I hate going to doctor’s appointments as much as I despise cockroaches, having to fill out governmental forms, and moving my husband’s dirty socks from their discarded place on the floor to the hamper. That level of hate.
Not only is it an extremely uncomfortable experience to be asked deeply personal and invasive questions, but there is something even more intrusive about having physicians probing unmentionable orifices while simultaneously attempting to engage you in small talk.
I think they do it on purpose.
For instance, to ensure that all dignity is removed from the patient, paper gowns are provided as part of some Machiavellian scheme with which to lure the unsuspecting victim into thinking that the flimsy garment might actually do its job of covering the body. Not only do these napkin-sized garments fail to cover the more pertinent bits, but the material is so thin and prone to ripping that in the attempt to cover up with the foolish thing, it often transforms into a pile of confetti. Those fabric gowns aren’t much better, so worn that they are fully see-through, and with a questionable design flaw which allows for a wide assortment of bums to be flaunted for everyone to see. Don’t get me wrong – a beautiful bum is a wonderful thing to behold, but not so much when the bum either is so hairy that it looks like Chewbacca trapped in a canyon or so saggy that the cheeks should really be tucked into socks.
However, all of my previous unpleasant physician appointments had nothing on my current #1 must-be-avoided-at-all-costs office – the dermatologist. This office is unfortunately staffed with gorgeous specimens of manhood whose perfect visages cause me to panic and giggle like a prepubescent girl whenever they ask me a question. This is even more embarrassing when those gorgeous doctors perform their full-body skin melanoma scan, still engaging me in conversation while perusing my entre inventory of loose bits and stretch marks.
I thought that exam had to be the most embarrassing thing that I could experience, I was wrong.
During my last visit, while I was fully nude and in the middle of hanging my clothing on the back of the door, one of the gorgeous doctors opened the door without warning. At this point, I noticed 4 things.
1) There were two men in the hallway, waiting to check out of the office.
2) There was an older man in the waiting room
3) All three were staring at me
4) The two men in the hallways had codfish expressions on their faces, eyes practically bugging out of their faces, and mouths hung agape. The old man was grinning and gave me a double thumbs-up sign.
In light of the proceedings, I then attempted to dive out of sight, nudie bits flapping furiously as I tried to cover everything and managed nothing.
15 long minutes later, finally somewhat garbed in the haute couture of the paper-gown variety (thankfully not shredded to confetti, but sans ties, which I had accidentally snapped off in my panicked state), a nurse knocked on the door, asking if it would be OK if I came back for another appointment with another doctor.
She thought it was hilarious.
I still don’t.
From now on, I will either remain fully clothed at all appointments, or will change with my back holding the door shut. I will also check to see if the three stooges who saw me naked are sitting in wait for my next performance.
And people wonder why I hate going to doctor’s appointments…
About the author: Marybeth Mitcham holds a BS in Biology, is completing her MPH in nutrition, and currently works as a tutor for Liberty University’s Online Writing Center. In addition to being a regular contributor to The Mighty website, she is a freelance author whose writings have been published online, in Celebrate Life Magazine, and in several printed and e-book anthologies. Marybeth lives with her family in the Southern Adirondack region of New York, where she can often be found hiking mountains, riding motorcycles, or hovering near the woodstove in her spare time.
1 Comment
Thanks for this one! You’ve performed a valuable public service–you actually got someone who was dreading going to the doctor to laugh about it instead.