Menopause Tales©

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Menopause Instalment No. 1

And so say all of us.

Okay, so here’s the thing:

For approximately 19 years, starting in my youth a long time ago, I had a wonderful gynaecologist (gynae for short) whom I used to see, religiously, once a year.

He was an old guy, looked like a monkey, but he had the most gorgeous voice, which helps a lot when someone is so hairy. His name though was a tad unfortunate – his surname was common enough and respectable enough, but his first name was Hymie. His full first name of course was Hyman, and though spelt slightly differently to the h …. he was wading his way through, it was nevertheless, in my view, a bit sad. His name, not what he waded through, though that was also a bit unfortunate and rather sad for a long time.

So, now, Hymie was great. He wasn’t always on time, but I don’t recall misspending my youth in his waiting room in his rooms in Lister Building, or wherever he was, you know when we could all go down to Lister Building in the CBD without an armed escort? Remember those halcyon days of the old South Africa when you could still find your car in the place you left it when you went to see your gynae, doll?

He was a gentle man, always took the time to talk, I was very young when I first went to see him for what was initially thought to be a troublesome appendix, which they nearly whipped out, heaven forbid, and which later turned out to be a troublesome ovary. Oy vary.

On the wall beside the bed or whatever that flat thing is called, was a poster with a picture of Uncle Sam in an American hat, pointing his big finger at whoever was in front of him, in this case the left side of whichever female patient happened to be lying on the bed-thing at the time. But Hymie’s poster didn’t ask about one’s enrolment/conscription, whatever it was, in the US armed forces. It asked, “Have YOU taken your pill today?”. This was quite daunting for me ’cause I seldom took any pills in those days. It was always such fun though when one had to lie there, with that all-purpose-all-person gown, nothing underneath except whatever jewellery one had on, and with leggies at the ready to do a “knees up” little dance. Anyway, Uncle Sam kept one company while the good doctor put on his miner’s lamp and with an ear bud sought to find out what all was happening in there. Not exactly the Eurotunnel is it? Well, maybe it is in some cases, I don’t know. In my limited experience – very limited – I don’t think it’s the Eurotunnel or the Grand Canyon or The Big Hole in Kimberley. Maybe I haven’t been around as much as I should/could.

My least favourite visits were those which entailed the leggies-into-the-stirrups little scenario. You know the one. VERY elegant. Getting out of the stirrups was of course another story.

So anyway, this wonderful man was in my life for nearly 19 years as I said, but then one year, he died on me. Very inconsiderate I thought at the time. What to do with the monkey’s body? But it was all right because I must have had a precognition or a pre something – you know, when you experience something before it happens? What’s that, um, premature ejaculation or whatever. Anyway, my precognition or whatever it was: His dying on me wasn’t as traumatic as it might have been ’cause I must have caught a glimpse of what my future held and was out of body, so was largely unaffected.

His loss was nevertheless a great one. He was a really nice man and a good doctor. This left me with a gap, so to speak. And it took a couple of years before I ventured out to search for a replacement for dear old Hymie.

I succeeded. Hymie’s successor came in the form of his partner whom I had never met, Dr Yves.

The story of Yves babe shall form the basis of Instalment 2 of this little tale.

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