My lady doctor is a man.
AND I LOVE HIM.
Stay with me for a minute. Never did I ever think I would be comfortable with a male gyno, let alone wax rhapsodic about it.
But I’ve never had a female doc who listened half as well to my concerns, or spent time educating me about my choices.
Dr. D. is a sweet older man and endlessly interesting. Sometimes we talk about meerkats and his yearly adventures in Africa. Sometimes we talk about James Joyce and Dracula. The last time, we talked about our astrological signs and why I hate the song “The Age of Aquarius” because it makes me think of the Zodiac killer.
But this is the main the point: we talk. The first time I saw him, he spent the first twenty minutes simply chatting, asking me about my studies, my family, my home in Alabama. When I saw him the next month, he remembered what I was studying (we spent ten minutes on how Dracula can be read through the lens of Anglo-Irish anxieties). Not only does he take the time to get to know patients, he also insists on educating me, and then refuses to make a decision for me. He explains what’s up, lays out the different options, and then it’s up to me to choose how to move forward. This frustrated me a bit at first; I once burst out, “You’re the doctor–you tell me what to do!”
“It’s your body,” he shot back.
TOUCHÉ, DOCTOR D.
The only way my doctor could be better is if he handed out lollipops at appointments. He listens. He educates. That’s why I turn positively evangelical when women’s health turns up, why I struggle to restrain myself from clutching your arm and shouting, “Let me tell you about my gynecologist! You HAVE to see him.”
And at the end of the day, he empowers me to make informed decisions, to take ownership of my healthcare choices.That feeling, my friends, is better than a lollipop. Though I’ll take a root beer Dum Dum, if you insist.