She wasn’t a doctor — not really. She was “just” a physician’s assistant. But my doctor had left — again. I think I’ve gone through about four at this office already, a different one almost every year.

This one was young and pretty. That surprised me. I don’t know, maybe I never considered that young women my age would want to examine other young women’s cervixes? I felt like I should have been chatting with her over coffee about our latest loves, not sitting in a cold examination room, draped in a thin cotton sheet and discussing my vagina’s history in exacting detail.

“I’ll have you lie back now,” she said when we had finished talking.

She came around the table and unsnapped the sheet. “My hands are cold,” she warned.

Oy. She wasn’t kidding. Cold fingers don’t feel any better on your breasts than they do inside your vagina.

While she performed the breast exam, I noticed she carefully avoided my eyes. Maybe she found the age thing as uncomfortable as I did. So I did the only thing I could think of: I struck up a conversation.

Trying to sustain small talk with a young, pretty doctor who has her cold hands on your boobs is not as easy as it might seem. I have no clue now what we talked about, in fact. I’m not sure I would want to know. Read More »