Specula
Yesterday I went to my new gynecologist’s office for a St. Paddy’s Day pap smear. I had seen this doctor twice before. He took over the practice after my previous doctor, whom I had visited twice, retired. Since I moved to New Jersey I’ve been forcibly gyno-hopping. Now I can lie back and spread my legs for any speculum, a hardened gyno-slut.
Because I’m new with this doctor, I was asked to update my information. I took the clipboard back to my seat to fill out the form, and when I sat down I saw the entire form was in Spanish. I don’t know Spanish, but I thought I’d try to fill it out anyway. I like languages and puzzles.
Even though I know it’s ok that I don’t know Spanish, I still felt like a redneck saying "Why can’t they all speak English?" when I returned to the desk to ask for a form in English. Girl in scrubs searched for an English form and handed me what looked like their master copy, wrinkled, yellowed, and folded at top and bottom.
The doctor looks Asian but his name is Spanish, and I would describe his mild accent as more the former than the latter. The girls in scrubs who came with him from New York are all Latino, and the women behind the desk are Asian, except for one white woman residual from the previous gynecologist. In look and demeanor she sticks out like Frankenstein. The patient population is about 49% white, 4% Latino, and 1% Asian, from what I can tell.
This is one of few times I’ve felt like a minority, and I wish it would happen more often because it requires me to be entirely myself and to not fall back into the safety of sameness that deceptively inspires a much more narrow prowess. Having grown up in a small, predominantly white Catholic Midwestern town I became accustomed to living in what I later likened to big-city winter: white, white and grittily feeding on its incestuous snowbound invariability. Claustrophobic homogeneity.
There was a rotating cast of three black kids in my school, D________ White being the constant. R_____ Walker passed through as the final leg on the 800m relay team, on which I was the third leg. Our team was disqualified at a big invitational because Rosita’s fast genes didn’t have the patience to wait for a hand-off. She crossed the line, fast.
The first time I felt like a minority was in college, when I walked in to the Student Center to study on a Saturday afternoon. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the room was Asian. At least a hundred Asian heads bowed down toward the tables. And then there was white studious me.
The second time I felt like a minority was at a Kristin Hersh show at the University of Wisconsin campus ministry. The audience population was comprised of approx. 95% lesbians, 4% gay boys, and me and my boyfriend. The air around us straight ones was thinner, the color lighter; we were palpably separate. Everyone else was in commune, chattering in unison; we were quietly, palpably an island.
So here I am at the gynecologist’s office, observant of my stark whiteness, when I am called in. Girl in scrubs, who is younger than me, calls me "sweetie" at least four times before I go into The Room. I let her have her day. She weighs me, gets my blood pressure, then hands me the papery sheet to cover myself and tells me to get naked from the waist down.
When she leaves the room I slip off my pants and underwear and sit. The wait is unusually short and the Latino/Asian doctor walks in with his clipboard full of papers, looking at me through his glasses. His skin is smooth and his hair shiny black. His demeanor is frankly kind.
"So did you and your boyfriend take the medication?" he asks me.
The whirr of nature’s smooth sail sinks. "What?" I search my memory, and then, "No."
His black eyes search back at me, while he flips through papers out of habit. We are suspended together without frames.
Yank. "Oh!" he started, "I’m sorry. I was thinking of another patient. I had earlier. I’m sorry." Pause. "You look kind of like her." Pause. "I’m really sorry." Pleading smile.
In most cases, this would be a horror story. However, I believe in his regret and I will go back to him. Unless next time I look like another patient with another set of gynecological problems. Si?
______________________________
Can anyone tell me, and by anyone I mean a guy, why a guy pursues gynecology as a career? Also, what about proctology? Thanks in advance for your help.
Because I’m new with this doctor, I was asked to update my information. I took the clipboard back to my seat to fill out the form, and when I sat down I saw the entire form was in Spanish. I don’t know Spanish, but I thought I’d try to fill it out anyway. I like languages and puzzles.
Even though I know it’s ok that I don’t know Spanish, I still felt like a redneck saying "Why can’t they all speak English?" when I returned to the desk to ask for a form in English. Girl in scrubs searched for an English form and handed me what looked like their master copy, wrinkled, yellowed, and folded at top and bottom.
The doctor looks Asian but his name is Spanish, and I would describe his mild accent as more the former than the latter. The girls in scrubs who came with him from New York are all Latino, and the women behind the desk are Asian, except for one white woman residual from the previous gynecologist. In look and demeanor she sticks out like Frankenstein. The patient population is about 49% white, 4% Latino, and 1% Asian, from what I can tell.
This is one of few times I’ve felt like a minority, and I wish it would happen more often because it requires me to be entirely myself and to not fall back into the safety of sameness that deceptively inspires a much more narrow prowess. Having grown up in a small, predominantly white Catholic Midwestern town I became accustomed to living in what I later likened to big-city winter: white, white and grittily feeding on its incestuous snowbound invariability. Claustrophobic homogeneity.
There was a rotating cast of three black kids in my school, D________ White being the constant. R_____ Walker passed through as the final leg on the 800m relay team, on which I was the third leg. Our team was disqualified at a big invitational because Rosita’s fast genes didn’t have the patience to wait for a hand-off. She crossed the line, fast.
The first time I felt like a minority was in college, when I walked in to the Student Center to study on a Saturday afternoon. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the room was Asian. At least a hundred Asian heads bowed down toward the tables. And then there was white studious me.
The second time I felt like a minority was at a Kristin Hersh show at the University of Wisconsin campus ministry. The audience population was comprised of approx. 95% lesbians, 4% gay boys, and me and my boyfriend. The air around us straight ones was thinner, the color lighter; we were palpably separate. Everyone else was in commune, chattering in unison; we were quietly, palpably an island.
So here I am at the gynecologist’s office, observant of my stark whiteness, when I am called in. Girl in scrubs, who is younger than me, calls me "sweetie" at least four times before I go into The Room. I let her have her day. She weighs me, gets my blood pressure, then hands me the papery sheet to cover myself and tells me to get naked from the waist down.
When she leaves the room I slip off my pants and underwear and sit. The wait is unusually short and the Latino/Asian doctor walks in with his clipboard full of papers, looking at me through his glasses. His skin is smooth and his hair shiny black. His demeanor is frankly kind.
"So did you and your boyfriend take the medication?" he asks me.
The whirr of nature’s smooth sail sinks. "What?" I search my memory, and then, "No."
His black eyes search back at me, while he flips through papers out of habit. We are suspended together without frames.
Yank. "Oh!" he started, "I’m sorry. I was thinking of another patient. I had earlier. I’m sorry." Pause. "You look kind of like her." Pause. "I’m really sorry." Pleading smile.
In most cases, this would be a horror story. However, I believe in his regret and I will go back to him. Unless next time I look like another patient with another set of gynecological problems. Si?
______________________________
Can anyone tell me, and by anyone I mean a guy, why a guy pursues gynecology as a career? Also, what about proctology? Thanks in advance for your help.
6 Comments:
There are two issues: why a male would choose to become an ob/gyn; and, why you would choose to see a male ob/gyn.
I didn't. I chose to see a female gynecologist. After two visits, she retired, and a male took over. I figured I'd feel it out, no perversion intended. That leaves one issue unexplained.
my GYN looks like robert downey jr. before the drugs, but i'm certain he's gay. his handwriting is too neat and his hands are so pretty. my boyfriend hates that he's goodlooking. hehe. i think i revel in it.
Frog Princess--that's not too shabby; I had one who looked like Newman from Seinfeld.
Hello Lewis--I hadn't considered that. It makes sense; however, I still wonder.
I do not mind male gynos. What I mind is the fact (at least in my experience) that they need a female nurse in the room with them. I don't like to be all naked and in stirrups in front of 2 people at once. I feel like I'm being double-teamed. I had a tiny male gyno once @ Planned Parenthood who told me that people called him "dr. littlehands". that was creepy. He once came into borders while I was in the cafe, so I hid.
Dr. Littlehands! That's very creepy. And I agree about the having two people in the room. I see the point, but I don't like what it implies could happen if that other person weren't there.
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