Dr. Y
A gynecological exam takes a U turn.
I needed a pap smear.
My old gynecology group kicked me out because I hadn’t been there in so long that I’m considered a “new patient” and they don’t accept new patients on Medicare. Seeing as they delivered 5 of my 6 kids, I thought I might qualify for their customer loyalty program, but apparently, that’s not how healthcare works.
Through my GP I was directed to another gynecological group. There were no available appointments until February, unless I wanted to see Doctor Y, whose schedule was wide open. I said sure. Was I okay with a male doctor? I said yes.
Enter Dr. Y, who, as it turned out, was old, and I mean Abe Simpson old. He had me scoot my bare ass up on the examination table and stick my feet into the cold metal stirrups. I felt uncomfortable because it has been a while since I did this. When I was younger and in the baby zone, feet in the stirrups and legs apart felt like assuming a familiar position, but now, it felt awkward. Humiliating, even. Dr. Y poked around with gloved fingers, eventually inserting a speculum. He told me that on a scale of 4, my cervix is a 3, which is pretty good for someone my age, after so many kids. Whose scale was this, exactly, and what did three mean? Even though I was curious I kept my mouth shut. I just wanted Dr. Y to get the pap smear already. You’ll feel a pinch, he said, and yep, sure enough, but mission accomplished. As required, a female nurse had been present the whole time, but she was on her phone.
The exam was almost over. Dr Y prodded my abdomen and told me to relax. You work too hard, he said. (I know I do, but I was not sure what this had to do with my belly.) Is this a tummy tuck? he asked, finger on my gnarly hipbone-to-hipbone scar.
No. That’s from the time I got cut open and someone reached in and pulled three babies out. Rather than amused or impressed, he was disapproving. He said the obstetrician should have done neater work.
On his way out, he told me they’d let me know if the pap results are anything other than okay. He offered some advice: keep having sex until the day you die! I laughed, even though I wanted to kill him. In exchange for a pap smear, I let what I know to be the incredible power of my female body be reduced to aftermath. The sellout wasn’t worth it. And never again.