There's something very disconcerting about a doctor talking about Jet Blue Airlines while fiddling around with my "sacred place". Is she trying to make me feel better about inserting a cold, metal clamp to steal cells by idle chit-chat? Because it really just prolongs the whole experience. Especially when she stops what she's doing to use hand gestures with the cotton swab. Humiliation.
My breasts "look fine", she said. I said "thank you". But it was more of a, "thank you?"
Contrary to many male perceptions, having an entire latex-hand up one's birthing canal doesn't feel so good. As my woman-doctor stared between my legs she looked much more like a gypsy reading a crystal ball than an MD. My uterus also "looks good," she said. I asked if she knew how long I would live. She just stared at me, confused.
When I was little the doctor would give me a lollipop as I left. Now I get a birth control prescription. Which is more like a permission slip to have sex. Humiliation.
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