I just got back from visiting my new (and much improved) primary care physician. Like most doctors, he asked me what he could do for me today. And that’s when I just let it rip. Not gas, mind you, information.
Well, I don’t get to the doctor very often
– aside from the gynecologist. I have a skin thing on my shins that I don’t know what it is but it’s really itchy. And it’s not active right now so there is nothing to see really. I probably need to have blood work done. Also, I have three warts on the bottom of my heel and I want them gone once and for all. I have had it cut out twice and it hasn’t worked. I’ve had it for nearly 20 years. Also, my ears are sort of screwed up –have been since I was a baby. I have intestinal problems and really wicked heartburn, too. I am told there is a most excellent gastroenterologist here.
He wrote vigorously.
After cramming about 20 years worth of information on a piece of unlined, white paper, he asked me some of the usual questions. Are you allergic to any medications? Is there a history of _ in your family? Are you taking any regular medications? Do you smoke? How often do you drink? How old are you? You get the picture.
I’m going to examine you and then have you get some blood work done. Ok?
We left his office and headed into an exam room where I was told to undress apart from my underpants.
Uhoh.
You would think that after 31 years of living I’d have figured out how to be a decent lady by now. In other words, whenever trying on clothing and/or visiting non-gynecological doctors wear your friggin’ underpants. But no, I didn’t wear my friggin’ underpants and so the next 30 second proved to be as uncomfortable as having a wedgie on a crowded subway train.
I thought quickly. I could just not tell him and strip down and tell him I didn’t hear him. But he said it twice. Hmmmm. I could just tell him I’m stupid. No, that won’t work either. If I don’t tell him now, he’ll either think I’m totally insane and come in explaining “It’s not that kind of exam.” Oh my god, what if he thinks I’m coming on to him when he comes back in and I’m naked. Maybe I should just leave.
After a brief argument with the rude side of myself, the decent side of me decided I had to tell him.
Ummmmm, Doctor? I hate to say this, I am not wearing any underpants today.
Judging by his reaction, I must have looked mortified as if I had just popped the word’s biggest boner while on the diving board directly in front of Suzy while at the public pool.
That’s OK. Just undress and we’ll find something to cover you with.
(Side note: I think it might be time to go underpants shopping.)
I got the full examination, minus the cold stirrups. He checked everything and I appear to be in perfect health, at least on the outside. He told me the gastroenterologist will most likely want to stick cameras up my ass and check out my intestines and that the podiatrist would check out that planters wart (which, I have to admit, is one of the biggest things I hate about my body, aside from my boobs.) He told me we’d draw blood and check for everything and anything and that in a week we’d know more about my health for future pregnancies, etc. He then told me to get dressed and come back to his office once I was finished.
We sat down again and he wrote some more. He jotted down an ENT, a podiatrist, and an gastroenterologist.
Oh, and I have an even stranger request, I have lost some weight and my breasts haven’t gotten any smaller, actually, they deflated and I have wanted a reduction for quite some time but am afraid of it so if you have any suggestions for accomplished plastic surgeons, I’d like to know about them, too.
He stopped writing.
Well, just so you know, insurance won’t cover that, because, well, you know, they’re not huge like some women’s breasts. It’d be an out-of-pocket expense.
I am OK with that, sir.
And you will have scars.
Scars? Really? Still?
Yes. Unfortunately, with reductions, they have figured out how to do it scar-free. I haven’t seen any reductions done that don’t have scars.
That’s the pits. You’d like to think it’d be the other way around for reasons I can’t back up.
He began to write again.
I’ll give you three names and referrals for plastic surgeons. Meet with all three and find out which one you like the most. You know, forgive me for asking, but why do you want this done? Your breasts seem fine.
No harm asking. I just don’t like them. Nothing fits right. They are always getting in the way. I can’t wear what I want to wear and even now, after having lost nearly 15 pounds, they are still the same size. I guess I expected a better, smaller reward—if you know what I mean.
Yes, that makes sense. If you’re not happy with them, then do whatever will make you happy. But you will have scars. Either way, it doesn’t hurt to talk to them and discuss this with a plastic surgeon. They will better know how to proceed.
We finished up with a few more items, such as making an appointment with their leading gastroenterologist, the same butt doctor Toby has gone to for years. Then, I was on my way.
I called Toby from outside and expressed how great it felt visiting a doctor who took that much time with me. No doctor (aside from my ear doctors from the past) has ever done that.
Rest assured, sweet Internet I’m bound to keep you updated on my medical procedures in the upcoming weeks especially the one where I get an anal probe. I wonder if I’ll get to bring home souvenirs of the inside of my anus. Who knows, if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll share them with you, too.
Mihow 
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