Page 7 of Not My Finest Hour

“Dahlia Davis?”

I look up as my name is called, and the assistant, a full-figured woman in pink scrubs, greets me with a smile. I get up from my seat, and we exchange the usual pleasantries. She hands me a cup for a urine sample and points me toward the bathroom, telling me that I can put the cup in the metal door above the toilet. Then she tells me that when I’m done, I can go to the first door on the right. I already know the drill since this is where I’ve been going ever since I was in my late teens, but since I haven’t been here in a couple of years, I appreciate the refresher.

In the exam room, the assistant goes through my medical history, asking me all sorts of questions about my periods. I explain that my last period was roughly a week ago, and it was a normal period for me. At least I think that’s when it was. Add that to my list of things I should keep better track of. But for the last four years, I haven’t had to think about periods and ovulation because I wasn’t having sex.

“Have you had sex in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours?” The woman looks at me with her cherub face, expecting me to say no.

“Yes, I have,” I say proudly.And it was wonderful,I want to add, but keep that bit to myself.

The assistant keeps quiet and types something into my online chart. She’s silent for way too long, making me fidget in my seat.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, unable to take the silence any longer.

“Probably not. It’s just that we usually ask our patients to refrain from sexual intercourse for one to two days before a Pap smear.”

“Oh,” I say quietly, redness blooming across my cheeks. “Do I need to reschedule?” I hope she says no. I don’t want to have to come back here for at least a few years.

“No, you don’t have to reschedule. We’ll just make a note on your chart in case there are any abnormalities on your Pap.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would cause an issue.”

“It’ll most likely be okay.” She gets up from her chair and opens a drawer on the side of the exam table. She pulls out a white hospital gown and tells me to get fully undressed, and to put the gown on with the opening in the front. “Dr. Tarlton will be in to conduct your exam in a few minutes.”

I nod, and once she leaves the room, I hurry up and get undressed. I always feel like I either have too much time to get undressed or not enough. I’m either caught in the middle of taking my pants off, or sitting on the exam table in a scratchy gown for far too long. There’s never an in between. I put the gown on with the opening in the front, just like she said, then pull it tighter around me to make sure nothing is hanging out when the doctor comes in.

After a few short moments, there’s a knock on the exam room door, and once I give the go-ahead, Dr. Tarlton steps in, greeting me with his warm smile.

“Dahlia, how are you doing today?”

“I’m doing fine. I didn’t think I was going to make it on time since traffic was so bad,” I reply.

He nods in understanding. “Traffic is the perpetual problem around here, isn’t it?” Dr. Tarlton takes a seat and looks through my chart briefly, then turns his attention toward me. “How’s your family doing? Has your dad finally retired yet?”

The ability of Dr. Tarlton to remember even the most mundane facts about me and my family is just one of the reasons why I keep coming back to him. I switched to him after my last gynecologist, a female, wouldn’t take my concerns seriously. The last practice I was at was a group of doctors who, on their website, claimed to be the most attentive and caring physicians in the Puget Sound region. “We treat every patient like family.”Bullshit.Dr. Johnson and her gang of misfit gynecologists seemed to be more concerned with getting as many patients through the door as possible so they could keep that money rolling in. When I’d have an exam, Dr. Johnson would spend about five minutes with me, and any concerns I had about period pains or severe cramping, she wrote them off as normal and basically dismissed me. She actually told me once that sometimes when women talk about their periods, “we can get a little dramatic.”

Dr. Tarlton is different. He listens to me, and every concern I have is given the attention it deserves.

“Yes, he retired last year. And he’s been trying to keep busy with little projects here and there, but he’s got something to keep him occupied now.” Dr. Tarlton waits for me to continue. “My mom is getting her kitchen remodeled, and although my dad isn’t helping, he likes to be at home to observe and make sure everything is going as it should.”

“That’s exciting for them. And I assume everything’s going smoothly so far?”

“So far. Or at least that was the case when I talked to my mom last.”

“That’s good to hear,” he says with a smile. “Before we begin our exam, I wanted to let you know that we have a resident in the building, and as with all our patients, I need to ask you if it’s okay that they sit in on the exam.”

Given that my gynecologist’s office is right next to the University of Washington’s medical school, it’s not the first time I’ve had a resident observe an exam. I’m not at all bothered by it, so I give my permission without hesitation.

“Thanks for allowing this. Let me step out for a second to grab Dr. Alder.”

Mere seconds pass, then Dr. Tarlton is back and right next to him is?—

No.It can’t be.

There’s no way that the resident that’s here today is the same one I slept with last night. The same one who whispered a whole host of dirty things in my ear while we were in his bed. The same one that made me breakfast this morning and dropped me off at my house.

Why does it have to be him?Literallyanyone else would be better.

I guess now I know that Justin is training to be an ob-gyn. And I can’t believe I didn’t ask before. But would it have mattered? How was I supposed to know that Justin is doing his residency at the same place where I’m a patient?

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