The Hardest Part

July 19th, 2006

Is there any scenario more played out than the gynecologist’s office? I mean, we all know the pitfalls, the misery and I’ll bet most of us have even heard the “friend of a friend” urban legends that purport various transgressions and incidents from pervy gynocologists to children’s glitter getting into the patient’s undies to dizzy up the girl. However, I contend that for all of its legendary misery, the gynecologist is not that bad, seriously. I mean, I don’t mind it as much as any human being can *not* mind getting their legs jammed into stirrups while some strange man fingers them.

I went today, after having my period for 30 days, which was fraught with misery and many a Costco-sized box of tampons (like 11 or so). And though I knew that it was likely caused what I already have (thyroid disease), I committed myself to a few hours of waiting and reading Surf n’ Sun Magazine followed by some serious time in a paper drape with a speculum.

Today’s visit would have been mostly uneventful (yep, thyroid), except that the intern I got instead of my usual doctor (who was out delivering some emergency baby) was terrified of being a gynecologist. I mean, the man took one look at me in a paper drape, turned the color of a turnip, then – I am sure of this – seriously considered whether to run screaming out of the room, crying, “But wait – WAIT! How did this happen? I said dermatologist, not gynecologist! Moles! Give me moles! Not vaginas! MELANOMAS!”

I endured the world’s most awkward pelvic exam, which involved him nervously fumbling around down there, dropping the speculum and forgetting to lube me up first, crying, “JELLY! Oh no oh no oh no. JELLY!” The jelly oversight unfortunately prompted him to empty an entire tube of K-Y onto my crotchal region, which made for the most uncomfortable morning, like, ever. And then the poor man had to try to address me. He could only speak to me by proxy: his notebook.

“I’m circling dysfunctional bleeding on patient’s chart.”

“I’m writing down that the patient’s pelvic exam is normal. Patient exhibits a slightly tilted uterus, which causes no problems, and should cause no problems in the future, should she decide to procreate. ”

He said procreate.

“I’m writing down that the smoking gun – heh – appears to be the patient’s elevated TSH levels related to FSH, which is causing anovulation and should be alleviated with new thyroxine dosage. Dr. Christy Carmine is working on problem from metabolic standpoint. I’m checking the ‘other provider’ box and writing his name on behalf of the patient.”

He chuckled at ‘smoking gun.’ God. Why?

Throughout the whole ordeal, the nurse kept mouthing to me over his melon head, “I’m SORRY,” because, who talks like that? She explained later that he was a particularly nervous intern. Somewhere around the “FSH” nonsense, I started laughing because I felt that surely I was on some sort of X-rated Candid Camera. He never chuckled as I laughed and in fact, didn’t address me directly once. Thankfully, my next appointment is an ultrasound, which is managed by the nurse practitioner.

Before I go, I feel compelled to point out that I’ve never felt like more of a second-class citizen than in the waiting room of an OB/GYN. My (comparitively) flat belly rendered me at the bottom of the list, which was frustrating, though it was hard not to get caught up in the palpable excitment of the couples around me as they waited for their ultrasounds, exams and heartbeat appointments. They were giddy with hopes for the future, and of the glimpse into the baby they were waiting for. I smiled at the first-time parents – the husbands rubbing their wives’ bellies and stroking their hair as they asked repeatedly, “Is it moving? Are you comfortable? Do you need water?” God, they were so sweet.

And I never felt more compassion and sympathy for anyone as much as I did for the couple who was clearly there for fertility treatments. The woman welled up, though she tried to hide it, at every sight and sound of parenthood for the couples around her. At the strollers being loaded in the too-small entrance with screaming infants and overtired mothers. At the lush, swollen bellies occupying every seat, smugly guarding their prize. I heard him whisper to her, as they were close to me, that today would be different. Today they would figure something out. He held her hand and she tried to smile.

I imagine that getting help for infertility is yet another in a long line of humiliating experiences to put in the bag of misery and hope. I didn’t think about that part – how that is the one time, the one place, where you are reminded at every turn of what you can’t have, not just by the function of who you are, but by the presence of everyone – literally everyone except for a few stragglers like me – around you who has what you want in such a visceral, visible way.

I so hope that this time really is different for them.

*Erasure. From Crackers International.

**My OB/GYN also includes a visiting reproductive endocrinologist. And before anyone asks, I okay’d the intern before I met him. I just wanted to talk to someone first, and I knew I’d have follow-ups.

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