Supporting evidence for the argument that I have bad wazoo karma

There are two people who I don’t particularly enjoy visiting. One is the dentist and the other is the gynecologist. This has largely to do with the fact that the dentist tends to stick cold, metal instruments into my mouth and the gynecologist tends to stick cold, metal instruments into my wazoo.¹ If I had to rank how I’d prefer to spend my time, spending it with either of these two individuals would go right under performing a trapeze act while suspended from fish hooks looped through my eyelids…which, incidentally, I haven’t tried yet, but only because I’ve been a bit busy. I hear it’s a total rush.

The only reason I bring this up is because I had to visit the gyno last week for an annual exam. Apparently, there were many a ladyfolk in stirrups that morning, as there was a bit of a wait for the doc. And as I lay there reclined on the cold, disinfected (I hope!) exam table, naked except for a remarkably large paper napkin, I looked back on all of my gynecologic experiences over the last decade. As luck should have it, all of my gynos have been almost exclusively men. And not for any particular reason other than they always seem to have more appointments available. Which is not surprising…women tend to want to see women for matters of the snatch. Me? I’m simply not that discriminating.

It’s a wonder, though, that I’m not…especially when one considers my very first experience with a male gynecologist. It still goes down in history as one of my most embarrassing moments ever. I was 19 and similarly reclined on a similar table in a similar exam room with the same Eau D’disinfectant. The paper napkin was much, much smaller, though. (Lucky for me, so was my ass.) I don’t think I breathed during the entire exam. The resulting cerebral hypoxia, coupled with the vivid images conjured by my gynecologist’s lengthy explanation of how he thought we should shove a few trocars into my abdomen to laparascopically diagnose the endometriosis he thought I had, culminated in me passing out. I came to with the paper napkin having flopped completely open (rendering me completely exposed) with my right upper and lower extremities dangling limply over the side of the exam table (crotch facing my gyno’s direct line of sight), with the nurse shoving smelling salts up my nose. They might have presented me with the Award for the Patient With The Most Theatrically Impressive Nude Syncopal Episode had I ever gone back to claim it. I didn’t. Ever.

For several years after that, just for the sake of convenience, I went to the gynecologist who my mother worked for as a nurse. At first, I thought it might not be the wisest idea, given that my mother would have easy access to my medical records. I was sure she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to take a peak into my sex life. So I repeatedly assured Dr. Williams that when I went out hooking on Friday nights, and then on to my sex show at Whips, Chains & Trapezes on Saturday nights, I’d always use protection…he nodded, unphased, and noted it in my medical chart for her reading pleasure.

Then, I started residency. And, again, for the sake of convenience, I thought it best to just go see a gynecologist who worked in the clinic building adjacent to the hospital where I worked. That way, I could just pop over in between OR cases. This seemed like a good idea at the time. It ceased to be a good idea about six months after the appointment, when I was scrubbed in on a complicated colon cancer case. We called an intraoperative OB/GYN consult for some input on a rather suspicious looking ovarian lesion on the patient who’s colon cancer we were resecting. And who scrubs in but the very gyno who ventured down into my nether regions just six months before! This would have been fine, except he kept looking at me from across the OR table. After about five minutes of curious glances, he finally said, “You look extremely familiar…have I met you somewhere before?” My general surgery attending peered up from the fungating colonic lesion in his hands and, despite the mask over his mouth, I could see the smirk in his eyes. Likewise, I was fairly sure that my crimson face could be seen despite my mask. After a few seconds, during which I regained my composure, I looked at our consulting gynecologist and said, “Yeah, I think you gave my cervix a clean bill of health about six months ago. I'm flattered I was so memorable.”

So, that was the end of that! And last week, as I lay there on the exam table waiting for my new, and hopefully more tactful, gynecologist to walk in, I crossed my fingers in the hopes that the visit would go seamlessly, and in the very least, without a syncopal episode.

Then.

In walked perhaps the best looking gynecologist on the planet. Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes, chiseled face, medium/muscular build. NOT the middle aged, mormon, paternal dork with 9 children I was hoping for. For the love of crotches, this guy shouldn't BE a gynecologist, he should PLAY one on TV.

Me and my vagina just don’t have very good luck with gynecologists.

1. Wazoo – one of the many non-medical words for vagina that I consider an acceptable substitution. This one came from a friend of mine who, incidentally, is a gynecologist. His daughter had to stand up in front of her kindergarten class to say what her parents did for a living…when it was her turn, she stood up and said: “My mommy stays at home to take care of my sister while my daddy looks at bellies and wazoos all day long.” Needless to say, her dad had the most impressive profession out of all her classmates’ parents.