To: The OBs, Gyns, MDs, DDSs, DOs, LPNs, CNPs et. al
From: Me and my various body parts
Subject: Gentility
I appreciate the fact that there are a number of patients on the books waiting to see you for their appointments all hours of the day during normal business hours and sometimes after hours. However, when I have spent the better part of my appointment in the waiting room thumbing through dog-eared copies of Reader’s Digest featuring an in-depth interview with Norman Rockwell and then am finally escorted back to the actual examination room, when you glide through the door, please do your best to fake like you didn’t just read my name off of my chart. I know that I am but one of many faces you will see today, but when you come into the exam room, let’s pretend that there is no place either you have to or would rather be. Focus people, focus.
When you press your frosty stethoscope to my chest, back, and stomach to check for various burbles and gurgles, be gentle in the pressure you apply. Belching, or worse, breaking wind (I had to clean it up for the masses) in front of you is going to be nothing but embarrassing for the both of us. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a bodily function and we all do it, but we ain’t that close. Trust me.
When you stick the otoscope in my ear, trust me, the plastic guard does not have to poke out the other side of my head. And please don’t comment on the wax build-up. No matter how frequently I clean my ears, there’s always going to be some in there. I know that, you know that.
When you look into my eyes with your pen light or up my nose with your nose-looker-upper (a.k.a otoscope), don’t make small talk with me that requires me to answer questions. Your nose is about two inches from my mouth and even though I used Listerine, there are times when I doubt its effectiveness. Plus, I’d hate to bite off the tip of your nose inadvertently. That’s going to be tough to explain to the insurance company.
When you have jammed my mouth full of pointy, hooked and/or blunt tipped instruments, please don’t inquire after my children, my husband, my house hunting or lack thereof, or my plans for the upcoming week-end. I can’t answer you, at least not in a language we both understand as English.
When you are doing a cheek, nostril, throat, cervix or any other kind of swab, pretend that it’s your cheek, nostril, throat or cervix that is about to get tested. Let’s not see how many times I gag before you finally finish. You don’t have to scratch my brain to make sure you’ve swabbed the inside of my nose thoroughly enough. I don’t want to see the end of the q-tip through my stomach when you’re testing my cervix for abnormal cells. See, when I wince, suck in my breath, clench my eyes shut or do any thing other than breathe normally, I’m probably a little uncomfortable.
When you are attempting to draw blood, even after I have told you that I have small, jumpy veins, please don’t “see if I can get it one more time”. I’m not a pin cushion. Switching back and forth between arms really doesn’t do much to instill further confidence in your ability. Go back to practicing on oranges. Don’t even think about asking me to show you the backs of my hands. Sure, some blood will be drawn, but it’ll be coming out of your nose from where I punched you in it.
When you have already administered anesthesia that is supposed to knock me out and yet, I’m still having a conversation with you, don’t act surprised when I say, “Yes, I can feel you pinching/pulling/poking me.” Really, I don’t need a natural experience when it comes to having a C-section.
I’ve come to realize, as my feet dangle in the stirrups and my butt cheeks hang precariously off the edge of the table or as I recline the chair with my mouth stuffed with novacaine and enough cotton balls to stuff several bras or as my thighs stick to the paper covers exam table while the rest of my body is rubbed raw under the rough paper gown or is totally visible through the threadbare cloth gown that I’m actually paying you to poke, prod, and pinch me in some pretty private areas. You didn’t even buy me dinner. Hell, you didn’t even know my name until you looked at it as you turned the knob on the exam room door.
You have a job to do. I appreciate that. But just for a second, let’s put the gown on you and the chart in my hands. If ever a time called for the golden rule, this is one of them.
Very truly yours,
Hilary with one “L” and her body.