News

Health

We need wine at 'Pappy Hour'

By SHANNON BREEN
Published February 4, 2005

---

tbt* illustration by Teresanne Cossetta

While examining me about a year ago, my gynecologist told me that I resembled Jodie Foster.

Uh. She wasn't looking at my face.

I made a joke to that effect.

No response from my deadpan examiner. Zilch. Nada.

My body's entire blood supply rose upward, heating my face to a dark beet color. You can't crawl under a rock when your feet are jammed in stirrups.

Well, it's that time again for my annual pap smear. Fine procedural name. Paaaaaaap smeeeeeear. Sounds like something you'd spread on a Ritz cracker.

Time for the examiner to make small talk such as, "So, what do you do for a living? Helen, pass that speculum. Nooooo, the bigger one."

How about the woman who stands beside the doc during the exam? What's the prerequisite to land that gig? Is it similar to becoming a notary?

Does that reassuring smile and head nod mean she somehow approves of my special place?

The thought of lying in that position makes me wish that my doctor and I would preface the moment by sharing a bottle of wine and some stimulating conversation.

So, yeah, I canceled the last two appointments for my yearly exam.

When my third scheduled appointment approached, I thought of cooking up another excuse. What could I say this time? "I have a headache?" That worked the first two times. They wouldn't buy it again.

That's it. I had to go.

G-day arrived.

Glancing around the waiting room, I noticed a curly-haired teenage girl sitting with her parents, a 30-something pregnant woman flanked by two young children and an older man sitting alone, reading Parenting magazine. Were they all just as nervous as I?

The moment of dread was here. "Shannon Breen? Come on down, you're the next contestant." Only it wasn't Rod Roddy in a sparkling neon suit. It was a poker-faced young woman in blue medical fatigues, handing me a plastic cup with my name on it.

I disappeared into the powder room and practiced my aim, emerging victoriously.

I set my cup next to dozens of others. ("Tanya," "Marie" and "Jennifer" had also been successful)

Subsequently, my blood pressure, temperature and weight were checked.

In Exam Room 3, I slipped into couture le' gynecologue : a thin paper gown that opened in the front, roughly the size of a cocktail napkin.

Hootie and the Blowfish's Hold My Hand played on the intercom. I remember wishing that Darius Rucker was holding my hand.

I discovered something that made me even more nervous: My socks were mismatched.

A rapid double knock at the door preceded my doctor's entrance, The Notary just a stride behind.

My doc appeared warm and friendly, from which I took immediate comfort. We discussed my blood pressure, and how it was higher than normal. She attributed that to the nervousness. NERVOUS!!! DID I SEEM NERVOUS!!! WHAT GAVE HER THAT IDEA!!!

Lubing up an intimidating-looking metal instrument, she told me to lay down on the examination table and asked, "So how were your holidays?" I tried to concentrate on my answer while peripherally noticing Notary slipping on rubber gloves. My blood pressure climbed to a bajillion over a gazillion.

Sensing my angst, my doctor told me to relax. Trying to lighten the mood, I awkwardly directed attention to my mismatched socks. She said she hadn't noticed, but told me about a patient who surprised her with a prosthetic leg. She said she noticed that.

"Okay, all done."

That's it? Talk about wham, bam...

"I'll be in touch if anything comes back abnormal. Otherwise, I'll see you in a year," she said.

Geez. How anticlimactic. Not even a cookie and juice.

I paid my tab.

At the front desk, the secretary asked if I'd like to make an appointment for next year's visit.

What I said: "Sure."

What I was thinking: "January 2006. I predict a headache that month."

- Shannon Breen breen@tampabay.com

[Last modified February 3, 2005, 15:07:59]