Doc 3's office, like the others, showcased impressive credentials and happy family but his manner was somberly empathetic. He answered my questions — now memorized so thoroughly I could ask them without surreptitiously referring to notes — directly and thoughtfully. He glanced at my new patient form and asked a few questions, then noted his admiration for my brother-in-law. I sensed a humanity in Doc 3 that was reassuring; he was my first definite “maybe,” even though he was the only one who charged for the interview.
Doc 5 shared a cramped and busy waiting room with two partners. His receptionist proffered an exhaustive, pink new patient form covered on both sides with questions no other doctor's forms had asked. I immediately liked his thoroughness even while I didn't appreciate his disregard for the clock — he was nearly an hour late for our appointment. But the receptionist was politely sympathetic — the doctor's schedule had been set back by an unexpected delivery — and the video on the waiting room monitor happened to be about osteoporosis and menopause. And I noticed that each woman emerged from the inner sanctum wearing an expression of calm.
A matronly nurse ushered me into Doc 5's standard issue office where, preceded by hearty valedictions to departing patients, he strode in, a portly and ebullient teddy bear. He was happy to discuss the individuality of each woman's menopause with cheerfulness and share firm beliefs about hormone replacement and why he held them. He thoughtfully considered my questions and was the only doctor to offer literature to take home. I liked his attitude which seemed positive, but not dictatorial, and his warmth. And he and his partners rotated with Doc 3. I departed — wearing an expression of calm. Several days later, I picked up the telephone and called to make an appointment with Doc 5 for a routine exam.
I couldn’t have explained to anyone how I’d made my decision but I felt good when Doc 5 strode into the examining room with a hearty greeting and picked up the manila folder that bulged with the secret history of my female life. "So," my new gynecologist said with a smile, "let's talk about you for a minute..."
I stayed with Doc 5 for ten years until just after he sent me for a breast biopsy without discussing his thoughts with me. Furthermore, he grew irritated afterwards when I questioned him. Luckily, the lumps were benign and I’d left outpatient surgery with two scars and the determination to find a new doc who would always level with me.
Which is how I talked my way into the practice of Doc 6, a woman my age who practices only gynecology and only part-time. She also does research on the gynecological concerns of older women, which is reassuring. But soon after I’d signed on, I began to worry that she’d retire and I’d have to start over, again.
It once would have been a distressing thought but I dismissed it. If my research project had taught me anything, it was that, in truth, there is no such thing as a sure thing.
©2010 Mary Ann Sternberg for SeniorWomen.com
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