I always favored women doctors, especially for women things. I mean, who’s really going to understand a yeast infection? Or birth? Someone with a penis or a vagina? It’s hard to argue the obvious. But nine years ago, when I moved to my new town four months pregnant, I needed an Ob/Gyn stat, and it seemed the name that fell from everyone’s lips was Dr. David Goodman.
“Dr. Goodman is amazing,” gushed my realtor.
“I love Dr. Goodman.” The woman from the nursery school practically swooned.
I wished David was a Danielle but I decided not to argue a multiple source recommendation and made an appointment.
I expected Dr. Goodman to be kind and experienced. I didn’t expect him to be young and charismatic. A little too charismatic, causing my mother upon meeting him to flutter and remark. “Oh, that Dr. Goodman is quite good-looking.”
She wasn’t wrong. For an Ob/Gyn doctor he wasn’t all that bad, and for a hormone infused pregnant lady, that was pretty good. We chatted easily, and he casually threw flirty compliments my way which made me glow, although I let people think it was the pregnancy.
Of course, I now understood part of Dr. Goodman’s wide appeal, but there were problems. There was no way I could have this man patting down my breasts while talking casually about the weather. And an internal? No sirree, not if I could find another doctor in the practice to see at those times, which I did. Clearly, Dr. Goodman and I were dating. I certainly wasn’t going to give away the goods without a nice bottle of wine, which I couldn’t have for another five months.
So I continued to see him on appointments where we listened to my baby’s heart beat and we chatted about movies and local restaurants I imagined he wanted to take me to. It was all so lovely. I began to look forward to every appointment. Maybe a little too much.
The morning I went into labor, I called him at a little after 5am with contractions fast approaching 5 minutes apart. He was at the gym. Of course.
“Don’t worry about it, baby.” He said, totally cool. “Just wait till they’re three minutes, then head to the hospital.”
He called me baby.
I couldn’t breathe. I started to pant. Oh yeah, I was having a contraction, but still, I knew that after the baby was born, I would have to break things off.
It made me sad. He was a good doctor, but it was all getting a little too awkward, for me at least. For him, it was just another one of his babies having a baby.
He wasn’t on call when I delivered, and for my six week check-up I made my appointment with Dr. Jeanine in the practice.
We were over, but I avoided seeing him at the office for fear he’d ask me why I’d left him.
What could I say?
“I like you, but I don’t feel comfortable with your hand between my legs?”
Sneaking out seemed the best option.
Not long after, he left the practice to start his own. I’m sure many women followed.
But not me.
Dr. Jeanine and I are still seeing each other.
photo cred: xlcountry.com