The Sunday Memory Drawer - Do I Look Pregnant to You?

Continuing on with my groin-ecological timebomb that was lit in last Sunday’s memory drawer, I pretty much ascribed to the notion that “ignorance was bliss.” I was ignorant and blissful. Unless I looked down yonder, the problem was frequently out of sight and definitely out of mind. And since I rarely had to visit a doctor for almost two and a half decades, nobody bothered me about it. At the same time, my father had been ignoring his doctor for perhaps four and a half decades.

Then he died of prostate cancer. My father, not his doctor.

Suddenly aware of how nasty family genetics can be, I decided to adopt a crusade for my own health and well being. I needed doctors of all shapes, forms, and specialties. ENT. Gastro. Podiatrist. You name it. I was collecting the business cards of some of the finest physicians in Westchester County. And I even landed with a general internist, who would be charged with giving me my first physical examination since the Mets’ World Series win in 1969. Dr. Fink.

He would live up to his name quickly. Because he naturally zoned in on the problem first detected by Dr. Fiegoli from the days when the Dick Van Dyke Show was still in prime time.

”You know that you have…”

Yes, I do.

”And it probably should have been addressed before…”

Uh huh.

”So, what do we want to do about it now?”

Can I come back in another 25 years with the answer?

No dice. Literally.

Dr. Fink said no immediate action was needed. We could monitor it on an annual basis with an ultrasound exam.

Hmmm, I thought. Ultrasound? That word doesn’t sound very sharp at all.

”Well, we want to keep on top of this because it could develop into cancer…”

Hello???

I got the name of the nearest ultrasound facility on my way out.

Over the next few years, I had two such places in my life. One in White Plains, New York and the other in Santa Monica, California after I moved to the Left Coast. And the experience was the same every time as I went in for my annual look to make sure that no, gasp, cancer, had occurred as a result of my congenital condition. Every time I went in for the exam, it was the same.

I was the lone guy in a room full of pregnant women. The magazines in the waiting room were always of the same mindset. ‘Babies.” “Women’s Day.” “Parents.” There was not a “Sports Illustrated” to be found for miles. One time, a lady asked me if my wife had already gone in for her exam.

”Don’t you want to be with her when you find out the sex of your child?”

I bitchslapped her in my mind. But my audible response to her was a bit more cordial.

”We just had a fight and she can’t stand the sight of me.”

Ms. Busybody recoiled a bit.

”Oh.”

She buried herself back in her magazine and proceeded to rip out some coupons for tampons. I was called in myself several minutes later and I left this addled loon in her naturally confused state, wondering just what my real story was.

There was another instance while having an ultrasound at St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica. One more time, I am surrounded by expectant mothers. I was the only drop of testosterone in the entire place. I tried to avoid eye contact but couldn't help but zero in on one lady off to the side. She looked damn familiar. Where the hell have I seen her before? Her head was covered by a veritable lion's mane of hair, but, deep down, the face was there and recognizable. I got my answer when the nurse called for the next patient to enter the magical magnetic chamber.

"Hayley Mills, please."

A-ha.

Okay, I doubted that Pollyanna was there for any baby-related business. I am guessing those eggs had turned to dust several years earlier. But, she smiled as she walked past me. I longed to see that busybody from my previous exam. She might have thought that I was Mr. Hayley Mills. "Let's get together, whadda you say..."

My fun only began when I got called for my turn in front of the big camera. Pants down. Underwear down. Lie down, please.

"Are you comfortable, sir?"

Duh.

"Okay, this is going to feel a little warm on you."

Ugh. Out came the green goo that preceded any ultrasound. And it got liberally applied all over my...

To make matters even worse, over the course of having this done to me for about six years in a row, never once did I get a male technician. Nope, every year, it was a lady. Usually someone around my age or younger.

Ten minutes a year always felt like ninety. And, lucky me. Each technician was incredibly thorough. Guiding their machine...and usually their right hand...all over the area directly south of my navel.

Miss, aren't you even going to buy me dinner first?

There was one year where the technician was particularly attractive. It didn't feel so bad that time.

"Miss, I'm going to give you thirty minutes to stop doing that."

Eventually, the imagined pain subsided and I squished my way out of the center, knowing that there would be another time perhaps 365 days away. Until, one year, there was a call from my doctor, who is a terrific urologist based in Santa Monica.

"Er, I think we spotted something we didn't want to see."

Gulp.

"It's probably best we remove it."

And we pause one more time. To be continued. Next Sunday.

Dinner last night:  SPO at Carlo's.