Fortune-telling.

"You are going to become a mother very, very soon."

If he'd had his fingers on a crystal ball, perhaps I'd believe it. But he didn't. Instead he was leaning earnestly over his desk, hands clasped, peering meaningfully into my eyes, smug in his white coat, displaying a certainty that should radiate only from readers of tarot cards.

That's not all he said, either. To wit:

"Your husband's morphology is 2%? Well, my level is 1%, and I have three children."

"Sperm analysis results are bad for everyone these days."

[Flipping through some kind of medical book.] "But this says that TSH doesn't cross from mother to fetus. So there can't have been a link between your miscarriage and your high TSH at that time."

"It's only been a year. Be patient. You're still young!"

And, of course ...

"You got pregnant once before."

***

None of this was enough to keep me from spreading my legs for him, though. It had been six months and thus it was time for one more follow-up on that "small infection, without gravity." As threatened (twice), I had called a new gynecologist, hoping for better luck next time.

But no; perhaps the next next time. The first gyno was recommended by my primary care doctor, this one by my in-real-life kindred-spirit-in-miscarrige. The subsequent I'll find by randomly sticking a pin into internet search results; perhaps that'll improve my fortune.

***

This was my first full gynecological visit in Switzerland. Although I've grown accustomed to walking around in exam rooms with neither bottoms nor gown, I had never had a breast exam and thus had never had to take off my top. Never, until now.

After doing the head-between-the-stirrups stuff, the smug doc told me to replace my bottom underthings and remove the rest. I went dutifully to the changing corner and did so, and then looked down. Lacy black knickers, thick woolly socks (it's been blustery lately), and nothing else. I resembled some kind of fucked-up wing-less Angel.

Had I misunderstood his French? Was I really supposed to strut back out like this? And assuming "no" followed by "yes," should I cover my breasts for the défilé de mode or just let them bounce?

I went with cover (and dash) and started to reinstall myself behind the stirrups. He glanced up from his papers and chuckled. "No, no!"

I immediately flushed with humiliation, thinking I must not have understood the disrobing instructions. What would he be thinking of this crazy American who thinks she can treat a serious Swiss medical establishment like some kind of pornographic runway?

"No, no!" he repeated. "We only do the torture-table once. Over there," he added, gesturing towards a non-stirruped paper-sheet-adorned slab I hadn't noticed in the back.

And the défilé recommenced.