A Little GYN and Tonic
0 comment Monday, April 28, 2014 |
The mail man just delivered the only postcard I'll get this year. It was from the OB/GYN, naturally. All is well. But I knew that. It's not like they're going to send me an impersonal postcard through the mail saying, "Hey, guess what! Your pap? Trouble brewing. Call us immediately." Though all was not entirely well while I was there in the doctor's office.
I was escorted into an examination room and on the inside of the door hung a full-length mirror. This would later afford me a complete side-on view of the entire, exciting outing, if I so chose, and this was most discomfiting. When the doctor came in, I asked him just what was the specific purpose for this mirror. This threw him. He seemed a bit flustered, maybe even a little defensive. He said he had no idea why it was there, or who put it there.
"Look, doc," I said. "Do you like to watch yourself eating? No? Didn't think so. That's why you won't see many mirrors in dining rooms. The same principle holds here. So the mirror? It's entirely unacceptable. Take it down."
And he seemed to understand. I think he got the point because he promised he'd "get right on it."
Then I got a call from a nurse employed by my insurance carrier. This fellow said he wanted to educate me about the carrier's wellness programs. Except that he had no information to pass on; all he had were questions for me, like "Are you comfortable with your weight? Would you be interested in smoking cessation assistance?" Get out of town, man. But when he asked if I went to an "OB/GINEE" every year, I lost it. "What?" I yelled into the receiver. "An OB/GINEE? What the hell is that?"
Sorry, male nurse. If you can't say "Oh-Bee-Gin" I've got nothing to say to you, dude. Besides, I'm not real keen on answering personal questions about my habits and the status of my health from the insurance carrier who is currently covering me, even if it is under the guise of "wellness education." I don't think I'll be "educating" my trusty insurance company about the state of my "wellness." No thanks.
Then I got an email from a friend called "Washcloth." (the email is "Washcloth," not the friend). Seen it yet? Even if it's not true, it's pretty funny. I've cut and pasted it here:
I was due for an appointment with the gynecologist later in the week. Early one morning, I received a call from the doctor's office to tell me that I had been rescheduled for that morning at 9:30 AM. I had only just packed everyone off to work and school, and it was already around 8:45 AM. The trip to his office took about 35 minutes, so I didn't have any time to spare.
As most women do, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn't going to be able to make the full effort. So, I rushed upstairs, threw off my pajamas, wet the washcloth that was sitting next to the sink, and gave myself a quick wash in that area to make sure I was at least presentable. I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, donned some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment.
I was in the waiting room for only a few minutes when I was called in. Knowing the procedure, as I'm sure you do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended that I was in Paris or some other place a million miles away. I was a little surprised when the doctor said, 'My, my, we have made an extra effort this morning, haven't we?'
I didn't respond.
After the appointment, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. The rest of the day was normal ... some shopping, cleaning, cooking.
After school when my 6-year-old daughter was playing, she called out from the bathroom, 'Mommy, where's my washcloth?'
I told her to get another one from the cupboard.
She replied, 'No, I need the one that was here by the sink, it had all my glitter and sparkles saved inside it.'
Never going back to that doctor. Ever.
I've never had that sort of misadventure with a washcloth, and probably never will. Mr. M won't even touch one, much less use one to store things. But if he did, it would probably be stuffed with rocks. And rocks . . . would be fairly hard to miss.
For me, it's all about feet. When I eagerly bound out of the house for my annual appointment with merriment and mischief-making, it's my feet I'm thinking about. I always, always wash my feet. (And NO, the feet in this photo are not mine; I bare my soul, not my body).
If I knew how to link to Happy Hour Sue's post about her latest excursion to the OB/GINEE, I would. But I don't. Though I have figured out how to link to a post through my title. So click on the title to this post and it will take you to hers. Check it out. You will so relate.