Quarterlife Mocha Girl

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Dear John Letter

As I opened the sealed letter and read the first line, my heart began to pound. I could feel the sweat beads form on my forehead. The letter read, "This is the hardest letter I've had to write in my career..."

My gynecologist broke up with me.

Yep, he's moving...to Savannah, Tennessee. Where the hell is that?

You don't understand. He was like the ideal boyfriend: intelligent, knowledgeable, knows my body, makes me feel at ease, caring, dependable and footed the bill.

DAMN!

Nevermind that he was a hairy white man probably about my mama's age. I was willing to overlook that.

Let me break it down. When I was 23 years old, I moved back home (what I thought would be temporarily) because they found a cyst on my ovary and was diagnosed with endometriosis. Since I'd just turned 23 a month earlier, insurance was non-existent and supposedly surgery was mandatory to remove it. Yeah, it was bigger than a nerf ball and I ain't that big (at all). After begging and pleading at the clinic and Church Health Center (for low-income, uninsured folks), I was referred to a doctor. He tested me, gave me the facts and performed the surgery for FREE. $100,000 surgery for FREE.99. God is able.

He told me for some reason I was one of his special patients. After surgery, I decided to keep him as my OBGYN. He always looked after me and would always tell me to "use condoms and be careful out there." Okie dokie. Pap smears and check-ups were no longer dreaded. He was just a good doctor, ya know? Even after I got a job with health insurance, he still waived the co-pays.

Now he's leaving and I'm back on the market. Nobody understands me like Dr. Thayer...This is just as bad as finding a new hairdresser.

Farewell, my love!

The search begins.

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