Dear Doctor Obgyn

Dear Doctor Obgyn,

I love you.  You know I do.  You're a brilliant woman who removed cancer from my body three years ago and who has been a bright spot in all the follow-up care of the last few years.

I love how you genuinely care about people and how you talk to me like I matter to you as a person, not just as a patient.  I love your vast knowledge and your yearning to learn more.  I love that you are skillful as well.

What I don't love, or like, is waiting in the examining room for an hour and forty-five minutes before you show up.  Not the waiting room, where there are magazines and things to read and people to talk to, but the examining room, which contains exactly:  one illustration of one part of the female anatomy, one box that says "Scopettes," one oil painting of flowers on the wall, and various bottles with lettering too small to read from where I sat at the edge of the examining table.

There was a phone attached to the wall, just to my left, where I could see all kinds of tempting buttons to press . . . AND a clear display of the time.  So, I knew how long I'd waited.  Yes, I did.  Minute by minute . . . I knew.

Out of respect for your time, I even changed into the little gown-y thing before the nurse poked her head in to tell me to because, after a half-hour, I thought maybe she had forgotten, and I didn't want you to have to wait on me to be ready.

So, then, there a girl sits, and after waiting forever, you feel like certainly you've been forgotten way down there in Room 6.  But you don't really want to get up and open the door to make your existence known when you're wearing a getup like that, you know?

I totally considered picking up that phone and pressing random buttons to see who might come to my aid, but I figured with my luck, I'd end up inadvertently making a loud-speaker announcement or something.  Fortunately, your nurse finally poked her head in to acknowledge my presence and let me know you were still in with another patient.

Thanks for the info.

I pondered fetching my phone from my purse across the room so I could at least look at Facebook or text some more people.  But what if you walked in while I was walking around the room?  Not even considering the gown-y thing, somehow it would be . . . awkward . . . for you to catch me in my impatience and boredom.  You're not supposed to see me walking.  Anywhere.  You're supposed to see me on that table or, a few years ago, on a hospital bed.  That's it.

I'm accustomed to waiting quite a long while for you.  But an hour and forty-five minutes?

Why don't doctors' offices have suggestion boxes?  If I had seen one, here's what I would have written on the little square of paper:  "You do an awesome job.  The staff here is friendly and courteous and professional.  Please just schedule the appointments so that a short appointment like mine doesn't get crowded out by whatever was going on in Room 5."

Sincerely,

P.S.  It's probably counterproductive for me to tell you this, but I like you so much that I will stay with you as long as you're in practice, no matter how long you make me wait.

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