Yesterday, I went to my annual gynocologist checkup. I use the word “annual” loosely, because apparently the last time I went was sometime in early 2011. Anyway, I had been six weeks earlier to have a mysterious spot investigated (it was a harmless blocked gland), and mentioned at the time that we were planning on trying to get pregnant later this year.
I love my gynocologist (in a non-romantic way – trust me, this distinction becomes important). I love that she gave me a stern lecture about being assertive with the scheduling staff if there is something I am worried about (like the blocked gland) and advised that I should ask to speak to her directly if they give me a hard time. I like her purple glasses and motherly attitude. I like that she sweetly asked my 48 year-old wife who would be carrying the baby. I like that she gushes about how fantastically healthy I look every time I go in. I like everything about her and want her to be my obstetrician. Which is why, at this annual appointment, I was supposed to ask her if she would be.
I was very nervous about this, because it felt a lot like asking her on a date. I have never asked a woman on a date, preferring that they ask me, or else I would just be “friends” with them until things progress on their own, if you know what I mean. Asking out was never, ever something I did.
Fortunately, Dr. R brought it up for me. “So, have you given any more thought to child bearing?” she asked me brightly. This would not be awkward at all, except that her hand was in my vagina at the time, investigating the condition of my hopefully egg-laden ovaries. “Um, yes.” I mumbled. “We still want to do it.” I couldn’t very well ask her
out on the date to be my obstetrician while her hand was in my vagina, although this actually was rather in keeping with my general method of taking relationships to the next level.
When the hand was removed, and she had pronounced that everything seemed to be in “good working order,” I told her that we were planning on trying after our trip to Paris, which was scheduled for July. Then I took a deep breath. “Are you, um, also an obstetrician?” I asked.
She laughed, “For now!” FOR NOW? What does that mean? I realized through my confusion that the nurse was also laughing. I had no idea what was going on. Seeing this, she stopped laughing for a second and said, “Yes, yes. I’m an obstetrician.” But I was so thrown off by her answer, that I just said, “Okay, thanks.” We moved on, and she advised me to make an appointment with her friend, Dr. P, a reproductive endrocrinologist, “just to see what’s what,” and so that she could walk me through the sperm bank/insemination process and just generally make sure there are no unforseen issues before we get started. Apparently, Dr. P only works part time, so I may have to wait a while for an appointment, which is why she said I should go ahead and call now.
In the parking lot, my wife looked at me expectently, with raised eyebrows. We had done that really lesbian thing of having our appointments back-to-back, so that we could carpool. “Well? Did you ask her?”
“Sort of. It was all a little vague and I don’t understand her answer. But she referred me to Dr. P! A fertility doctor! To learn about the process!”
“What do you mean ‘vague?’ Will Dr. P then be the obstetrician? How does it work?” she asked me. How am I supposed to know? I am just a passive recepticle for information. I take what is presented to me. The whole medical machine is very intimidating.
Apparently, Dr. R had also spoken to my wife about our upcoming plans (though not with her hand in my wife’s vagina — I asked about this). My wife said that Dr. R seemed as excited as we are. This is exactly why I want her to be our obstetrician! Sigh. My wife is much more assertive than I am. I informed her that if anyone is going to be asking our gynecologist out on dates, it’s going to have to be her, not me.