In, Out--Nobody Gets Hurt

Today at lunch I went for my annual appointment at my OB/GYN. It's a necessary evil.

Healthcare has become so convoluted in the past few years that you actually need to make an appointment an hour before you actually expect to be examined. To whit: My appointment was at 1 pm. I arrived at 12:50. I was handed a clipboard and asked to fill out six pages of paperwork. I started to notice that the forms were asking incredibly repetitive questions. I had to fill out my address, my emergency contact, my social security number, my birthdate, my employer information, my gender and oh yes, my name upwards of six times.

Then I was asked to check off if I had experienced a series of ailments. Have you ever accidentally peed yourself while laughing? Have you displaced stool before you got to a toilet? Do you live in fear that your uterus will drop out when you have a violent coughing spell? I'm taking some liberties here but you get the idea.

I'm not on any medications. I've never had any surgery. I have never had or have a notable medical condition. And family history? I'm adopted so it's essentially a crapshoot. This page of the form is always the easiest--I essentially draw a diagonal line across the page and write "N/A."

The paperwork was completed by 1:04 (thanks to that N/A page). They took my insurance card and asked me to wait. And wait. I pawed through their curious selection of waiting room literature: Family Circle, Parenting, Shape, Runner's World, today's New York Post and a two week old copy of Parade. And waited. I checked my Blackberry until the receptionist told me I had to turn my cell phone off. I was about to debate her on the difference between a Blackberry and a cell phone but it really wasn't worth it. I turned it off. And waited.

I finally was called at 2:05. In order to expedite things, I was already stripping off as I followed the assistant to the examination room. In the hallway, the assistant suddenly asked, "What was the first day of your last period?" "In 2007," I replied glibly (but truthfully). She immediately retracted a plastic cup from her copious pockets and asked, "Are you possibly pregnant?" It was so tempting to say, "And are you possibly high?" I had as much chance of being pregnant as Clay Aiken did.

I hate peeing in cups. The notion of aiming is tough enough but then vapor lock sets in. I'm stuck sitting awkwardly trying to position a plastic cup in the toilet bowl, knowing I'll have to deliver something usable. I'm convinced some perv is videotaping this for the general hilarity of YouTube viewers. And trust me, it would be hilarious.

By the time I got to the examination room, it was 2:12. I strip off in record time, don the chic blue paper robe and unfurl that tablecloth thing on my lap. Why is that damned thing so big? It makes me feel like a picnic table. And then I wait. I read all the HPV literature on the wall. I grimace at the diagram of the female reproductive system (so complicated!). I wonder what is in that big red industrial waste garbage bin. And where does all that hazardous waste go?

At 2:18, I get the general physical rundown (foreplay, if you will) from the assistant. Weight (fat); Height (shrinking); Blood pressure (rising if I have to waste another second in this fucking office). At 2:25, my OB/GYN finally makes an appearance.

She's a woman on a mission and within minutes, the exam is complete and she's on her way. But she's a terrific multi-tasker. She confirmed I was peri-menopausal (thanks for confirming; I suppose the hot flashes and the violent mood swings weren't enough to send that message). The speculum was in and out faster than my prom date. Everything looked fine and healthy. I felt compelled to apologize for not waxing. "Oh, I hear that all the time," she laughed.

New York--tough town.