There’s something that happens to a person when they sit in a doctor’s waiting room for an hour and a half. Something … strange. So naturally I must share with you my story … (please appear to be riveted … shit’s about to get real)
It was a beautiful sunny day as I headed to my OB appointment with hope and determination. Walking tall and confident … feeling every bit the power of my womanhood. Birds chirped and baby bunnies skipped along the path next to me, admiring my boldness and courage.
Ok, fine. I was scared shitless. I won’t tell you why I was there (I was getting an IUD put in), but let’s just say the back alley rumors I had heard from my cousin had me slightly nervous. And by ‘slightly’ I mean that I almost chickened out 3 times in the parking lot – walking to and from my car in a scene that I’m sure looked perfectly sane to the 83 year old man parked next to me – and shuffled in at a snails pace in the hopes that a car would run me over. Little known fact: Being hit by a car is much easier and less gruesome than having your tightly sealed cervix brutally stretched open.
The waiting room is as beautiful as you can visualize a waiting room to be. I imagine funds from the births of my three children were poured into this new renovation and I felt like announcing, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” to everyone enjoying their luxurious surroundings. Big screen TV’s, water coolers, a bathroom a walrus could fit into and a whole separate ginormous play area for the little ones … who, by the way, were still bugging the shit out of their parents despite that wooden box thingy with the colorful swirly wires and balls on top of it.
You can’t help but look at everyone. It’s people watching at it’s easiest. Everyone is held captive. Don’t get me wrong, you have to be subtle. I’ve found staring at people creepily makes them
call security feel uncomfortable. I mean, that’s just what I’ve heard. I observed woman after woman, most in various stages of pregnancy, with every emotion you can imagine on their faces. Pain, fear, disgust, frustration, bewilderment, exhaustion … and then the few weirdos that looked happy.
Music was, obviously, playing in the background but I didn’t tune into it until Cher’s voice started singing over and over and OVER “It’s a woman’s world! IT’S A WOMAN’S WORLD!!” … I was picturing all the male doctors sitting around drinking Heinekens, putting together their waiting room playlist (as I’m sure they do) and laughing their cushy asses off about throwing in that song. By the time it was over, I was actually starting to believe it really IS a woman’s world, but then Jon Secada fucked it all up by belting out “Just Another Day”. Asshole.
At one point in my 90 minute wait, a nurse came out and asked for a woman with a name very similar to mine. I about shit my pants. I was getting more and more uptight about this little procedure. I desperately needed to pull myself together. If someone didn’t get me soon, I couldn’t and wouldn’t take responsibility for the things that could happen to them while I lay undressed from the waist down with my coochy in their face.
tripped on a love seat discreetly got up and asked the nurses how much time until I’d be seen. Their little secretive, whispered conversation with eyes both figuratively and literally darting all over the place made me realize I’d be there for at least another hour … that or they were planning some top secret gynecological spy mission. WONDERFUL! My phone was on 3% so I asked if I could borrow a phone charger. She looked at me like I’d just asked her for a meal, which, actually, I had, a minute before. Damnit, I was hungry!!
At any rate, after awhile, you start to get a little cookoo. Well, I guess I shouldn’t include you. I’m sure you’re perfectly sane. I start to feel as though I’m going to do something crazy – like stand on a chair and ask everyone to join me in a rousing rendition of Kumbaya. Or start maniacally laughing out loud at nothing in particular and asking people if they agree. Yes, after an hour and a half most people would be angry, but I just spent an hour and a half in a waiting room with NO kids – well, at least not mine. I don’t know how anyone could be angry about that. Crazy? Yes. Angry? No way.
In all my quirkiness (yes, I choose to refer to it as such), I was on the verge of screaming “my water just broke!” when my name was finally called. I’ll spare you all the details about the procedure. Let’s just say that my cervix’s new favorite song is Christina Aguleria’s “Fighter” … damn if she didn’t belt that out as loud as she could while resisting all attempts at … infiltration. She put up a good fight, but lost handily in the end. Poor thing. She never has been able to keep her mouth shut.