Asher
It isn’t a quantity of people you need to light the shadows. It’s quality.
—My Therapist
My office in our clinic space on the second floor of the hospital is packed full of dusty books inherited from the doc who
retired before I started. A single window covered with cheap vinyl blinds looks out over the parking lot, but the walls are
otherwise bare.
Displayed in fancy frames, my diplomas and board certification currently lean against the wall because I’ve never remembered
to bring a hammer and nails to work.
Pretentious pieces of paper anyway.
If I was going to hang anything, it would be my rainbow poster of a uterus being pulled out of a top hat.
I’m not a gynecologist. I’m a vagician.
Ha.
Classic.
I share the space with my medical assistant, Talia. Sassy, Southern-type woman. Bit judgy, but always funny. Our desks are
catty-corner to one another, which means we are . . . quite close.
Talia is twenty-six and, if you ask her, she’s a million weeks pregnant. In reality, she’s almost forty weeks pregnant, and
today is her last day of work. I’m inducing her Monday, much to her utter delight. She’s been begging me to deliver this baby
since she was thirty weeks because it feels like someone jabbed a hunk of coral in my vagina and an evil, insane monkey is playing with a Taser attached to it.
I love her.
Eyeing the Cardi B length nails on her hands—hot pink and bejeweled—I lean toward her. “Can I ask you a question, Tally Boo?”
She looks up from her computer, flipping long hair over her shoulder.
“How do you get anything done with those?”
She rolls her eyes. “Please, Doctor F. A real woman knows how to live life without the tips of her fingers.”
“But, like, how are you going to take care of a newborn?”
Her brazenly flat stare is both insolent and hilarious. Love it. Love her. Ugh. I think I might miss her when she’s gone.
“Mind your business.”
“Mind my business? Didn’t you tell me last week that I needed to settle down and have kids, too?”
She waves her hand. “I want you to share my misery. Besides, aren’t you, like, forty-seven years old?”
“I’m thirty-three. You know this. You’re the one who made me blow out thirty-three trick candles on my last birthday cake.”
A hearty belly laugh bursts from her. “I forgot about that.” She mimics blowing out candles—if the person blowing had the
lung capacity of a ninety-year-old.
“Hilarious,” I say, tone dry, as I push back from the desk. “Come on. We have a patient ready.”
She waddles after me, and we enter a patient room to find a silver-haired woman perched on the exam table in her medical gown.
“Hello, Mrs. Mulaney,” I say. “Long time, no see.”
Her tremulous smile lights her whole face. “There’s my Doctor Foley.”
We exchange pleasantries, and she asks about Miss Talia’s pregnancy. Mrs. Mulaney’s exam is quick, and she chats the entire time, even with her legs spread. The woman treats her yearly
exams like a social call.
“You know, I read on the Facebook that it’s in style to go bare again,” she says.
I do everything in my power to keep my eyes from widening. “Uh—”
“Should I wax down there, you think? I do want to fit in at the gym.”
Talia whistles. “Go on, Mrs. Mulaney! You do you.”
The older woman laughs. “You’re right, Miss Talia. I will do me. Full bush.”
I smother my laugh. “Everything looks healthy. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
She pats my cheek like I’m a child. “It’s nothing, really. I made an appointment with Doctor White. I can’t quite hold my
urine like I used to.”
She made an appointment with my partner? With Dr. White, the condescending prick? For something I could help her with?
There’s that feeling again. The inadequacy, all cold and heavy.
Really don’t like it.
Visions swirl through my head—patients flocking to my partner, colleagues consulting better doctors, nurses telling patients
to see any OB but me.
Might need a Tums.
I force my mouth into its usual smile. “Why don’t you tell me about it? I’ll see what I can do.”
She shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand. “My appointment is next week. Doctor White has a great reputation for this
sort of thing. I won’t bother you with it, dear.”
But I want to be bothered. This is my job. Why won’t she take me seriously?
Definitely need a Tums.
The words are right there at the tip of my tongue—I’d love to help—but I just smile instead. “Of course. I understand.”
“I’ll be right back to you next year for my annual exam.”
Good enough to feel up her boobs, but not good enough to fix her problems. Most patients complain their doctors don’t listen,
but I’m here, ready to dive into her issues, only to be told my older, humorless, more misogynistic partner will do it better
than me.
But he won’t do it better than me. He’ll talk over her. Barely examine her. Then throw some medicine at the problem.
It’s okay. It’s fine. This isn’t a big deal at all.
After the visit, Talia hums and does a jig outside the room. “That little old lady is my favorite.”
I scrub my chest right above the raw ache, then search my desk drawer. I know I have Tums.
Stupid, really. Don’t even like dealing with incontinence. Let’s examine the silver lining here.
Aha. Tums. I shoot Talia a wink and throw some in my mouth. “I prefer the patient I’m inducing next week.”
Mmm. Chalky lime. Tasty.
“Doctor Foley! You’re gonna make me cry.” She fans her face, then starts belly-cackling.
“Whatever. You’re coming to Pool Party Saturday, right?”
We settle back at our desks to chart. “Uh. Hell, yeah. It’s my last one before the baby.”
“Try not to have your water break in my pool.”
She gives me a sassy mmm-hmm, then eyes me. “Tell your skinny blonde friend she owes me a Snickers for winning volleyball last week.”
That reminds me . . . Need to send Joss the latest picture of the ducklings. Rather funny, gauging her reactions. I can judge
her mood based off how exasperated she is with the cuteness overload.
I pull out my phone, and oh, look. Another email from the hospital about Dragon training. They are really pushing that thing. Must be saving the hospital money. No other explanation for the bombardment of emails would suffice.
I hit Send on the duck pic right as Talia says, “Do you think my baby will come out with hair?”
“Ten bucks says he’s covered in hair on his head and his back.”
I’m playing the odds. Lanugo is common in newborns. Plus, Talia once showed me her baby picture to prove how cute she was.
Very hairy baby she was.
She glares at me. “You think I’m having a Pomeranian or something?”
“You said it,” I tease.
She stands and strides to the door, pretending to be mad. “I’ll quit, you know. You just see how you function without me, Doctor Foley.”
“I couldn’t function without you,” I tell her honestly.
She huffs and marches away, but we both know she’ll return in five minutes—with an empty bladder and a candy bar from the
staff kitchen. In the meantime, I finish charting on Mrs. Mulaney and shove my disappointment with her visit deep beneath
the surface.
Feelings of inadequacy immediately lighten.
My phone dings with a text from Joss.
You are a strange man.
I hope you only share your duck obsession with me. Other people might think you’re a serial killer.
Asher Foley. The duck bandit.
Do you need anything from Costco?
So she’s in a good mood, then. Good-mood Joss is less funny, to be honest, but still one of my top five favorite humans.
Get me some of that protein powder I told you about.
And don’t worry. This level of cuteness is only for you sugar pie.
She sends a gif of a dog hiding its face like it’s embarrassed. I’m smiling at my phone when Talia returns and clears her
throat loud enough to snag my attention.
“What?” I ask.
With a spirited roll of her eyes, she resettles at her computer, peeling open a Twix bar. “Just so you know, Pomeranian puppies
are cuter than God.”
“Did you Google them while you peed?”
She ignores me. “And while my hairy baby will be cute, I prefer to think of him as a lion. He will be Simba.”
“I’ll anoint him with fruit juice at his birth if it will make you feel better.”
She grins at her computer screen. “We’ll thrust him over our heads while ‘Circle of Life’ plays over the hospital speakers.
It’ll be epic.”
I laugh at her huffiness. “Whatever you want, girl. It’s yours.”
“Damn right, it is.” She shoots me a small grin. “Thanks, Doctor Foley.”
Saturdays in the summer have turned into an unspoken tradition of booze and swimming at my house. Pool Party Saturday. Even
when I’m on call, my moocher friends find their way to my place to use my house. The Texas coast is a fifteen-minute drive,
yet here they are, drinking my beer in my pool as per usual.
I collect friends like strays. Can’t help it. I like people. They’re all so different. So fascinating. I meet someone new,
and a tickle rises in my throat until I’ve won them to my side.
Makes Pool Party Saturdays quite festive.
Sprawled out on a lounge chair, I wipe the pool water from my eyes and take a breather.
Geoff has his wife on his shoulders, deep into a match of chicken with Jocelyn and Kevin, another anesthesiologist in her department.
Several of my fellow OB-GYNs and the residents are chatting around the table on the covered porch.
A couple of nurse anesthetists have taken over my outdoor kitchen, and the aroma of grilled burgers fills the air.
Talia and her crowd of nurses and MAs have commandeered all the sun-soaked places on the opposite side of the pool. A few
of the ER docs have seized the TV. I crane my neck to view the screen. Is that NASCAR?
That reminds me . . .
I shoot off the customary weekly text to my NASCAR-fanatic brothers, reminding them NASCAR’s weak, and they suck. The expected
stream of insults regarding my physique—“Have you ever heard of a gym, bro?”—and my profession—“Sad you had to become a gynecologist just to see some pussy.”—bring out a chuckle.