*This is totally a lady-business post. Just a warning. So if you are squeamish about lady-parts and doctors of such, you can come back tomorrow. Also, if you’re a perv, ew. Stop being pervy. I SEE YOU THERE DING DONG JOE.*
Listen, I am the most abjectly apologetic. I received a sad-face text from my BFF that he missed my blog today and that you were all probably going to riot. I certainly hope you’re not. You could get hurt. I mean, there’s pepper-spray and shit happening, I wouldn’t want to be the cause of that.
So if anyone’s been around for a while, you know I have been having long-standing lady-business shenanigans with Dr. Lady-Business, who wouldn’t let me see my own ultrasound and also laughed because I was dying one time. That was kind of the last straw, because if there’s anything I hate, it’s being laughed at while my pants are off. AM I RIGHT FELLAS? Sorry. Anyway. So I did some investigation and talked to some people and found a NEW lady-business doctor’s office that people were totally jazzed about and called them and they had a super-long wait, but that just means they’re really good, right? Totally.
So they told me to get my old office to send them my medical records two weeks before my appointment. So, like a good girl, I called the old office.
Me: I’d like you to send my records over to my new doctor’s office, please.
Scoffy receptionist: We don’t do that.
Me: I’m sorry?
SR: I mean, that’s not just something we DO.
Me: Well, they’re my records, and the new office needs them.
SR: You have to send us a REQUEST.
Me: This phone call’s not a request?
SR: I don’t know you are who you say you are.
Me: Um. OK. So, do I fax this to you, or mail it, or…
SR: Fax is fine. Then we’ll call you and counsel you whether or not leaving our practice if in your best interest. If we come to the conclusion it is, there’s a surcharge, PER PAGE, to get your records sent to the new office.
Me: So in other words, I send you this fax, and you may or may not decide I’m allowed to leave your practice.
SR: Yes. No. Send the fax.
Me: What’s the surcharge?
SR: We’ll discuss that in your consultation.
Me: You can’t just tell me?
SR: That’s not my department.
Me: You have a really small office. You can’t ask someone?
SR: Not without a fax.
So I sent the fax, and then a few days later I got my “consultation call” (listen, I feel like leaving this office is possibly like getting out of the mob, and I was a little scared I’d be kneecapped, like, were they not going to ALLOW me to leave? Were they going to pull me back in? I haven’t seen The Godfather in years, but I remember that shit, and it was NOT PRETTY) and the woman didn’t even counsel me at all. She just told me it was $.25 a page for my records, and that would come to $17.25. So I said fine, I’d pay with my credit card.
Counselor lady: I don’t think you want all of these.
Me: All of these what?
Me: They’re mine. I do want them.
CL: I don’t think you do.
Me: Well, I don’t know what the new doctor will want, and what he won’t. I’d like all my records to be in one, centralized location. HIS office. The NEW doctor’s office. Since I’m not coming back to YOUR office. Could you just fax them to the number I sent you, please?
CL: But I don’t think you want all of them.
Me: I ASSURE YOU I DO.
So she said she was faxing them to the new office. THIS IS GOING SWIMMINGLY, I thought. Until a few days ago, when I got them IN MY MAILBOX. Because, apparently, “faxing them to the new office” meant “mailing them to the client.” I called the new office, very apologetic, and they just laughed and said to bring them with me today when I came in for my appointment.
So today was the appointment. I did not have high hopes. Listen, lady-business doctors and I apparently do NOT get along. But he had to be better than Dr. Lady-Business, right?
I walked in, and the office was lovely. Clean and there were fish and the receptionists were very, very nice and joked with me (but not weirdly, like, you know how some receptionists try too hard and it’s totally awkward? They joked WELL. I liked them) and there were adorable children playing on the floor of the waiting room but not in a gross way, like in a way that made me think maybe they were from central casting, they were so adorable and mop-topped and well-behaved. Aw.
Then the nurse brought me back and said, “First you’re going to meet with the doctor in his office for a consultation to discuss your concerns, and to get to know one another, and then you’ll have your exam.” WHAT? This is fancy. Like a fancy meeting! Like I am a CLIENT! I like that.
NEW DOCTOR! Aw, you GUYS! So adorable! Young, and totally happy and friendly and listened to EVERYTHING I SAID and had a good sense of humor.
When I told him the last doctor said that he thought I should probably just have a hysterectomy because I wasn’t using my lady-parts anyway, HE WAS AGHAST. Aghast! I approved of his shock and awe. “We do not give unnecessary hysterectomies to women who aren’t even FORTY yet,” he said, quite taken aback. I LOVE HIM.
He needs a name. He kind of looks like an adorable gay musical actor playing a doctor and also a little like an adorable Muppet. I’m going to call him Doctor Ernie. That’s not his name (ZOMG also? Totally told me to call him by his first name. I WILL THANK YOU) so I think he won’t sue me.
Doctor Ernie then did the LEAST UPSETTING EXAM I’ve ever had, ever (seriously, all the ladies reading need to move here and start going to Doctor Ernie for all your lady needs, because he ROCKS) and he explained everything he was going to do before he did it and laughed and joked and was just the cutest little man ever. I LOVE DOCTOR ERNIE.
Oh, also, he seemed VERY OPTIMISTIC I was about to have all the sex. I like that, Doctor Ernie. I like that, even though I told you I was not currently sexually active, you kept reiterating that “Well, WHEN YOU BECOME sexually active” like it was a FORGONE CONCLUSION. Not IF. WHEN. That is so cheerful! THANK YOU! I’m going to put that on my resume.
Then as I was leaving, he said words that would strike fear into the heart of any woman:
“Have you ever had a mammogram?”
Um. “No? I’m not forty yet?”
“You need one. Here’s a prescription. Next door down from our office is the lab, they can do it there before you leave the building today. So quick and easy!”
NO NO NO.
Listen, my mom has been WARNING me about these things for YEARS. “They’re going to be SO PAINFUL!” she’ll cackle with glee. “Wait til YOU have to have one of them! You’re going to hurt SO BAD! They just SQUISH YOU ALL UP!” Then I think she fattens children up and bakes them in her oven. Seriously, she’s been the Stephen King of mammogram stories since I was about sixteen.
But Doctor Ernie! So adorable! How could I tell him no? And the appointment wasn’t as long as I’d planned, and the office was RIGHT THERE!
So I went.
And here is a story.
MY MOM IS A HUGE HONKING LIAR.
Everyone at THAT office was just the nicest, too, and IT DIDN’T EVEN HURT. Now, please explain to me why my mother has been filling my head with lies for the past twenty years? Or maybe her techs are doing it wrong? Because was it briefly uncomfortable? Sure. Sure it was. But was it PAINFUL? No. Listen, I deal with cramps that could fell a mastodon on a regular basis, I know pain, mofos. This was NOTHING. This was A SLIGHT PINCH.
The lovely tech, when I asked her, after the first scan, “Um…do they get worse? Because that didn’t hurt at all?” laughed and said, “Thank you! No, they don’t get worse. Please tell all the women you know they don’t hurt at all, because that’s a big factor keeping women away from getting mammograms, and mammograms can save their lives.”
I didn’t tell her that I totally blab all my personal info all over the interwebs on a daily basis so I would tell LIT-rally (I seriously can’t say literally without invoking Chris from Parks and Rec, I’ve tried, it’s not possible) hundreds of people today.
MAMMOGRAMS DO NOT HURT.
If someone tells you a mammogram hurts, they are either lying to get attention, or their tech did it wrong.
Also, mammograms are life-savey, and I was seriously in and out of the office in fifteen minutes. It was that quick and painless. The most uncomfortable part was having a stranger stick your nether regions into a machine, but eh, whatever, it’s done in a few minutes, and it didn’t seem to be bothering her, so I didn’t let it bother me. I’m sure she’s seen a gajillion boobs, many much nicer than mine.
Go get your mammograms, ladies. Doctor Ernie, who’s totally trustworthy and adorable like a cocker spaniel puppy, tells me that he recommends women start as early as age 35.
OK. So, in conclusion: SUCK IT DOCTOR LADY-BUSINESS. Oh, when I was looking for their fax number online to send my letter so I could get my top-secret records from them, I found reviews of Dr. Lady-Business’s practice online, and they were so, so bad. People HATE that office. “Meat market” was used. “Unprofessional” was used. “I think this place is run by the mafia and why does Dr. Lady-Business have a saloon-style handlebar moustache” was used. (Fine, I wrote that last one.)
Also, Doctor Ernie! I adore you. Anyone who can make totally cute jokes to put me at ease while spelunking around my personal bits gets ALL THE PLUS ONES. If you live near me and want his real name, please let me know, I would be HAPPY to tell you.
Also, he assures me I’m not dying. That’s good news, right? I WILL LIVE TO ANNOY YOU ALL FOR A VERY LONG TIME. Yippee!