Saturday, February 23, 2013

Recap 8: Annual Exam

Time for my once yearly visit to my fabulous OB-GYN, Dr. Hope.  She's so funny and wonderful. Plus, she delivered Mac, so we are linked for life.  After filling out my, "Are you dangerously depressed?" survey (I'm not, thank the Lord!), the nurse calls me back to take my blood pressure and prick my finger.  BP is 98/60 and I bleed appropriately.

On entering the exam room, the nurse tells me that Dr. Hope has a medical student working with her.  Is it okay with me if the student assists?  Oh, fine.  I say.  Sigh. I always feel an obligation to say yes because I'm an educator myself, you know.

So after I don my paper gown and perch on the exam table, a twelve year-old boy in a lab coat enters the room.  I don't catch his name because I'm stunned by the fact that he appears to be twelve.

"So," he says.  "You're 34 weeks today?"

"What?!" I blurt.  "No!  I'm not!  Not pregnant!"

"Oh..." he mutters.  "Um.  Sorry." Glances at my chart.

"YEARS OLD!" I shout, suddenly realizing.  "I'm 34 YEARS OLD!"

So, we've gotten off on the wrong foot, and I do not feel comfortable discussing my medical concerns with him.  In the first place, he's twelve.  In the second place, I like to make jokes about my medical concerns.  Dr. Hope always laughs at me, and then we have a frank discussion, wherein she gives me her professional opinion that I do not have cancer at this time.  I'm not confident this will happen with Doogie.

So, thank goodness he leaves and returns with Dr. Hope.  We all have a laugh over the pregnancy goof, which was especially hilarious after he'd palpates my thyroid and comments that he can feel it very well because I'm thin.  THIN!  SEE?!  For me, that's synonymous with NOT PREGNANT!!

Next we move on to the breast exam, after which point, don't worry, I will cease recapping this appointment.

"Any changes in your breasts?" Dr. Hope asks.

"You mean in my shriveled up bags of rocks?" I clarify. "Nope."  Ha HA! 

Doogie peers in close from my other side.  I stare at the ceiling.  "Yep," Dr. Hope, confirms, "it's all the same, and it doesn't feel like cancer." You see how she anticipates my needs? "Is it okay if Doogie feels?"  She doesn't say Doogie.  She says Jeff, which is apparently his name.

"Fine," I say, looking at him, "but I do have to say, you appear to be fifteen years old."  See how I gave him three years?

"Yeah," he agrees, checking out the variation between fatty and fibrous tissue.  I'm super comfortable, by the way.  This is just a sweet experience.  "I get carded at the Mall of America.  You have to be 16 to enter."

"Don't worry," reassures Dr. Hope.  "He's legit.  We don't just let strange teenaged boys in off the street to do breast exams."

I basically can't stop laughing for the rest of the check-up.  I laugh all the way to give my blood sample to check for hyper-thyroidism which I always check for because of paranoia.  Some things never change.


mm said...

Now, that's funny!

LH said...

It would be kind of neat if you WERE pregnant.

KC said...

I guess it would be neat, but I've actually decided to never be pregnant again.

jdoc said...

Doogie should go by Jeffrey, not Jeff. Anything to make him seem older. LOVED this post.