My mate and I have just been muttering that it’s been a while since we saw our respective gynaes.
Aaaah. I can hear the collective male ‘ew’. Tough!
Now, when chicks talk about their gynecologists, it’s usually conversation sprinkled with faint embarrassment and a modicum of guilt. We know we have to go. But we don’t want to. Generally (and I know, this is a fairly large generalization) we prefer our latex and KY with a little mood lighting and some soft music. Not strip neon and a plastic covered gurney with stirrups.
And I don’t care how many jokes there are about aging gynaes with Parkinsons, I am not fond of attempting to make polite conversation about my job and my mother while some man with a beard manipulates my boobs, cracks on a rubber glove and says things like ‘this is going to be a little cold’.
It’s revolting. And a little humiliating. And sometimes quite bloody painful. And that’s just the ugly tiny frilly gowns they make you wear.
Ok. So I’m actually quite lucky. I’ve got a nice gynae. He cracks bad jokes. Tells me to relax; not to bend his instruments. Doesn’t make me feel like I’m a slightly pornographic specimen under a microscope. And he’s the best diagnostic gynae in Cape Town.
I’ve been seeing him since I was 13. He knows all my dirty little secrets. And if I work that out, it means I’ve seen him approximately 20 times in my life. Minimum. But I still hate it. Dread making the appointment. Dread the little box of tissues and that internal ultrasound thingie. Dread the frilly gown and the saccharine receptionist. Dread the waiting room and the pin prick blood test. All of it.
And it’s that time again. I’ve got to go. I know I do. I know I should. That I have to. But I feel like a kid who doesn’t want to go to go to school. All grumpy moue, hunched shoulders and folded arms.
Doesn’t matter how nice they are.