I visited my gynocologist this week for my now bi-annual visit on account of some three rogue papsmear results in a row. I instructed my doctor that she is in charge of the ovaries. No lady ovary cancer, please. She assured me she had my ovaries’ back and not to worry. Interacting with the doctor’s nurse was like communicating with Radar O’Reilly from M*A*S*H. The nurse, who was very sweet and soft-spoken, and green, was surprised when I elected to step on the scale with my thick silver boucle coat (It looks kind of like a pimp coat Prince might wear but I’ve gotten compliments every time I wear it.) and hefty boots. “If I weigh with all this stuff on I know the scale will not speak the truth,” I rationalized. I sort of thought it was brilliant strategy.
I’m not really a Ho
The sweet nurse took me to the patient room and started jotting down my history. “So, any surgeries since we saw you last?” After she marked down “no” like she does 95% of the time I responded,”Yes.” “Nothing serious, though?” “I had a tumor removed.” She physically flinched. “Oh? Okay. So it was benign?” “No. Malignant.” I could tell I was making her extremely uncomfortable. “Malignant. All right. But you aren’t in any pain, right?” “Nope. There’s pain still.” Everywhere she stepped was an unexpected communication land mine, but I was still smiling at her. She couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Nice long discussion with my doctor who reminded me to be a squeaky wheel when I see the medical oncologist Thursday.
I’m collecting doctors like charms on a bracelet. I feel like a hussy. (who wouldn’t in that coat?)