In Which We Visit the Crotch Doctor

Crotch Doctors through the Years:

Years 18-35: My first OB-GYN was an affable enough man who told me lies like “one sperm north of the knee can get you pregnant.” What happened to him, you ask, because Ellen we know you are nothing if not faithful complacent. He reacted to my diagnosis with “Well, since you have MS we’ll need to have you use two means of birth control. You certainly can’t handle being a mother now.” Yeah. F*ck you and your father. Next doctor.

Years 36-41: The next OB-Gyn, Dr. Francine C_____, was recommended by my internist, and she was a hoot. I met her and I could immediately picture her in a new situation comedy on ABC called “Francine!” about a madcap petite OB-GYN played by Paige Davis Paige with a curly perm. Francine! made clever comments when my hips would unconsciously dodge the speculum by lifting waaaayyy off the exam table. “Ellen! Stop levitating! Don’t make me come up there!” But sadly Francine! was done in by the Missouri malpractice fees. Her replacement was:

The Current Crotch Doctor: the Inimitable Dr. T__. She is Asian, she is smart, and she exudes competence. She is a living breathing Sandra Oh from Gray’s Anatomy. She shook my hand last year and I immediately sensed I could toss her a question like: “This odd purple goo is leaking out of my nipples. What causes that?” and she would offhandedly answer “Oh, you must have used Phisohex to wash your face when you were going through your menarche” as if all doctors knew such things.

I liked her last year but after this year I love her. Why? I confessed during my exam I hadn’t had my mammogram this year because last year it actually hurt.

“That’s because your breasts are dense,” she nodded knowingly and competently.
“I beg to differ,” I differed.
“I handle boobs all day long. Your breasts are dense. Don’t argue with me.”

So, I fell in love with her right there. I started sharing secrets so fast you would have thought I was having a girly sleepover at Dr. T__’s house. We started comparing cycles, and lacks thereof, and roofing tar, and life goals. She said her goal was to help women and save lives, and I said that was just fine since my life goal was to not die.

We started talking about how often one is supposed to have a period. My Aunt Flo has not paid a visit for about two years. A month ago, my internist had led me to believe that I needed to follow up on why the Red River has run dry. I explained that Dr. T__ had run hormone tests last year and said I was fine. He leaned in and pointedly said “You need to follow up.” So I’ve spent a month wondering if tissue has been backing up and someday I will explode at work ala Mr Creosote.

I reported this conversation with my internist to Dr. T__, who answered my concerns with: “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard a doctor say.”

Evidently the pill works partly like an IUD does, it makes the uterus inhospitable to zygotes. The pill thins out the lining to such a degree the fertilized egg can’t attach. Evidently mine is so thin that it vaporizes as soon as it sloughs off, or something.

So now I love her. Any doctor who is that generous with information can ratchet me open with a speculum anytime.