Me, My Crotch and St Vincent's

God I hate this

At St Vincent’s, sitting in the waiting room my modeling experience doesn't seem to be a factor towards the order of when I will get seen. I sit as just “another one,” and put my ego and my last photo shoot with a national magazine aside. I am still waiting for my name to be called and listen to the other patients' names being called. The nurses more like yells out into the room, as if we are being sent to detention, - another last name ending in an ‘a” or an “o”.

I sit watching the sick around me. It makes me feel lucky. People are very ill. One in a wheelchair, all are coughing and wiping their noses, and some clinging to life, all around me, spreading their germs in my direction. This does feel like punishment. Sitting here, I feel as if I am being punished for trying to take care of my body, by having my yearly Gynecologist exam.

Then I finally hear my name but I can’t see the person yelling it. I search for the voice and see a midget . Her name tag, Christina, welcomes me. It is the first time I have felt tall in what feels like years.

I don't mind that she takes forever typing in my personal information. It is fun for me to be near someone who is shorter than me, and I wonder what I will tell her if she asks for my own height; in my heels today I could say 5’6” but I am honestly 4 inches shorter. I wonder what her actual height really is as I look down at her, watching her move quickly like an elf. I take a sip of my coffee, which I have been holding tightly for the past 4 hours.

She might have noticed my nerves from fumbling through my bag to find a pen and my writing in my journal as she asks my personal information. She might have wondered if I am writing about her, and I was.

After we are done, I wait again in the Gynecologist waiting area which is only around the corner and full of more cultures. I think I am the only white person who has ever entered St Vincent’s; maybe it is ethnic day or maybe it is just like this everyday. I try not to feel disconnected or unaccepted, and just focus on my journal, writing my To-Do list, and look through my weekly modeling schedule which is nothing.

I stare at the blank lined paper and just pray to god that I do not have a sexually transmitted disease, or anything to bring me back to St Vincent ’s. I am already hoping that this will be my last and only visit to St Vincent ’s. I wait for my name to be yelled for the second time. The first time it was to fill out a form. The second yell means it is my turn. I hope.

When the nurse checks my height and weight I forwardly explain that I do not have an eating problem and that I have been small all my life in case she was wondering. I also quickly spit out that I have anxiety and I might want to talk to the doctor about it. I forget to say I am there to get birth control pill which is the reason I came to this place in the first place.

It has been 2 hours and I am finally in front of a doctor.

His son went to Syracuse University or he is going there now, but I am upset that we have anything even close in common as his father gives me my yearly check up. As his fingers check out if I am healthy or not I hate myself for talking so much but what was I supposed to say when a doctor asks you where you are from?

While I lie there, staring at the ceiling, I miss being at the doctor back at home; there was at least a pretty picture on the ceiling to look at there.

I start thinking about celebrities and what they do when they have a doctor’s appointment. Do they have house calls, and if they do, do they make the doctor sign a confidentiality agreement in case they have a disease or infection so that the press can't write about it?

Go figure, since I am not that religious I didn’t notice that St Vincent’s doesn’t give out birth control, they only take my insurance.

Isobella Jade is a petite model in NYC and the author of her modeling memoir called Almost 5’4” , and she currently now has her check ups at the Beth Israel Medical Center.


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