Heather Poole

It’s not every day your gynecologist confesses something you really wish he had not confessed.  The funny thing is the confession itself didn’t make me uncomfortable.  Nor did the position I happened to be in when the confession took place bother me.  What bothers me is the strange effect it’s had on me since.    

It’s important to point out that my doctor isn’t just a regular gynecologist, he’s a fertility specialist, a well renowned one who gets quoted in Us Magazine on a regular basis.  So you know he’s got to be good!  I’ve been seeing him on and off for about five years now, but I’ll tell you more about that in an upcoming Galley Gossip post I’ve been working on about infertility and flying.  Over the last three months I’ve been in and out of his office numerous times.  Even so, I don’t think he knows me by name.  And that’s okay with me!   He’s a scientist, not a social director.  All he knows is va – ya know.  Which is also fine by me!  In fact I  prefer it that way.  I like my…ya know I know you know – to remain nameless and faceless.  It makes things easier.  I think.  

So anyway there I was up on the table, the timer had been set for fifteen minutes and I’d been instructed to relax in a room with harsh lighting.  I asked the nurse to hand me a magazine – Red Book.  The doctor was just about to walk out the door when he turned and asked what I had planned for the rest of my day.  Besides taking it easy, I told him I’d probably just go home and write.

His eyes lit up.  “What are you writing about?”

“A book about being a flight attendant.”  I won’t bore you with the details.  Basically I just told him that I’m writing essays in chronological order of my flying career.  

“Congratulations!” he said with the door slightly ajar.  I prayed to God no one walked by.  “I’ve written a few books myself…”  

I knew that.  It’s how I found him in the first place.  I read the book, Conceptions and Misconceptions: The informed consumers guide through the maze of in vitro fertilization and assisted reproduction techniques.  I also knew that the door, still cracked, happened to be located down the hall from “the lab” where the guys holding the brown paper bags with a plastic container inside were sent to “drop off specimens.” In order to get there one had to pass my room, a room with a wonderful view of me.  

“Last year I sent off a proposal for a new book, but it got rejected.  They didn’t think it would sell.  I called it Confessions of a Gynecologist.”    

“Oh I’d read that!” I exclaimed from the table covered only in paper from the waist down.  Really I would read it.  I’m kind of sick like that.  “Get me pregnant again, doctor, and I’ll pass your manuscript along to my editor at Harper Collins.”

I’d never seen the doctor smile so big.  “It’s a deal!”  Finally he shut the door.

I didn’t think twice about the book of confessions as I continued to lie there with a magazine held over my head.  Nor did it enter my mind as I got dressed to leave and waved goodbye to the friendly staff.  I even went home and laughed about it with my husband who seemed just as intrigued as me by what  the confessions could possibly be.  I’m not really quite sure when the confession about the book of confessions began to haunt me.  But at some point it did.  Perhaps when I realized vaginas may not be quite as nameless and faceless as I had once hoped thought.  In fact it’s worse.  They have stories.  Stories that might be worth publishing.  Which means thems got to be some crazy ass stories, ya know what I’m sayin?   And so I began to worry.  I mean what kind of story did my vagina have?  Or did it even have one?  God forbid it didn’t!  But something told me it did.  In fact, this could very well be the beginning of it.  Who knows.  All I know is ya have to wonder about a person who’s willing to write about what they do for a living like that!  😉