The words "speculum" and "weekend" should never be used in the same sentence
I had my annual exam today. The stirrups kind. I guess I thought it would be fun to kick off the weekend that way.
I peed in the cup, just like every year. I got weighed. Then I got to sit down with the nurse and fill out ye olde questionnaire. Now, why they can't save my responses from year to year, I have no earthly idea.
There is one part of the grilling that chaps my ass. Every year, I grit my teeth and muddle through. This time around, I got kind of pissy and complained to the doctor.
This is the source of my ire:
Nurse (typing away on the laptop): You've had four pregnancy losses?
Me: Yes.
Nurse: And no live births?
Me: No.
Nurse: Okay, so no children then.
Me: Yes, I have a daughter.
The nurse gave me a "does not compute" look (picture her saying it in a robotic voice, cuz it's funnier that way) and kept typing.
When Dr. D came in I told him that I find the questionnaire to be a bit insensitive and to my surprise, he said he would look into it. I mean, I'm sure he won't, but at least he was courteous enough to pretend. It bugs me when people act as though the concept of adoption is wholly new to them. When I first went to meet my daughter's pediatrician (before A was born), I specifically told the staff that I was in the process of adopting a soon-to-be-born child and that I just wanted to meet the doctor and ask a few questions. Dr. B strode in, shook my hand, and . . . asked me when I was due.
As for the questionnaire at my doctor's office . . . I mean, I get it. I understand that they want to know how many rugrats have passed through my hips, because that information is medically relevant. But seriously, I'm 39 and I'm there every year - do they think I am manufacturing humans in my uterus on the sly between visits?
So, enough about that. I guess I'll answer the same moronic questions again next year, and well into my 40s and beyond, I suppose. Just like my asthma doctor will continue to weigh me and MEASURE MY HEIGHT at every visit. My mental list of "things that make no sense to me" grows longer by the minute.
In other news, I've sprouted a torso. I thought you'd like to know. Up until now, my daughter has only drawn bodyless stick people whose limbs sprout directly out from their skull. Apparently this is a normal progression as children learn to draw. One of my nephews went through a stage where he drew everyone as some sort of amorphous amoeba. "Sorry you look like a sperm," my sister would say as she handed me her son's latest portrait of me.
Here I am with my mid-section making its first appearance. Also my tragic club foot.
I peed in the cup, just like every year. I got weighed. Then I got to sit down with the nurse and fill out ye olde questionnaire. Now, why they can't save my responses from year to year, I have no earthly idea.
There is one part of the grilling that chaps my ass. Every year, I grit my teeth and muddle through. This time around, I got kind of pissy and complained to the doctor.
This is the source of my ire:
Nurse (typing away on the laptop): You've had four pregnancy losses?
Me: Yes.
Nurse: And no live births?
Me: No.
Nurse: Okay, so no children then.
Me: Yes, I have a daughter.
The nurse gave me a "does not compute" look (picture her saying it in a robotic voice, cuz it's funnier that way) and kept typing.
When Dr. D came in I told him that I find the questionnaire to be a bit insensitive and to my surprise, he said he would look into it. I mean, I'm sure he won't, but at least he was courteous enough to pretend. It bugs me when people act as though the concept of adoption is wholly new to them. When I first went to meet my daughter's pediatrician (before A was born), I specifically told the staff that I was in the process of adopting a soon-to-be-born child and that I just wanted to meet the doctor and ask a few questions. Dr. B strode in, shook my hand, and . . . asked me when I was due.
As for the questionnaire at my doctor's office . . . I mean, I get it. I understand that they want to know how many rugrats have passed through my hips, because that information is medically relevant. But seriously, I'm 39 and I'm there every year - do they think I am manufacturing humans in my uterus on the sly between visits?
So, enough about that. I guess I'll answer the same moronic questions again next year, and well into my 40s and beyond, I suppose. Just like my asthma doctor will continue to weigh me and MEASURE MY HEIGHT at every visit. My mental list of "things that make no sense to me" grows longer by the minute.
In other news, I've sprouted a torso. I thought you'd like to know. Up until now, my daughter has only drawn bodyless stick people whose limbs sprout directly out from their skull. Apparently this is a normal progression as children learn to draw. One of my nephews went through a stage where he drew everyone as some sort of amorphous amoeba. "Sorry you look like a sperm," my sister would say as she handed me her son's latest portrait of me.
Here I am with my mid-section making its first appearance. Also my tragic club foot.
Comments
I have to agree that many medical professionals are lacking a certain something...like common sense.
There's just so many people who don't get it...even some family whom we love and hold dear.
Just know that you are not alone and most of the time, people mean no harm.
And club-footed, torsoed drawings make all the insensitive questions kind of worth it...