The very worst doctor story ever, just for Rob

Exhibit A

So the following story will contain nekedness, painful embarrassment, and an ultrasound scope. But I have an agenda here - my most favorite doctor story of Rob's to tell, the one at which I laugh hysterically just thinking of it, Rob is too mortified to actually let me tell. Ever. To anyone. Even back to himself.

And that, mind you, usually doesn't stop me (surprise, surprise), but telling my sisters is a little bit different than telling it here.

So my plan is this: tell my worst doctor story, then see if he relents and lets me tell his.

Thus...my story:
Back before kids - before the shock of finding our post-birth home movies of Jannika contained (over all other sounds) my delivering doctor giving many clustering interns step-by-step instructions on the episiotomy they were watching him conduct, before the lactation consultant permanently stripped away all sense of "my body belongs to me" with her womanhandling ways - waaaay back when I had something called decorum, I once went to my yearly gyno appointment and was told I could possibly have ovarian cysts.

Apparently I needed a professional ultrasound. My "I should have been a doctor" self was intrigued - an ultrasound! Like in the movies! Possible cysts aside, this was going to be awesome.

So I show up to the ultrasound appointment later that day ready for the goo, the belly wand, the fuzzy black and white images. The nurses aide comes in, takes my blood pressure, then announces, "The ultrasound tech will be in in a moment. You can take off your clothes - here's a coverup for you."

Uhhhhh.... what?

So I say - and I remember this distinctly - "...like, everything?" To which she responds cheerfully, "Yup!" and walks out of the room.

A little bit of excitement starts to waver at this point. Apparently this is not going to be a movie scene of exposed belly with a pushed up shirt and slightly scrunched down pants. (See Exhibit A above. The only exhibit I'm about to submit for illustrating this story, by the way.) What kind of ultrasound requires you to be naked??

As I am one to generally follow all rules, however, I do what she asks. Exposed and freezing, I pick up the coverup, unfold it, and ... don't find the demure hospital gown I am expecting. Instead, I find a 2 foot by 2 foot paper square thing. Two ruler-lengths by two ruler-lengths of crinkly nothing.

And I stand there, confounded.

Where, exactly, was this supposed to go? Top? Bottom? Oh my word, WHAT DO I DO??? WHY DID I THINK THIS WAS GOING TO BE FUN?

So I sit on the edge of the table, hunched over, trying to cover everything with something barely the size of a kleenex, when the ultrasound tech knocks once, swings the door open (quite wide), and greets me with a "Are you rea- WHOAH. Uhhhhhh...." Kudos to someone using her brain that day, for with catlike grace she leaps into the room and closes the door in a panic, gasping, "You only had to remove the bottom half of your clothes!"

Thank you, clear direction-giver (entering the story 6 minutes too late).

The only thing I could think of is to look around for a stirrup with which to hang myself. Being the professional she is, however, she dismisses the whole thing with a "It doesn't matter - here, lie down." So I lie down and position the crinkly square of shame on my top half. After 30 seconds of inwardly swearing at myself, I can't stand it anymore. The exposure! The humiliation! The bottom half of me just so...uncovered.

So I pull it low.

Then high.

Then at a strange diagonal. Oh my word, I WANT TO DIE.

All the while I can see the corners of her mouth twitching while she's trying not to look at me (lying on the table with various and alternating parts completely laid bare) and attempting to ready an ultrasound wand - the very un-movie-like ultrasound wand, mind you. She suddenly breaks down laughing, apologizing profusely for her unprofessionalism through peals of laughter while she fetches me another crinkly square of shame.

Properly covered and completely humiliated, I forget my discomfort as I stare with intrigue at the ultrasound monitor while the tech looks around for cysts.

Her, with flourish: "Ah ha! Well, you see that?"
Me, peering in disbelief: "That's a cyst?"
Her: "Oh no, there aren't any cysts. I think your gynecologist must have felt the results of last night's dinner. Wow...do you see all that? What did you eat?? [more probing and pressure] WOW. Well, at least you don't have cysts. And we know you certainly have a healthy intestinal system."
Me: "I can't tell if you're joking. Are we looking at what I think we're looking at? That's what my OB mistook for a cyst?"

Yes, yes we were. And yes, yes it was. Just kill me now.