The worst 30 minutes of the year


George Clooney, Cannes film festival
Image via Wikipedia

 

Ladies – raise your hands if you knew exactly what I meant just by that title.

Now, I promise I’m not going to go into humiliatingly graphic detail here – isn’t it enough that I’m posting pictures of me from the 80s? – but I still have a few items to get off my chest about *that* doctor visit. *Speaking of chests, that one is the tied with dental visits as the second worst appointment of the year – OW ! Sucks to be a girl sometimes!*

It starts with the weigh in. No matter what your size, this is always unnerving, right ladies? I mean, I don’t even come close to having body image or weight issues and yet I always get *pissed* when that damn doctor’s scale registers a total at least 5 pounds heavier than my scale at home.

“Wait, don’t write that down on my chart! That’s not right. Let me take off my shoes! They have to weigh 2 pounds each!”  Yeah, that’s what I scream in my head as I silently step off the scale and follow the nurse into The Room.

Then it’s on to the next humiliating dance. No matter how many times you go through this, you still panic, right? You just *know* that despite all evidence to the contrary, the Doc is *going* to come into that room before you are done getting into that half foot sliver of a gown. Because it is somehow SO IMPORTANT that you be properly COVERED UP when he comes in! And it’s not just YOU that must be covered up. So should your clothes. Right? Because even more important than YOU being properly seated on the table with the gown fully CLOSED and COVERING everything that he is about to quite closely examine – well, it would be an even more earth shattering event should he see your BRA or PANTIES!! Oh no. They must be properly folded and placed UNDER your long pants and sweater. And don’t let even a hint of the bra strap show!!  Horrors!

And then? THEN?

Well, then you wait.

In the cold, no FREEZING room. On the table with the flimsy paper cover that crinkles with every breath & shiver & chattering of teeth as you sit there in that gown trying to cover every possible inch of skin.

So you start to look around. At anything BUT the end of that table and any instruments on the counter. If you have a good doctor there are things on the wall for you to read. No, not cross sections of human bodies, but nice things like pictures and thank you notes from other patients. Mostly of babies that he’s delivered of course.  You might even see pictures of people you know since he’s been in the area as long as you have (as happened to me last year). Or maybe you have a really cool doc who puts up funny cartoons and sayings to help you relax.

One of the reasons I like my doc is that he is fast & efficient. I’ll work up this feeling of nervousness & dread all day (today – heh!) leading up to the appointment and then he will literally be done with the worst of it in 2 minutes. All that anxiety for 2 minutes of what really amounts to mild physical discomfort.

One of the other  things I can count on about him is that he will ask the SAME DAMN QUESTIONS every time! EVERY time. Ten years into seeing him and it’s the same three questions which get us both through the procedure.

“How old are your kids?” (followed by small talk about the boys & their current endeavors)

“Where do you work?”

“Oh, do they have an MBA program?”

I do not know why he always asks about the academic programs offered at my university – but he does!

One of these years I’ll be in a good enough frame of mind to maybe throw out some random/snarky answers to liven up the conversation.

Or maybe I’ll just grit my teeth & give the same answers all the while wishing he had some photos of George Clooney or Patrick Dempsey on the ceiling. Now *those* would make me *relax*!!!!!

Ultimately though, when he shuts that door after he leaves and I start putting my clothes back on, all I will be thinking is “YES! Clock has been reset! I’ve got 365 days until I have to do this again!”

 

<!–[if gte mso 10]>

Ladies – raise your hands if you knew exactly what I meant just by that title.

Now, I promise I’m not going to go into humiliatingly graphic detail here – isn’t it enough that I’m posting pictures of me from the 80s? – but I still have a few items to get off my chest about *that* doctor visit. *Speaking of chests, that one is the tied with dental visits as the second worst appointment of the year – OW ! Sucks to be a girl sometimes!*

It starts with the weigh in. No matter what your size, this is always unnerving, right ladies? I mean, I don’t even come close to having body image or weight issues and yet I always get *pissed* when that damn doctor’s scale registers a total at least 5 pounds heavier than my scale at home.

“Wait, don’t write that down on my chart! That’s not right. Let me take off my shoes! They have to weigh 2 pounds each!”  Yeah, that’s what I scream in my head as I silently step off the scale and follow the nurse into The Room.

Then it’s on to the next humiliating dance. No matter how many times you go through this, you still panic, right? You just *know* that despite all evidence to the contrary, the Doc is *going* to come into that room before you are done getting into that half foot sliver of a gown. Because it is somehow SO IMPORTANT that you be properly COVERED UP when he comes in! And it’s not just YOU that must be covered up. So should your clothes. Right? Because even more important than YOU being properly seated on the table with the gown fully CLOSED and COVERING everything that he is about to quite closely examine – well, it would be an even more earth shattering event should he see your BRA or PANTIES!! Oh no. They must be properly folded and placed UNDER your long pants and sweater. And don’t let even a hint of the bra strap show!!  Horrors!

And then? THEN?

Well, then you wait.

In the cold, no FREEZING room. On the table with the flimsy paper cover that crinkles with every breath & shiver & chattering of teeth as you sit there in that gown trying to cover every possible inch of skin.

So you start to look around. At anything BUT the end of that table and any instruments on the counter. If you have a good doctor there are things on the wall for you to read. No, not cross sections of human bodies, but nice things like pictures and thank you notes from other patients. Mostly of babies that he’s delivered of course.  You might even see pictures of people you know since he’s been in the area as long as you have (as happened to me last year). Or maybe you have a really cool doc who puts up funny cartoons and sayings to help you relax.

One of the reasons I like my doc is that he is fast & efficient. I’ll work up this feeling of nervousness & dread all day (today – heh!) leading up to the appointment and then he will literally be done with the worst of it in 2 minutes. All that anxiety for 2 minutes of what really amounts to mild physical discomfort.

One of the other  things I can count on about him is that he will ask the SAME DAMN QUESTIONS every time! EVERY time. Ten years into seeing him and it’s the same three questions which get us both through the procedure.

“How old are your kids?” (followed by small talk about the boys & their current endeavors)

“Where do you work?”

“Oh, do they have an MBA program?”

I do not know why he always asks about the academic programs offered at my university – but he does!

One of these years I’ll be in a good enough frame of mind to maybe throw out some random/snarky answers to liven up the conversation.

Or maybe I’ll just grit my teeth & give the same answers all the while wishing he had some photos of George Clooney or Patrick Dempsey on the ceiling. Now *those* would make me *relax*!!!!!

Ultimately though, when he shuts that door after he leaves and I start putting my clothes back on, all I will be thinking is “YES! Clock has been reset! I’ve got 365 days until I have to do this again!”

One thought on “The worst 30 minutes of the year

Add yours

  1. Random thoughts: BYO photos of Clooney and Pitt to ogle at next year. Tell the nurse to F-off, you’re not getting on that damn scale. I do it every year: I know what I weigh; you’re not going to be happy with it — I’m not either. Plus, my GYN is woman (makes a big difference), and she provides a cloth half-sheet in addition to the paper couture.

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