I went for my first physical exam in years yesterday with the dithering Dr. Ben, a former resident of Morocco who, while fluent in the language of love, has some difficulty communicating in the language of world enterprise.
Don't get me wrong; he's a lovely man, an older gentleman with a warm smile and a je ne sais quoi? attitude. A change in a mole? No problem, madame, ven it groz beeg I vill take it out!
Anxiety? No, you do not have anxiety! Exercise!
I couldn't help but be amused. He kind of reminded me of Dr. Spaceman on 30 Rock.
If Dr. Spaceman rode a camel.
First, it was clear that Dr. Ben didn't have much experience with computers. He picked and misspelled and backspaced on each word, then announced the word out loud, almost triumphantly.
He also didn't seem to have any of the right equipment or supplies to do a physical on a woman of my size and age.
The baby blue top I was given didn't begin to cover my breasts. It was the size of a hand towel.
At one point, as I was laying there, legs akimbo, he turned to the nurse and said this:
"I vill need a beeker speculum!"
(That's the dodad they put up your yoohoo for those not familiar with medical terms.)
Apparently, the clinic only stocked speculums in the smaller sizes, the ones they use on Heidi Klum.
Oh well, forge on, as they say.
"I cannot find your cervix."
"Your cervix; I cannot find."
So Dr. Ben spent at least five minutes up there, like some kind of Indiana Jones character wandering through the Temple of Doom. Finally, after throwing away the speculum and using the "digit" test, he located it.
Ta-da! Zis boom ba!
By this time, his nurse and I were in hysterics.
The consultation ended with no further incident and I came away with the paperwork for my blood and mam tests.
If I had been a younger woman, I would have been mortified, but all Dr. Ben did was give me a good story for the blog, oui?
Maybe they do things differently in Morocco. Good news is when I told him I loved my red wine, he didn't do what most Canadian doctors do....stare me down in an accusatory fashion and remind me that the maximum weekly allotment of wine for women is 14 glasses a week.
My weeks are shorter than most.
Nope, Dr. Ben simply put down "social drinker".
When I came back from the doctor's office, I couldn't wait to tell Scott about my cavernous vagina with the hidden passage to my uterus.
He was non-plussed when I told him the doc couldn't find my cervix.
"I could have told him where it was," he said without blinking.