Gather ‘round children and let me tell you the story of Bezzie's Great Cooter Rootin' of 2007.
You can leave if you’re uncomfortable with frank talk of cooters and probing and what not.
Let me start by saying I should have probably done my research when I picked this office.
However it has taken me pretty much all year to schedule this appointment.
Because I am part of the lucky few (i.e. lowest people on the totem pole) in my office that were told that they had to take a lunch between 12 and 1 every day.
Do you know how hard it is to schedule a doctor’s appointment between 12 and 1? Most doctor’s offices, and rightly so, go to lunch at these hours.
Now if it was any other type of appointment or doctor, I might consider making the appointment from work at my desk. But I sit in an office set up which is basically a fat hallway with desks lining each side, there is no privacy whatsoever. I’m not about to air my personal business like that.
I had compiled a list of doctors in the area that accepted our insurance, and had kept the list in my car. Finally, one day, my boss asked me to stay into my lunch hour so he could get a letter out and afterwards I was able to go to lunch—during normal doctor’s office hours!
I made the call and secured my date. Hooray!
Today was that date.
I showed up at 8:45 a.m. and I’m greeted by a dingy office with worn out carpet and signs on the door exclaiming that you are on camera and don’t even try to eff with anything because you WILL be prosecuted.
Oh boy, I knew this was going to be good.
A sign on the reception window explained that copays are paid before
the visit and in cash
only. No checks or credit cards accepted.
I pray to the Holy United Healthcare Gods of Mt. Sinai that my copay is only $10 or less as that’s all I had in cash on me (don’t you think that would have been nice to have been informed when I made the appointment?)
Thankfully my prayers were answered and the Holy United Healthcare Gods of Mt. Sinai do NOT require a copay.
After filling in all the requisite paperwork I get called back to the exam rooms.
First off they have a digital scale.
Call me old fashioned, but I like me some of those slidey weights that tell me how fat my ass is. I don’t own a scale, but the readout on this scale was not a surprise. I would have preferred it the old fashioned way though.
I’m of the “if my clothes keep fitting, it’s all good” mentality. And my clothes haven’t had problems fitting since I was pregnant with Chunky. Vanity sizing in women’s jeans aside!
Next I’m led to the requisite teensy room decorated with every educational diagram of the female vagina and uterus you can imagine. There’s the leg-spread shot, a cute one of a ripe egg being released, and an artsy cross section shot of an ovary.
I’m told to strip from the waist down.
So I do and I curl up on the table under a giant Mardi Gras brand paper napkin emblazoned with an advertisement for some vaginal cream that has an applicator that looks like a cross between a tampon and a fire extinguisher—with a nifty eyelet at the end so you can hang it on your keychain or something in case of vaginal emergency.
I love the way women’s pharmaceuticals are advertised with those cartoons that look like anorexic Bratz dolls with the doe eyes doing fun things like riding a Vespa.
“I may have a foul smelling green discharge from my vagina—but with VagoStinguish that won’t stop me from zipping along on my cool scooter!”
I try to amuse myself half nakedly as I listen to the doctor counsel the woman in the room next to me on her upcoming tubal ligation. He takes a majority of the time to tell her that the term “tying your tubes” is a misnomer. Your tubes are cut and rubber banded off, not tied into a pretty Christmas bow.
Oh the HIPAA violations!
After about half an hour waiting and checking out my sexy hand knit clad socks in the full length mirror that is on the door and determining that although I really love STR, the way they pill and felt on the heels is quite annoying, Dr. Earl comes in.
Now those of you reading for a while will know I prefer a man gynecologist.
I like that they have bigger hands and can get in and out and on with things when they’re rooting around in there. And they’re not so, I don’t know, female.
But anyway, Dr. Earl comes in.
Close your eyes and picture what you think a typical Jersey guy looks like.
Is he short?
Is he stocky?
Does he have a thicket of chest hair peeking out of the top of his shirt?
The only difference between this guy and a Sopranos extra was that he was wearing a lab coat.
And I was kind of surprised he was even wearing that.
I read somewhere that lab coats are kind of a thing of the past and many doctors opt not to wear them anymore.
I know Dr. Mad Scientist, even though he’s a not an MD but a PhD, only wears his if they know they’re being inspected or if they’re doing something particularly bloody that day.
Execution Day at MSU was lab coat day. He came home telling me stories one day of the undergrad that forgot her coat and was sprayed by a particularly juicy rat one Execution Day. Makes finding mouse turds in your tuna helper seem benign huh?
Shockingly, Dr. Earl doesn’t get into the standard conversation I have with people, especially doctors, about my last name. Usually it’s “Mrs. Bez-bez-bez-bez----um, how do you say it?” followed with “What ethnicity is that?”
Dude, I don’t know, it’s freaking Czech or something. Ask my husband, it was his people not mine. I’m just sleeping in this family tree.
No no, he starts with “Where you from?” and asks me where my husband works. I inform him that he's a PhD researcher at Mt. Sinai. (Pay attention to this fact.)
Dr. Earl got down business quickly. He asked if I wanted a chaperone (i.e. a nurse to come into the room) before I spread ‘em.
I told him no. What's the point of choosing a male gyno if you're just going to have to drag a nurse in to watch? Get a female gyno then!
While he’s got me spread and doing some weird yoga knee flex to loosen things up a bit (I have never in my life been told to bend like that during a pelvic exam) he asks me if he can interest me in upgrading my pap smear to include an STD screen for gonorrhea and syphilis.
I had a flashback to when I was a teenager working at the movie theater and how I earned $25 for upselling a medium to a large popcorn to a secret shopper.
I hope the kickbacks Dr. Earl obviously receives from whatever testing company making these tests are good.
He gives me some schpiel about how they’re asymptomatic and not a bad idea, blah blah. He laughs and says hey if it comes back positive, my husband would be on the hook for a new car or some jewelry.
Later after the exam was done, he asks me if I smoke or drink. I tell him I do drink, but only once in a while.
He laughs and says "Ha ha, so you're not an alcoholic yet!"
Holy mother of Fatzah. YET?
I think this dude was perceiving me as the Cartoon Doctor's Wife: a drunk shrew that drives her man to cheat on her and then weasels him out of diamonds and shiny cars when he brings home the STD du jour to me. And my husband's not even an MD!
Jesus, Cartoon PhD Wives have short gray hair, and bake delicious cookies for departmental Christmas parties (those chocolate covered cherry cookies went over very well at Dr. Mad Scientist's departmental party today, by the way!). Cartoon PhD Wives trust their husbands to not cheat on them and we don't like diamonds and Lexuses.
But like many of you have emailed me with your K.A.Y.E. stories—it was good that I went in. While he was wrist-deep in there, he told me I had a nice little fibroid growing.
Which isn’t a big deal. It doesn’t give me problems like textbook ones are supposed to. But it does explain why Dr. Mad Scientist and I have been able to knock boots with impunity with no consequences for a year.
And here y’all thought I was stupid for giving away those car seats!
I'm a little saddened by this but we're lucky to have had Chunky.
Thank the holy squashes above we didn't wait to have kids though huh?
For once one of our plans actually worked!
And on that note, if you've made it this far, remember to spread the love and the legs and let people know, or enter yourself in my K.A.Y.E.
drawing! Entries close for the month AND the year on December 31!
Here you thought Christmas was coming fast!