When the gynecologist has your number... be prepared to answer the call.
Calm down. I know some of you started squirming as soon as you read the word gynecologist. Don’t worry. No awkward details about probing and prodding will be included in this blog post. We all know that’s the type of conversation best tucked away and saved for lulls during Thanksgiving dinner.
So why mention the gynecologist here? Because she’s the woman I have to thank (or blame, depending how you look at it) for inspiring me to sit down and write that great American novel (or three-hundred page doorstop, depending how you look at it). She’s the one person who has repeatedly opened my eyes to what matters most in my life.
How has she accomplished such a feat?
Easy. By making squinty faces, lips pursed to the side, while mumbling things like, “Hmmm…this doesn’t seem right. Have you noticed this before? We better get an ultrasound.”
Each time this happened, I’d soon find myself sitting in an empty room with a Kleenex box in my hands, trying not to panic as I waited for her to tell me the results of the ultrasound, which I already knew would be cancer, and not just any cancer, but the super aggressive cancer where there’s really not much they can do, so I basically better get my affairs in order because I had six months left to live.
As you can imagine, these thoughts were accompanied by copious amounts of frantic praying.
Dear God, you can’t let me die. I’m about to get married!
Or later…
Dear God, you can’t let me die. We’re about to try for another baby!
Usually about the point I was ready to crumble into a blubbering mess on the floor, my doctor would enter the room, shrug, and say, “Not sure what I was feeling. Everything looks great!”
After experiencing this a few times, I no longer viewed visits to the gynecologist as an annual check-up. They became a yearly reminder of my own mortality. So after mentally preparing myself to die in the face of battle once again, I could hardly believe it when I went to my next appointment and there wasn’t a single squinty face. No mention of ultrasounds. Not even one hmmm. All she said was to expect a letter in the mail with the results and she’d see me next year.
Really? Wonderful! I strutted out of the office and didn’t give it another thought.
Until the phone rang a few weeks later…
I was standing in the kitchen, fixing lunch, as my kids played in the living room. Why is my gynecologist’s office calling me, I wondered. I’m not supposed to see them again until next year. That’s when it hit me. I sank into a chair and groaned.
I never received a letter.
Of course I never received a letter. They don’t send you a letter when you’re dying. They call you. Everybody knows that. At least I knew that. Because I’d gotten the phone call. Granted, I hadn’t actually answered the phone call. But what else could it be?
Cue frantic praying: Dear God, you can’t let me die. I haven’t written that novel!
Wait… Novel? What novel?
I thought I’d be praying about my kids. Praying my husband would remember to bathe them after I was dead. What’s this about a novel? I mean, yeah, writing was something I’d always enjoyed. And yeah, at times I had thought about writing a novel…someday. When the timing was right. But obviously it was too late now. I’d be gone before I even finished the first chapter.
I dropped to my knees in the kitchen. Poured ashes over my head. Why oh why hadn’t I written that novel sooner?
Well…spoiler alert. I didn’t die. In fact, once again, everything turned out to be okay. More than okay. That phone call opened my eyes to how important writing a novel was to me. Apparently more important than my children’s hygiene. And by the time my next gynecologist appointment rolled around, I’m happy to say I’d completed my first draft. The fact it was complete garbage is a post for a different day.
What about you? Have any of you found inspiration from unlikely sources? If not, you can always make an appointment with a gynecologist and see what happens. I hear they’re useful for other matters as well.
