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Is there a reason every gynecologist’s office looks like someone ate mauve and heather blue until they vomit swirls of the colors onto the wallpaper border and the firm plastic-cushioned chairs? Low-hung ceilings and harsh lighting with three framed pieces of art from Paintings-R-Us always round out the look.
It’s like they want to look like our moms’ OB offices.
“Dr. Morgan?”
I lift my head to the door where a nurse holds an iPad expectantly. They never say much more, just wait awkwardly like I’m slow in making my way to the door.
I used to be in these situations, but that’s long since gone.
We walk though weight, blood pressure, and current meds, and I land in a beige room with a beige table with a lone white pillow. The paper gown is enough coverage for a toddler, not a grown woman. And I’m petite.
Still, I sit, hunched in, using the overgrown paper towel to cover the bits that peek from the corners.
After familiarizing myself with the new drugs available for birth control and seeing medical drawings of the uterus, I hear my phone chime. It’s another text. The tone tells me it’s not work, so it can wait. Not that I wouldn’t mind a distraction as the paper below me crinkles under my butt.
There’s another chime from my purse, and my curiosity wars with fear. I’ve made peace with my lot in life, as much as I’m able. But the chemical smells, bright LED bulbs and dingy walls coupled with Tommy rearing his head are a dangerous combination of pain and trauma.
A knock on the door brings untold relief. “Dr. Morgan?”
Dr. Jeffrey enters, a laptop in one hand, the other extended to shake mine. “Good afternoon, Olivia. How’ve you been?”
“I’m well, Elouise. How’re you?”
“Busy. One kid is a senior in high school so end-of-year activities are insane right now. The other two are doing well.” She looks at her chart. “How’s the move been for you since the last time I saw you?”
“I don’t miss Miami except for twenty-four-hour access to Cuban food and the easy drive to the Keys. But it was an easier flight for sure.”
Dr. Jeffrey is in Atlanta. As much as scheduling doctor’s appointments are challenging, the flight adds a layer of complexity that is stressful. But she’s the best, so I’m here.
“Well at least there’s that.” Her grin pulls wide across her rich, deep skin. “Any changes in sexual activity?”
Layton’s face with his easy Cheshire-cat grin pops into my head. That was a fun couple of days for sure.
We discuss changes since my last visit and all the normal things while she does her exam. “Nothing concerns me.”
I nod, sitting up.
She stands, washes her hands, and grabs her things. “When you’re ready, I’ll be in my office.”
Nothing concerns me.
I dress and go to her office where I find her flipping between a computer monitor and a tablet. Eventually, she turns the iPad to me and shows me my recent bloodwork and scan results. I’ve already studied both.
“Nothing is improving, but nothing’s getting worse either. I’m happy with these results. As quickly as it was spreading, I thought we’d have to go back again sooner. I think we have time. Has there been any change in your pain or pain management?”
“No more pain than usual.”
“Any side effects from the implant?”
“Just the usual. I don’t like it, but until we have a better solution, I’d rather have the hormones suppressed than not be there at all.”
“Olivia, your results are good. I dare say encouraging. So long as your pain is manageable, I think we can call it good for another year.”
“Thanks, Elouise. Are there any new treatments in clinical trials?”
“None that I’d recommend you for.”
“Okay.” I’ve long since made peace with my condition. I don’t like it. At all.
