I know I’ve been posting about my cuchacha a lot lately, and, for that, I am heartily sorry. I apologize, specifically, to my brothers who read this blog with some regularity. This is shit no brother needs to know about his sister. Still, a story this compelling has to be told. It’s a writer’s duty to go to the dark places of the human soul.

So, today I found myself once again in my ob-gyn’s office … having a routine exam re-performed. I’ll remind you of one inept drawbridge operator and a willful cervix, and we’ll leave it at that.

It was a different woman today. She was all breezy confidence. Tall and good looking, but not too good looking. You know the type. I felt warm and safe.

She lifted the “modesty cover,” beneath which, naturally, I was nekkid as a blue jay, and said, “A study recently found that most patients don’t like it when their doctors tell them personal stories.”

I thought, Sure, I believe that. (See Wonky Cervix post.)

“I guess patients think it’s more to ease the doctors’ nerves than theirs.”

Mhmm.

“But I just have to say,” she continued, “I’m getting one of those next week.”

As she said “those,” she pointed to my cookie in a way that felt mildly … I dunno … accusatory.

I was pretty sure she was referring to my “haircut” shall we say. (The word “Brazilian” was apparently more than she could manage.) Still, I laid there in disbelief for a good 45 seconds before I could sputter out a response.

“What percent of people did you say don’t like it when their doctors relate personal information?”