Paging Dr. Timely


Today I got the special treat of going to the gynecologist.   For my age and for as much confidence as I have, going to the gyn has never gotten easier.  I am anxious and the smell of rubbing alcohol makes me jumpy, just like going to get shots as a child.  The days leading up to this appointment have left me feeling stressed and certain the doctor is going to find something seriously wrong with me, other than the fact that I am aging and my hormones are out of whack.

 

This is one of those occasions where I don’t want the kids to go with me so I hire a babysitter.  Nothing like shelling out $10 an hour to have someone in a white coat jab you in your nether regions.  I would have preferred to be paying a sitter so my husband and I could have a nice evening out, but I try to chalk it up as a positive because I get to be alone for a couple of hours.  I get the kids up and fed and ask them to go dress themselves, which should be fine at their ages, but I really never know what to expect.  My youngest, loving her sitter and wanting to impress, puts on her sister’s good Easter dress.  Now if I ask this kid to dress up she comes out in a bathing suit or the Tigger costume she got when she was 18 months old and somehow still manages to squeeze into whenever the mood strikes.  I take one look at her and shake my head.  “What?  Sissy doesn’t care!”  No, but I do, that dress is white and pale pink and made of satin, I am hoping she can wear it next year and would prefer not to have her decorate it with a Sharpie or spill fruit punch all over it.  She stomps off and appears a few minutes later in another one of her sister’s dresses and I don’t even argue, although I am wondering where the pink and white dress is balled up at now.

 

I rush out the door to make it to my appointment on time, because patients aren’t allowed to be late, only doctors.  This fact pisses me off, they can turn me away or charge me a fee for being late or having to cancel the same day, but there’s not even a cup of coffee offered when I have to sit for more than 30 minutes in the waiting room.   This was my first time to this office and when I got there I realized she shares a building with my accountant.  What irony, you feel like you have been screwed after you visit either of them.  Maybe next time I will just schedule both visits in one day, see if they will give me a discount.

 

Today after sitting in the waiting room for a solid hour I finally get called back to the nurse’s station to get my vitals checked.  Now if my blood pressure seems high right now, don’t be alarmed, it’s because I want to punch you in the gut for making me wait this long.  She finishes and dumps me into the scary room with the stirrups and the order to strip.  The doctor finally shows up and thanks me for being patient, as if there was a choice.  Being my first trip there she wants to get a history and starts asking me all those questions that make me feel like I am guilty of something.  Do you smoke?  No.  Do you take recreational drugs?  Is that like taking an Aleve when I go camping?  Do you drink?  Yes.  It says here 4 – 6 drinks a week, do you think that is excessive?  Not one bit.  Has anyone ever asked you to stop drinking or told you that you drink too much?  I’m sorry I thought I was getting my vagina checked, did I miss the Betty Ford sign on the door?   Why the obsession with drinking?

 

I finally get out of there and drive though BK to get a Diet Coke, I’d like a beer but I am still feeling like a teenager that has been reprimanded about my drinking.  As I go to pay I realize I have just enough change to go along with the $1 in my wallet to cover the cost, which means I now have to go find a bank so I can pay the sitter.   I finally get home and the kids are not happy to see me because they would prefer to be with their babysitter, and I get it, she is way more fun.  It goes both ways, I would prefer to pay her to stay longer and go get a massage, but since I can’t afford either, here I am!

 

So back home, back to reality and back to bliss.

 

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