The Saga Of Dr. Combover (Part One)

Way, waaaay back, at least three years ago, when I was still young(ish) fresh and innocent, I had an HSG.

My OB/Gyn, Dr. Teddybear (because he is so lovable and huggable, which is both great and a total liability, because I often succumb to tears in front of the poor man)went over the results with me and said,

"Well, sweetie, your right tube is blocked. It doesn'tt look like scarring, probably a plug, but we are going to refer you to THE guys in town. There's Dr. Jet-Setter, and the guy he trained who is just as good, Dr. Combover. They'll do laprascopic on you, and you'll be good as new.

I waited the three-month wait and booked an appointment, ending up with Dr. Jet-setter, whom I really liked. However, it was a short appointment...less than 15 minutes. He started talking about eventual IUI's and IVF, and I just wasn't ready...in addition to which, The Man was stationed out of town for the next three months, so surgery or IUI's were going to be out of the question for awhile. I told him we would discuss it and get back to him.

We waited for a year, and Dr. Teddybear tested for PCOS, started me on my first bout with Clomid, and ended up telling me, "Well, we just can't find a problem. You may want to consider the surgery, which will increase the odds."

I went back to the specialist's office. Dr. Jet-setter travels between California and South America, because he is evidently that much of a hotshot, and he was gone, so they signed me up for surgery in three months with Dr. Combover, a man I had never met.

I wasn't too worried. I had an appointment booked the week before my surgery, and I assumed I would be meeting the doctor then.

To make a long story shot, I was wrong. I went into prep for surgery, met the anaesthesiologist, a jovial guy with a Russian accent, who asked if I was nervous.

When I explained that the only issue was that I hadn't met the doctor doing my surgery, and I didn't know if it was unreasonable to meet him before I went into the OR, he thumped me on the shoulder and said, with Slavic solemnity, "I do not think it unreasonable to meet the man who is going to cut on you. I will bring him. One moment."

I sat there, in those stupid slipper socks, trying to cover my ass with the hospital gown, and he brought Dr. Combover in.

The man was obviously not thrilled to see me, and irritated by the time he wasted to be brought into my prescence. He introduced himself (stiffly) and uttered the fateful words, "Well! Dr. Jetsetter has nothing but great things to say about you!"

Since I had met Dr. Jetsetter exactly once, for 15 minutes, this was obviously a big fat lie, and didn't put me at ease. In fact, it kinda made me hate his guts. Which is an unnerving feeling to have about someone who is about to get up close and personal with your reproductive organs.

I just remember focusing on the anesthesiologist (who was my kind of guy, and I wished HE was my doctor) thinking, "You don't have to like Dr. Combover. It's not his job to be likeable. Just think babies. Think babies...." as I was wheeled into the OR.