MANTALK: At the gynaecologist’s office

It’s interesting looking at the interaction between a doctor whose work is to peek at women’s private parts and his patients.

I once went to the gynaecologist – not for myself, though. For my lady. It was surreal. She had asked me to pick her up since her car had broken down and when I got there, she wasn’t done because I guess gynaecologists like to take their time. I insisted on waiting downstairs in the car because there was no way I was going to sit in the waiting room with all those women.
“Come on, don’t be silly,” she said. “You will look very dodgy sitting there in the basement like a carjacker. Come up.” So I went up and found a roomful of women waiting to see this gynaecologist. There were pregnant women and women who were trying to get pregnant. There were women who had thrush and UTIs. Women who had lost their period but weren’t pregnant, and those who had very painful periods. There were those who were due for a Pap smear and those who were suspicious of their discharge. That room was full of reproductive problems, I tell you.

By the way, I know all these reproductive issues because I once worked in a hospital lab briefly. (That’s a story best told over a very strong drink.)

Anyway, I didn’t want to be there. “Kwani what time are you seeing this gynae of yours?” (Kenyans are always adding “of yours?”) I asked, looking at my watch. She ignored me. Women will sometimes answer you by not answering you. It’s your job to read the answer between the lines.

There were a few men in the waiting room, their noses buried in their emails because really, you don’t want to be on WhatsApp with her seated next to you because that’s the time some girl you haven’t spoken to in ages will be touched by Lucifer and send you a chat that starts with ‘Hey sweetie,’ and you can be sure that although wifey seems busy on Facebook, she will see that message because women have compound eyes. No matter how innocent that message is, you will be at pains to explain it.

Why is she calling you sweetie?

Are you her sweetie?

Do you call her sweetie as well?

Oh, she just calls you sweetie?

Is she the same tramp we met at the bank?

Why are you still talking to her anyway?

I’m here having a UTI and you are busy entertaining girls who call you sweetie?!

Anyway, the patients kept going in one by one until it was after 8pm. I was just beginning to feel like I was pregnant myself when they called her name. I told her, “I will wait here,” but she said, “Just come, don’t be like that.” I stood up grudgingly and went in. Imagine my shock when I found that, one, this gynae was not a woman but a man, and two, he was so young, like 40 years old, and he smelled nice and wore trendy, fitting blue jeans folded at the bottom.

“Heey my dear,” he greeted her cheerfully. I wanted to hit him over the head with the plastic model of the female reproductive organs sitting on his table.
He made her laugh a lot. More than I did. I wasn’t even jealous; I was just irritated that he was so young and charming and knew lots about the female anatomy. They talked. He scribbled in his horrible handwriting. He would stop once in a while to involve me by telling me something that he thought was funny.

I was forced to grin conspiratorially so as to seem well adjusted. After asking many questions he said rubbing his hands together gleefully, “OK, let’s have a look, shall we?” like he wanted to look in a car’s engine. She went behind a curtain to remove her clothes. (I suspect they wear their favourite panties for gynae visits.) We conversed politely as her clothes rustled from behind the curtain.

Then he joined her. I was left looking around for something to steal from his desk to make him pay.

There were murmurs from behind the curtain. I don’t know what he was telling her but I told myself that if I heard her chuckle I would go in there and tell him,

“OK, buddy I think you are enjoying your job a little too much. I will take it from here.”

Later, in the car, I asked her if she knew any woman who fell in love with their gynaes. I asked it casually, threw it right between us talking about which store is open at that hour for her to buy fruits. She looked at me and said,

“ I don’t know anyone who has fallen in love with their gynae, but I’m sure they are there.”

She went on talking about fruits.

“It would be strange, though, no?” I asked.

“What would be strange?” she asked, irritated.

Falling in love with one’s gynae, I said.

“It’s not strange, they are just like any other doctor!” I laughed a scornful laugh.

“No! They are definitely not like any other doctor!” She shrugged and said,

“Well, I need to find fruits.”

The moral of this story is that gynaes shouldn’t wear trendy jeans. And I’m not taking anyone to a gynae again. I’m done with comedians turned gynaes.