah, right.) I don't know about your ob/gyn office, but to see most of the doctors at mine, you have to book next year's appointment at THIS year's appointment. For crying out loud. Yes, I'm a planner, but do I know whether Tuesday at 2:00 or Friday at 9:00 is going to work better for me a YEAR from now? Um, and how about the fact that you can't even get a pap smear if it is Shark Week. (Read between the lines on that reference.) My cycles are regular, but if I need a calendar, a piece of paper and five full minutes to come up with the date for the nurse when she asks me when my last last Shark Week began, I'm going to be standing at the check out desk until every pregnant woman in the waiting room has gone into labor trying to predict when it's going to hit a year ahead of time.
I've had my babies, so it really doesn't matter to me who I see anymore. Just let me call the office and schedule me with someone within a couple of weeks at a date and time that works with my schedule. The examiner having gone to medical school is not even essential to me. If someone would come up with some sort of home exam kit, I could easily talk my husband into performing most of the procedures in the comfort of our bedroom. We could send the sample off to the lab, they email me the results, and I've scored some Wife Points in the process. Everybody wins!
Until that day comes, I'm stuck going into the office. Let's start with the Waiting Room. It's all right there in the name. It's not called the "Expediting Room", or the "In-and-Out of Here Room". It's the Waaaaaaaiting Room. I'm not the most patient or the most impatient person in the world. Somewhere in between. I can easily amuse myself during life's inevitable little delays. But there is something about someone forcing me to cool my jets on my dime that really chaps my hide. Yes, I have medical insurance, so BCBS is picking up most of the tab, but that and my co-pay make me a paying customer. This creates an expectation of Good Customer Service in my book.
Making me wait more than ten minutes is not GCS. Booking another patient for my doctor at the same time as me is not GCS. Being pissy with me the moment I walk in the door and approach the desk is not GCS. Seriously, what is up with putting people who are perpetually in a bad mood up front to greet people? You bark at me in monosyllables, thrust 24 pages of paperwork at me, and give me a pen with a cheery flower attached to it so I don't rip it off? Not feeling any GCS at all here. This office staff crankiness anomaly seems to be pervasive in the medical industry. Doctor's offices, hospitals, vision centers, labs, and so on. If you are a receptionist in the medical field and you're perky and welcoming, first, I apologize. Secondly, if you're in the KC area, please message me your medical group's info so I can patronize your practice.
So we're waiting. And waiting. And. Waiting. After thirty minutes, I approach the Keeper of the Poppy Pens behind the desk to inquire if the doctor is running on time. "Pretty much" is the reply I get. Pretty much? What does that mean? I'm going to need some clarification here, ma'am. In my book, if she were "pretty much" running on time, I'd have my feet in some stirrups by now. I think we passed "pretty much" about fifteen minutes ago. Is she here? Across the street at the hospital doing an emergency c-section? What's the haps? After being told in an exasperated tone that "it should only be a few more minutes", I give in and go to the restroom.
I've needed to pee ever since I got there, but I'm afraid if I hit the ladies room, they will call my name back in the Waaaaaiting Room. If I'm not there, you KNOW they are going to shrug their shoulders, scratch my name off the list and go on to the next one. I'm looking at another year before I can get back to the top of that list again. So I take my chances and go to the restroom but tell everyone in the Waaaaiting Room and that I encounter in the hall along the way, "I'm Deborah Rushing, and I'm going to the restroom". This annoys the office staff and puzzles the other patients, but hey, one of them may hear my name get called and have the kindness to shout out, "She's in the restroom!" and save me from being bumped off the list. Not my first rodeo, kids. And I'd do it for them too.
After fifty(!) minutes, I get called back to the exam room. I know better than to see any proverbial light at the end of the tunnel at this point. We're just changing venues here. The doctor has not taken the stage. I'm not even sure she's even in the wings or in her dressing room, er, office. The nurse does the scale thing and the blood pressure thing and the inevitable question about last month's Shark Week, then points at a piece of material that is manufactured for use both as an exam gown and for someone who is eating crab legs and tells me to completely undress and put it on. She hands me a table napkin and tells me to cover my lap with it, gives me permission to leave my socks on, and leaves. I comply but leave my hat on too just as a passive-aggressive silent protest. And I wait some more.
Time that is spent waiting while (mostly) naked is comparable to time spent waiting while clothed as dog years are to people years. One minute of clothed waiting is like seven minutes of (mostly) naked waiting. So in (Mostly) Naked Waiting time, I cool my heels (not literally since I still have my fuzzy socks on and my feet are the only part of me that are not freezing) for another two hours and ten minutes. Then Dr. Luminous comes in. That's not her real name. I'm just calling her that to respect her privacy and because she really is luminous. Her countenance and her spirit just shine. She is quite literally one of the kindest, most positive and most infectious people I have ever met. Yes, I have a (non-sexual) girl crush on my ob/gyn.
Because of said crush, all of the time I spent waiting, the rudeness of Elphaba and the rest of the Poppy Coven out front and my hypothermia are quickly forgotten. Dr. Luminous shines her light on me, and she catches up on my health and my sweet babies that she delivered. Then we move on to exam time. Here's where it gets awkward. When I'm staring at the ceiling, my legs are akimbo, and the exam is happening, it's a little harder to bask in the light. The doctor continues chatting on, but her words take on the effect of Charlie Brown's teacher, and I can't follow. It doesn't matter that I've been in this position every year for over twenty years or that I've given birth in it twice. Unless I am married to the person who kindly asks me to assume it, it's just awkward. Enough said.
As Dr. Luminous is chatting away, I sense we are nearing the end of the exam and start to fight the mental fog to dial back into what she is saying. I snap completely back when I hear the words "after forty, we conclude with a quick rectal exam" HOLD IT. Say what??? Before I can find my vocal cords and object, she is in and out and done. Huh? Wait. What just happened? Why was this not presented in the 24 pages of paperwork I was given? Surely some sort of release needs to be signed beforehand? At the very least I should have been given a bottle of wine an hour ago and some chocolate immediately after she was finished. What the heck?
The doctor congratulates me on my excellent health and leaves the room. The light is gone, and all I'm left with is a crumpled bib and a serious desire to take a shower. I get dressed and leave, irrationally feeling that everyone there knows exactly what went down in that room and will not make eye contact with me as a result. Not that I'm looking to make it with anyone myself, mind you. As I quickly move past the check out desk, they ask me if I want to go ahead and make next year's appointment. Um, thanks, I'll pass. I need some time and some distance and the all too distinct memory of this year's overall experience to fade quite a bit first. Don't call me, I'll call you.
In the meantime, I remember to be grateful that my Girly Parts are healthy and that I took the time to make sure of that. Even if it's two hours of my life that I'll never get back, that piece of mind makes it time well spent. If you haven't done it recently, get yours checked too. You owe it to yourself and your family. And when you're staring at the ceiling, just remember that there is a sisterhood out there who knows exactly how you feel, my friend. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
