The Only Gynecology Appointment I’ve Ever Enjoyed

If you read my earlier story about going to the ER because I noticed blood in my urine, then you already have the background for this continuing saga. As it turns out, the blood wasn’t coming from my urine at all, but from other parts of my nether-regions—namely, my lady bits.

Without going into gory detail, spotting at my age is not a “let’s keep an eye on it” situation. It’s a “call the doctor and do NOT Google anything” situation. So I made an appointment with a gynecologist.

Now, women understand the position. Men can only imagine it, and frankly, that’s for the best.

There I was on the table—legs spread wide, feet in the stirrups, scooted so far down my backside was practically threatening to exit the room, with a sheet draped over me. And I would really like to know what modesty that sheet is supposed to protect, because whatever dignity I once had was already gone, possibly hitchhiking south to a warmer climate.

The doctor had the speculum inserted and was peering into all that is holy when his assistant decided this was the perfect time to make small talk. I assume this was meant to distract me and make me feel less exposed, which I appreciated, though at that moment I was about as exposed as a person can legally be in a doctor's office.

She asked what I do in my retirement. I told her that while I no longer have 400 chickens, 15 milk goats, and various other critters, I do still have a few sheep and about a dozen chickens. Then I mentioned that I’d written a book.

They both snapped to attention.

Both she and the doctor wanted to know what it was about, so I explained that it was a collection of funny you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up moments from farm and country life. That’s when the doctor said he used to have a small hobby homestead himself.

And then—without missing a beat, and without removing the speculum—he launched into a story about his quadriplegic chicken, laughing like it was the highlight of his medical career.

He had a two-story barn, with the chickens housed upstairs and a long ramp leading down to a fenced outdoor area. One day, his kids were tossing chickens out the upper door and watching them flap their way down like feathery little parachutists. One chicken did not flap. She plummeted straight down, hitting like a sack of feed tossed from a pickup truck.

When they ran down to retrieve her, they discovered she couldn’t walk. Or flap. Or do anything remotely chicken-related. So, naturally—because this is what farm people do—they brought her into the house and put her in a dog crate to “see how she did.”

She did great. She ate normally. She drank normally. She stared at them with what I can only assume was profound curiosity.

Days passed. Then weeks. No improvement. No movement. Just a fully functioning chicken operating entirely from the neck up. Eventually, they accepted that she wasn’t going to recover and did the humane thing.

By this point, the doctor was laughing so hard he had to pause the exam, his assistant had tears running down her face, and I was lying there thinking that this was NOT how I expected my gynecology appointment to go—but I’d had worse conversations in the grocery store. No matter where you go—even the gynecologist—farm life follows you. 

And I can't even begin to imagine what people passing by the exam room door were thinking. Hysterical laughter is not what one usually hears from an exam room in a busy gynecologist's office.

I’ll get the results of my tests in a few weeks. But I can honestly say this was the only gynecology appointment I’ve ever enjoyed.

If you’re going to assume the position, the least the universe can do is provide a doctor with a sense of humor and a severely broken chicken.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If you liked this story, please click one of the small share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm