Choosing a gynecologist is a personal matter. Choosing the right gynecologist can be daunting. Who do you trust with your hoo hoo when you’re in that most vulnerable of situations – feet in the stirrups – giddyup. Not the least of which is whether you’ll feel comfortable with the doctor you’ve chosen.
So when my sister referred me to her gyno, I considered it a simple solution. After all, what could be better than a personal recommendation from a close family member? I knew going in that her doctor was a man and that he was older than both of us. For me, that made a difference because I usually prefer a woman gynecologist, but as long as “he” wasn’t my age or younger it somehow didn’t seem uncomfortable.
What she neglected to tell me was that the “he” in question was older than both of us…combined. I don’t know…if pressed for a ballpark number, I’d say oh…95? Hey, at least he was experienced. What’s good enough for Eleanor Roosevelt’s good enough for me.
Actually, this guy was big on making his patients feel comfortable in a humorous way. And I’m all about humor. So when I was led into the examination room and given the usual shpeel “remove clothing…blah, blah, blah, put on paper gown…blah, blah, blah…leave your clothes in the cabinet…” I wondered where the humor would come in.
I needn’t have wondered for long. I opened the cabinet. Hanging from a hook on the door were a fire engine red corset with accompanying garter belt and fishnets. Yeah. Ha ha. You got me, doc. Funny. But now I’m a little weirded out.
My new ancient gyno finally made his grand entrance sporting little round bifocals perched halfway down his nose and a big red bow tie. Think Orville Redenbacher with a speculum. He introduced himself, shaking my hand. God, how I love a good hand buzzer practical joke. Every bit of tension I may have felt about the impending pap smear was washed away instantly. How did he know?
I’m invited to cozy up to the stirrups and perform the “scooch down” maneuver.
That’s when I glanced up at the ceiling. The image staring back at me was of the view from inside a manhole. Peering down into it were a half dozen construction workers. Ha! Got me again, doc!
If it weren’t unsettling enough that Father Time was going to be tending my Lady Garden, now it seemed he was also the love child of Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Shecky Greene.
One awkward examination and a whole lot of double entendre later, I was free to ditch the paper dress and get the hell out of the Catskills chapter of the OB/GYN.
But not before being offered a lollipop from the candy jar on the receptionist’s desk.
Perfect. Because I didn’t intend to be suckered into this bizarre charade again. Really, I don’t need a lot of pomp and circumstance at the gyno. That feeling of Big Brother staring down at my lady parts is just too much for me.
So I found a new doctor – a woman this time – and so far, so good.
Well…that is, until I saw her smiling down at me from a 12×24 foot billboard on a local main thoroughfare.
Why did I have the sudden urge to put my feet up on the dashboard?