It seems like a millennium ago that I was staring at my ceiling absolutely petrified of giving birth. I thought I was going to die. Not really. But I was scared. Scared shitless. My husband usually produced a calming rational counterpoint about how if the women confined to huts in the Afghan desert could do it, I would survive in a cush Westchester hospital with an anesthesiologist wearing an electric shock collar who magically appeared with drugs whenever I pushed a button. Whatever. Scared shitless. So I saw a therapist and she helped me work through some of my fears. Voila. Two daughters later, each requiring 2.5 hours of pushing, my fear of doctors was improved, but not cured. So now when I must see my OB/GYN (actually, nix the OB part as this shop is closed), I still need some prodding. And there's even less incentive when the appointment must be scheduled light years in advance. My doctor is booking for the summer. What will I be doing this July 6th at 10am? I don't know, maybe I'll hop in my hovercraft over to the Mount Kisco Medical Group. But I did feel a little fire when I saw that my GYN was just listed in Westchester Magazine's best doctors issue. Of course I also saw that her specialty is menopause issues. For that, I can wait.
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