I might be the only guy to be a patient of a gynocologist. Here's the story: When my fiancee and I moved to Massacusetts, she needed to find a new doctor. I was working at a local restaurant, so I asked the waitesses to recommend somebody. They said, "Have her go see Dr. Freid. He's very good."
She went, and said yes, he was terrific. While there, she asked him to recommend a doctor for me. He said, "Why? Is he sick?" She explained no, but we were getting married, and needed a doctor to sign off on my blood tests. The doc told her I should just go down to the lab, have them draw blood, and send him the results. Any doctor can sign off on blood tests.
Problem was, in order for them to receive the test results, I had to actually become a patient. This meant going into the office and filling out the intake paperwork. Me. At a gynocologist's office.
So, I go in to Dr. Freid's office. Six women in the waiting room. No men in the waiting room. I walk up to the receptionist and tell her I need to fill out the intake paperwork. I feel twelve eyes shift to me. Ms. Receptionist, chomping on her gum, hands me a clipboard, already done up with the usual forms. I sit.
I've never been so confused in my life. Six pages of questions that nobody ever asked me before, and I have no idea what they mean. Some examples:
Have you ever experienced tenderness in the breasts? My breasts? No. Other people's breasts, sure, plenty of times.
Do you find intercourse uncomfortable? No. Never.
Are you pregnant at this time? No, but I'm working on it.
How often do you perform self exams? Hourly. More often if neccessary.
Meanwhile, I know these six women are checking me out, but without really looking at me. You know they're wondering about me. There are only a few options: either I'm a guy becoming a woman, or a woman who became a guy. Either way, I don't easily fit into the social structure of suburban Boston in 1989.
Towards the end, there's a question I have no idea on: "Date of LMP." LMP? What the hell is LMP? So I finish everything else, and go back to the receptionist. Quietly, discreetly, I ask, "I just don't know what this question means." She's still chomping that gum, looks at the form, and loudly explains, chomp, chomp, "Last menstrual period," chomp, chomp, chomp.
As uncomfortable as all that was, it was nothing compared to the exam, which was incredibly painful. Boys, when women tell you that exam is painful, believe it. That doctor seemed really confused.
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|My visit to the gynocologist