Thanksgiving in the1950s. This is my family — my mom is pregnant with me, so it must be 1953. She is standing behind my grandma, who is seated at the head of the table. And my Uncle Bill (my mom’s brother-in-law) is standing next to my mom — he was the family doc, and he delivered me (whatever that means, cuz it’s really the woman delivering.)
Of course, it seems progressive or regressive to have your brother-in-law examine your nether land. They say it’s a profession — and it’s all kept professional, whatever that means. And in the past, I bought into that — I’ve had both male and female docs, but I’m glad to have women taking over this specialty.
But from the woman’s point-of-view, we think it’s professional. My sister had 5 cesarean deliveries performed by our cousin, a male doctor. I even went to him, but we moved before my first pregnancy. My daughter delivered with her stake president. Everyone said he was the best. “He’s professional,” and we’d rather have the best.
I like to think I understand men since I’ve been married to one for over 40 years. He likes to keep me abreast of the species. Still, Men and women think differently. I joke with my husband about the men who have a license to look. I tell him, “you really blew it, you could’ve been a doctor, and you would’ve had a professional license to look at women.”
This reminds me of this funny story — a friend of mine lived in a small town, and the only OB/GYN in town attended her church. She didn’t want to go to this guy; it seemed too awkward. Nonetheless, she decided to make an appointment. The other women recommended him.
Now, being a professional patient, she showered, shaved her legs, and gave her lady parts a spritz of feminine spray. In the examining room (see, they do examine you), she was waiting for the doc, having replaced her clothing with one of those hospital gowns and a large paper towel that drapes over you to make you feel less naked during your examination. The doctor began, lifted the paper, and said, “wow, that’s fancy.”Â
My friend was appalled that this professional doctor would make such an exclamation. After he left the room and she got off the table to dress, she noticed the glitter — and realized the spray she had grabbed in a rush to spray all over her lovely lady-ness was not a feminine hygiene spray, but her daughter’s spray glitter. Yep. She was looking fancy. And then she realized that the doc probably thought she was the one being suggestive.
Now that’s keeping it professional. I’m not sure how long she stayed home from church after that.
Remember that song Mr. Rogers would sing? “Some are fancy on the inside; some are fancy on the outside, everybody’s fancy…” I never really understood his fancy talk — was he talking genitalia?
My mom and dad with my baby sister, 1960:
