The highlight of every woman's year: the annual gynecological exam.
Why is it that we spend more time preparing for this yearly ritual (torture) than we do for hardly any other event? If you are anything like me, there is a fair amount of preparation involved the day of my appointment that falls nothing short of a complete and total make over. I shave my legs, paint my toenails, wear a nice outfit, trim my cuticles and make sure to wear clean socks. So why should it matter if my toenails are painted? I have no idea, I don't take those socks off to save my life as we all know that they are the only thing you are allowed to keep on!
After filling out the paperwork and checking it to make sure that all the information was, indeed, correct (just like I do each year that I visit this place), the nurse called my name.
My weight was taken (oh, dreaded scale) my blood pressure taken and my "symptoms" were discussed and there I was left to "relax" and wait for the doctor.
A few minutes later, following a knock on the door, my gynecologist began his yearly routine of examining my female parts. Boobs? Check. The rest, well, happened after his instructions to "slide down to the end of the table and put your feet in the stirrups", we all know how this next part goes.
It's nice to have a gynecologist that you know and trust - one that has been there for the birth of all your babies and seen you at your very best, and worst. I feel extremely comfortable with my gynecologist, as comfortable as is humanly possible, and I appreciate the relationship that has developed between he and I over the years. I hear him tell stories about his wife and kids and he hears how mine are doing. A nice amount of small talk has served us well during the past 10 years of annual exams and I don't for one minute, take this familiarity for granted.
However . . .
As soon as the exam began, Dr. A began talking, "You know, when my youngest son's school group went to China in the 8th grade, I volunteered to go along and chaperone.""Oh, really. That must have been fun!" (I find it difficult to engage in idle chit chat while in this position)
"Yeah, it was great, but as soon as the kids found out that I was a doctor, they would come to me with every little problem they had."
"Aaaaah." (If you could see my face at this point, you'd know that a certain instrument was causing a lot of discomfort and my conversational skills were greatly impaired)
"Well, there was one 8th-grade girl who was very, well, dramatic. She would fall down and come rushing over to have me look at her ankle. This happened a few times a day."
"That would get annoying" (Still wincing)
"It was a little comical, actually and then one day she asked my son what kind of doctor his dad was anyway?"
"What did your son say?"
(Now, Dr. A is laughing and so is the nurse. I, however, am not)
"He said I was a vaginacologist!"
Dr. A, the nurse and I all giggle and laugh about the story, "I'll bet she was mortified after that, being that age and all," I manage to add, thankful that the exam had now ended.
"Yes, she was. She didn't bother me the rest of the entire trip," said my doctor.
So, how well do you know your vaginacologist?