I have given up all hope of convincing people I really am sane.
I have two stories requested the most, Fisher’s Of Men, and this one.
And I wonder why people think I’m neurotic.
I would rather have a root canal than go to the gynecologist:
- I get to keep my clothes on.
- I can watch TV
- The dentist has better drugs.
Not that I don’t like my doctors I do. I just don’t like being there. I am a social bug, yes. A social bug who likes to stay fully dressed. I’d rather host one huge barbecue in my back yard, have them all come over, serve beer and brats and call it good until next year.
I realize I should put on my big girl panties and deal with it, and I would if they let me keep them on, but they don’t. Let’s face it, we will burn our bras in public, let our bra straps show in the summer, even throw our panties on stage at a rock concert, but the minute we undress in the doctor’s office we hide our underwear. Why? Because we want to keep that Victoria a secret, that’s why.
I do not know a living soul who wakes up and says “oh boy I get to go for my Pap Smear (or colonoscopy or mammogram) today. Hurray!” No one in their right mind thinks that. To make matters worse, I am a redhead and I blush when people say hello, add naked to the equation and I look like I fell asleep in a tanning bed. Even if the doctor are brilliant, the office is clean and efficient and the staff is super nice, we’d still rather be elsewhere. This is the one place where wham-bam-thank you ma’am could be deemed acceptable. Unless of course something is wrong and we wish to dialog. Then we want them to listen and take their time.
Some doctors like to converse during exams. It’s their way of gauging our emotional state as well as trying to put us at ease; only it doesn’t work does it? Whilst I am normally fond of warm, intelligent conversation, their conversational style can seriously mess with my dis-associative groove. I’d rather close my eyes and run my to do list through my brain than make eye contact while pretending I can follow our conversation.
And yet, we talk. Or rather they talk. I ramble incessantly about God knows what. My neurosis factor increases exponentially with the realization that well… I am at my gynecologists office. My brain is so deep in denial that when they ask which doctor I am seeing, I can never remember his name.
To call me an introvert would be a kindness.
To be expected to carry on a full conversation with a doctor, complete with eye contact, while sitting naked on a table, holding my gown closed with my hands, needs more Valium than their office is willing to provide. Personally, I am all for sedation gynecology. Knock me out and wake me when it’s over. It’s not like it’s a new thing my dentist offers sedation dentistry, it could happen.
Left without the comfort of clothing, or drugs, I grab the only shield I can reach – my gift of sarcasm.
- You want to screen me for colon cancer? – That’s gonna cost you a roofie.
- When was my last breast exam? Last year. I always fail those even though I cram all year for them.
- Every day I gather up the twins and cram them into a wonder bra.
- Raising teenagers feels like I’m walking a high wire, I need all the support I can get.
- Do you know why they call them wonder bras? Because without it we spend our day wondering where our breasts went.
- I know where mine went, they are hiding in my arm pits, they don’t want to be here either.
They’ve added a new trick to their trade by the way — a two for one deal really, you can now get checked for cervical cancer and colon cancer all in one visit. REALLY? Now I know why my dogs hate going to the vet.
Not only are the new tests rude, some doctors talk more during our exams than our husbands do during sex. Why can’t they all be Woody Allen?
Some days going to the doctor is more than a girl can handle. Granted after dealing with me, I’m pretty sure it’s my doctors who need Valium.
Have a great week everyone and remember you are amazing! Nobody can take that away from you.