The Sure Thing, Or My Search For a New Gynecologist
He had freckles, the oversized hands and feet of a half-grown puppy, and a grin that transformed him, remarkably, into a clone of my son, the sophomore frat boy. The combination immediately conspired to eclipse his easy charm and the solemn assertions that his experience far exceeded his chronological 36 years. Even the bold testimony from an office wall papered with laudatory certificates couldn't convince me to place my female future in the hands of Huckleberry Finn. Reluctantly, I noted: Scratch Doc 4.
Years ago, when I married and moved to a new city, I drifted into the avuncular care of Leo, my brother-in-law, an ob-gyn. After an initial period of embarrassment over seeing the same face smiling above stirruped feet and across family dinner tables, I discovered the easy balance between a professional doctor-patient relationship and the interweave of in-laws. Together, he and I delivered three children in the era before fathers were welcome in delivery and dealt with all matters reproductive and female — unwanted pregnancies and frightening, but benign, growths. Under Leo’s care I was so relaxed that I preferred my annual gynecological exam to the dentist's semi-annual troll in my mouth.
So when he unexpectedly announced his retirement, I was hurt and angry. It was badly timed, coming soon after my husband’s sudden death and the sale of the family business where I worked. My children were grown and elsewhere, and Leo was one of the people I had trusted to guide me through the vagaries of whatever came next.Who needed a gynecologist anyway?
But of course the question was rhetorical. So I decided to look for a new doctor using my proclivity to make everything a research project. I determined to methodically collect and analyze relevant data about practicing gynecologists, then ascertain if our "chemistry" was right.
I wrote a description of what I wanted which would sound today suspiciously like a profile on an online dating service: 48 year old widow (SWW 48) seeks warm and caring medical genius with tangible compassion, broad shoulders, for professional relationship dealing with all my female concerns, such as breast cancer; menopause, hormones, and the biggie — an older woman last single before the sexual revolution and the perils of STDs or AIDS.
I gathered names from my brother-in-law and friends and acquaintances, then started weeding. Out: a physician whose detractors outnumbered her supporters; doctors within sight of retirement; those known to be anti-choice. ("How did politics get into this?" my mother asked when I told her what I was doing. )
Next I called for appointments — face to face interviews. My preference was for a female physician but their every one of their gatekeepers asked whether I’d seen the doctor before. I hadn’t. The follow-up question: was I pregnant? "Definitely not, and hoping never again," I replied, to which they uniformly responded that Dr. Y would only take new patients who were expecting. I moved on to the men.
Five guys made the short list and all were accepting new patients. So I requested appointments, explicitly noting that I wanted an interview only — no exam — and would be happy to pay for their time.
The waiting room in Doc 1's office was crowded with expectant mothers, each accompanied by all of her past successful deliveries. Magazines were strewn across a defeated green rug, the nurses were kind but harried, and a general tenor of chaos prevailed. Doc 1, an amiable man in his mid-forties, was frank about the primary dedication of his practice — obstetrics— and the examining room where we chatted was decorated with juvenilia. As I carefully picked my way to the exit over an unhappy two year old splayed across the waiting room floor, I scratched Doc 1.
Doc 2 greeted me from behind his massive partners' desk in a softly lit office that oozed atmosphere with its elegant fabrics and richly patinaed antiques and oriental rugs. He was amiable as I presented my checklist of concerns which at the time included whether some kind of hormone replacement therapy was necessary. He insisted on it except in rare cases, he answered, and hated having to argue with recalcitrant patients. He spoke comfortably about middle-aged sex, communicable diseases, and nameless women beholden to him for their happiness but, he noted, he was never offended if a woman felt more comfortable taking her medical problems elsewhere when she disagreed with him. He buried the new patient form I filled out among a stack of papers and I got the distinct impression that Doc 2 really didn't want me.
Most of the magazines in Doc 3's waiting room were a year old and several were dedicated to the gentle virtues of evangelism. But I entertained myself with stories of the Lord acting in mysterious ways while obliquely glancing about the pleasant waiting room. A few expectant mothers mingled with one geriatric woman on the arm of an equally geriatric man.
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