There I was in the throes of my annual pap exam, on the table, feet in stirrups, probably the least dignified position a woman ever finds herself in. Toss in the Pepto Bismol pink gown…opened to the front like bad Versace, and you wish you packed a full flask of gin in your purse.
The lady doctor, all of 12, I half expected to skip rather than walk, looked as if she graduated an hour before my scheduled appointment.
This is what you get at the clinic, though at one of the top New York Hospitals, a fetus in a lab coat.
I know the drill. Slide down the table, a little more a little more…this might feel cold…hold on…just one more sec.
As I waited with the jack they use to stretch your vagina to West Virginia, I look up, curious about the delay, and what do I find but Dr. Lolita, on her phone…
When I came to, I said…
“Excuse me, what are you doing exactly? I’m mean, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
With the charm of a Smurf, she says, “Oh, I’m texting my mother to not expect me for dinner…I see I’ll be running behind.”
“While I’m on this table with my legs in a split, you’re worried about dinner? You’re running behind because you’re texting.”
I had just about enough.
For openers, no pun intended, I had to wait an hour before I was seen, surrounded by a pregnant woman with 5 children already, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken in the waiting home, another one yelling at the father of her not-yet-born-baby, on her cell. “Jamal, I’m warnin you.”
To then have to endure dinner plans kinda put me over the edge…of the table.
As she proceeded to begin my exam, I closed my legs like an irate clam, climbing furiously off after insisting she de-jack me. Now I know how a Pontiac feels hoisted down at the garage.
“This is what you’re going to do,” I said, “are you listening? You’re going out to reception and get me another appointment with a doctor with more experience than you.
Are you listening?
If you dare come back and say, they can’t see you till next October then be prepared for me to scream holy hell that you were texting instead of papping.
ARE YOU LISTENING?”
Wordlessly, she left the room, returning in a jiffy to say..
“Are you free this Friday Miss Bionco, at noon?”
“I don’t know about Miss Bionco, but Miss Bianchi is…thank you very much.