Thing you never want to hear your OBGYN say: "You're an interesting woman"

Do you get cranky when you’re hungry? How about hot? I was both of those things around 2:00 today because of some bafoonery at my OBGYN’s office. Apparently in this late, great year of 2013 they finally decided to succumb to the latest fad invention called “the computers” and input all patient files to digital format, thus, the eldery office staff was flustered when I walked in for my prenatal visit this afternoon. A swarm of grannies were huddled around a monitor like monkeys fingering a bicycle wheel. “STOP! DO NOT APPROACH THE DESK!” was the greeting they gave me when I walked in. I noted it and had a seat.

My inner monologue was less pleasant. You see, I was on hour number seven of No Food because this very office was supposed to have faxed (I know, faxed) a lab order to the hospital an hour ago, where I had been waiting, so I could take the standard cusp-of-third-trimester glucose test. The test requires fasting, then they flood you with sugar in the form of a nasty medical drink they call, “orange glucose”. Now that it’s my third time at the pregnancy rodeo I have become a connoisseur of this mess. It tastes like ass, people. It’s like Orange Crush that has been sitting in a parking lot for two weeks and run over with a drippy wheelchair. It’s better when chilled, worse when you are angry. It does happen to be a necessary evil  – one that I was denied for lack of lab order. No order, no drink.

Several minutes later as I pretended to absorb images and text from a wrinkled Parent Circle magazine from last April, Granny #1 apologized for her outburst. My brain could not process words though. I was shutting down. Pregnant lady NEED FOOD. Pregnant lady getting fuzzy!

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Some nice nurse who looked like Chrissy from Three’s Company appeared from no where and led me to one of the rooms with paper on the table. I was shaking involuntarily and having difficulty focusing. Pregnant lady need food. I tried to explain the mix-up at the lab to her and she said two annoying things. 1. They didn’t fax the lab order because so-and-so was on vacation (??!!) and 2. I didn’t really need to fast. She fetched me water and I inhaled a protein bar in one bite, like a snake getting ahold of a sewer rat. I refrained from a Homer Simpson burp. As the universe stopped contorting and my balance restored along with my blood sugar, my body start to cry. I wasn’t sad. I was just responding to physiological shock under a layer of possible miff about that Hitler arm gesture Granny #1 gave me. (Alternate explanation: Hey, I’m pregnant. Do I really need a reason to cry?)

Finally, the doctor came in and the curtain on the freak show went up.

I’d never met this guy. Also, back up, he’s a guy. If you’ve never been assaulted by a stranger in an elevator, you may not fully understand why a beam of anxiety pulses through me when a man closes a door on me alone. It’s just part of my life, like having to think about my vitamin D level. Sure, I could probably use some therapy but the truth is I’m lazy and cheap. We all have our crap and one of my things is being slightly terrified of being alone with strange dudes. Anyway. Doctor Strange starts asking me basic questions, the answers to which are all in my file. Curious.

Doc: What number pregnancy is this for you?

Me: Five.

Doc: Are you having any complications?

Me: Um, you do know this was a twin thing until 19 weeks, right?

Doc: Oh. How wonderful it’s working out!

Me: What?

Doc: I heard we made you cry earlier.


Doc: You are a very interesting woman.

(Did he just give me a Happy To See You smile? Is he violating my safe space? Does he want me to see his pee pee? Is this normal or am I right to eye that door and think about power jetting to the police station?)

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Doc: I mean . . . you are very interesting. Your medical file. Your case. It is very interesting. Come back in three weeks when your normal doctor is here. I wish you luck. [Exit.]

Me, internally: Oh thank God! I think he’s just foreign. He meant the medical file! And I didn’t have to fast! No more fast! SWEET LUNCH!

[Breaks down sobbing because . . . maybe taco]

Dear male doctors, Never, ever give the Last Call eyebrow to a female patient and say, “you are an interesting woman” when the door is shut. She might have mace.


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Filed under: Doctors behaving badly

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