OB-GYNs I loved (in random order) by Tara Isabel Zambrano

OB-GYNs I loved (in random order)

I scheduled my appointments with Dr. White in the afternoon because all the examination rooms faced south-west. She’d come in with her phone, which I think wasn’t appropriate during a patient visit but I loved to watch her standing next to the window, a halo around her head, biting her lip and I knew she was sexting because she’d sigh before closing the app and her blue eyes would be glazed over. So, sweetie, what brings you in today? Again? A smirk on her lips. Bubbles rising in the pit of my stomach.

I’d make up something – vaginal dryness or burning, or a heavy period, moodiness. She’d guide my legs on the stirrups and insert her gloved finger sometimes with a gel, sometimes without. This might make you uncomfortable sweetie, but we’re just about done. Her nasally voice, a long thread of song pierced through my body. Once she kept her finger in for the whole minute (saying she sensed a growth) but I knew she felt something for me too. I was recently divorced and dating a man – he never went completely hard for me, but took me to Four Seasons, bought me a Coach purse and Chanel boots, so I didn’t break up with him until a year later when I got custody of my kids. One night, he said, I love you, before dropping me to my apartment, and I told him about Dr. White and what I’d like to do to her. Lick her boobs while my finger’s drilling her, watch her cum pool in the palm of my hand. His dick rose like a fifteen-year-old staring at a topless picture of his favorite model.

Dr Blackwood in Allentown, PA, delivered my son. He was tall, patient, probably a decade older than me. I was twenty-seven. After six weeks of my pregnancy, when I went for consultation in his office, I saw a picture of his wife and three kids. Blonde, pale, all of them. Perfect teeth. A picture of him in the tennis court, his calf muscles taut like Pete Sampras. A statue of Ganesha on his desk. Are you a religious man? I asked. He shrugged and picked up the copper idol. His wrist was slim, all that power in the backhand. My wife got this from her trip to India. Dr. Blackwood’s fingers were wide, they covered my breast while he pressed on the edges. My nipples rose in the soft air conditioner air and at that moment, I wanted my boobs to be bigger, fuller, so he could feel more. Any pain or discomfort? he’d ask, and I could hear the crack in his voice. What if he was a passive top like my husband? Nah.

Close to full-term, when I got into the hospital, after a day and a half, Dr. Blackwood waited a whole forty minutes for me to push my son, before he used a vacuum since I was tired after a long labor and could no longer push for more than a second or two. I always imagined doctors led the healthiest lifestyle, until years later I found out that he died of cancer in his late forties. I googled and called the number of his clinic – it wasn’t his voice, of course, a woman’s, but it gave me a sense of closure.

I must admit all the OB-GYNs I met did not thrill me. There was a woman in southern Philly, her office west to the Schuylkill River, who’d never look me in the eye. Such a turnoff. She’d stand next to me listening to my heartbeat and I’d hear her stomach rumbling, and a sound as if she were about to burp. Her hair greasy, parted in the middle, her voice tremulous while asking questions and simple Yes/No as answers. I wondered if she felt anything. Anger, arousal. If someone ever made her cum properly. Then we moved to New Jersey and there was Dr. Phillip – short, bald and golden framed glasses. Every visit, he talked about the weather and licked his lips frequently like a snake. Inside me, his finger would feel as if there was a sharp nail at the edge of his glove, scratching my insides. He’d snicker before leaving the room – forgetting my name, then looking at my file and pronouncing it wrong. These Indian names are so complicated, he’d go on with a sneer. Prick.

Three years before my son was born, Dr Uni delivered my daughter. White shirt and suspenders: smelled like disinfectant. His office was in an industrial complex and there was a steady drone of grinding, whirring – a machine at work. After waiting for a few minutes in the reception, the sound would hang around the edges of my ears while Dr. Uni talked about conspiracy theories from moon landings to solving the hunger issue in developing countries as the heartbeat of my baby echoed in the room. It’s going to be a boy, he predicted, and I don’t know what I felt for him. Uni was his nick name – no one knew his full name and age. Google was just becoming popular.

My first love was a gynecologist named Dr. Surya who performed my D&C just after eight weeks. It was in the first year of my marriage and my husband never wanted a child so early. I had morning sickness and frequent spotting. Dr. Surya held my hand, rubbed the edges of my fingers. while I sobbed. Up close, she smelled of sandalwood and garam masala, and I felt I was a needle pointing home – how soft her touch, not shitty like my husband’s that always felt prickly, his eyes zoned out as if he wished he were somewhere else. Afterwards, I watched the fluorescent air buzzing in the surgery room while the suction cleared my womb, the blurred lines of Dr. Surya’s frame as I went in and out of consciousness, my legs apart, the invisible beating between us.

Tara Isabel Zambrano is the author of Death, Desire And Other Destinations, a full-length flash collection by OKAY Donkey Press. Her work has won the first prize in The Southampton Review Short Short Fiction Contest 2019, a second prize in Bath Flash Award 2020, been a Finalist in Bat City Review 2018 Short Prose Contest and Mid-American Review Fineline 2018 Contest. She lives in Texas and is the Fiction Editor for Waxwing Literary Journal.

More by Tara Isabel Zambrano The sea within / A brief progression of natural disasters

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Image: Vincent van Gogh – 1. The Yorck Project (2002) Public Domain

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