My Vagina Lacks a Sense of Humor, Gold

You know how there are friends whose advice you can trust and friends whose advice you shouldn’t? Well, my friend Paige is my go-to when I need interior design advice—not so much when it comes to doctors...

It was time for my annual gyno check-up, and since I didn’t have a doctor I liked, I polled my girlfriends. I called Paige’s doctor since she recommended hers (glowingly), and, when I learned he took my insurance, I made an appointment. I had never been to a male gyno before, and although I was a bit apprehensive, I convinced myself that he was just as qualified as a female doctor, so I should just go.

After waiting about 45 minutes, I was brought back to the exam room, and I waited until the doctor arrived. Dr. G, a ruddy man with a bright white, wiry hair (a little on the Albert Einstein mold) in his mid-50s entered the room. Plopping my file on the desk, he said congenially, "So, I know you wrote all this shit down, but I haven't had time to read it, so why don't you just tell me why you're here?”

I explained that I needed a routine gyno exam so he started asking routine gyno questions. Apparently I answered them with some sort of accent because he asked if I was from the Midwest. "Kansas City," I responded, and he grinned at his acute auditory ability.

Then, after I told him the last time I got my period he started rubbing his face. Groaning, he said, "Ugh. What a long, long weekend I had."

"Oh, did you go somewhere?" I asked politely.

"No," he answered, "my 18 year-old son got into a car accident last year and he lost his leg and the use of his arms. All of his friends went off to college last week and he's stuck at home, trapped like a rat in a cage with my wife who's a visitor from another planet and won't stop nagging him."

Why do people think they can / should tell me things like this? What is it about my face that says tell me too much information I don’t want / need to know!

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," I said, saying the only thing I could possibly say.

"Yeah, well, he's a good kid; he's my hero." And with that, he pulled out a prom picture of his son with a date, a redhead. "Thought you'd want to see him since he's a fan of the redheads," he explained, as if it was a valid reason. I didn’t bother explaining that I dyed my hair, figuring he'd realize soon enough I wasn't naturally red.

When we were done with the questions, he excused himself so I could change into the standard issue paper gown. When he returned, he instructed me to lie down on the table so he could begin the breast exam.

"So," he said, placing a hand on my breast to feel for lumps, "Kansas, huh?"

"Yep," I confirmed.

Moving his hand to the other breast, he started singing the wicked witch’s theme song from the Wizard of Oz: Da-da-da-da-dum-DUM, Da-da-da-da-dum-DUM!

What the hell? I sat up, clutching the paper robe around me, wondering what I was supposed to do. He wasn't acting sexually inappropriate, but was definitely inappropriate. Before I could say anything, he called the nurse in, so she could be in the room while he did the actual exam. As I positioned myself on the edge of the table, he strapped a light around his head. "Got my light, guess I'm ready to go digging for gold!"

Yes, yes—he actually said that. Unfortunately, there was no real gold to be found, so, once again, I dragged myself out of bed at 6am to go to the day job.