Le Foulard - Part II

The urge to bolt was overwhelming, but I reminded myself that I had chosen Docteur Le Foulard for a reason. As a veteran of two C-sections, I was aware that any hypothetical third baby would be requiring the assistance of a surgeon to get out of my body.

The pickings in such a small town were slim, and Docteur Le Foulard was reputed to be the most experienced and fine-fingered surgeon in Beaune, not to mention a veteran of who knows how many thousand C-sections. I cannot stress how important this seems when toying with the prospect of having someone slice open your abdomen.

Besides, I tried to rationalize, for all I knew maybe a foulard was de rigueur for all French gynecologists.

I was hit by an acute longing for my doctor back in Canada. She was a no-nonsense mother of four boys who breezed into the examining room on the day of my yearly physical with the same demeanor that she no doubt refined over years of sewing back on her sons’ fingers after experiments with the lawnmower had gone awry.

“Lucky you! Time for every woman’s favorite day of the year!” she would sing, scanning my chart while selecting a speculum.

Her brisk multi-tasking diverted my attention from the fact that I was lying on an exam table wrapped only in a paper sheet. I was pretty sure a man who wore a silk neck scarf wouldn’t possess the same edifying maternal attitude.

When Docteur le Foulard called my name Franck also stood up. He had some questions too, notably will you please talk my wife out of this crazy idea of having a third child?

Docteur Le Foulard eyed him warily. I realized belatedly that maybe French men didn't generally accompany their wives to gynecological appointments. However, in light of the neck scarf I wasn’t going to back down; I needed Franck for moral support.

We were ushered into a stylish office with rattan chairs and an immaculate glass desk behind which Docteur Le Foulard lowered himself. He eyed us down aquiline nose attached to a head that would have undoubtedly been lopped off by a guillotine if he had lived during the Revolution.

“And what can I do pour vous Madame Germain?”

The formal “vous” form is, of course, the way doctors and patients address each other here in France. This is a stark contrast to the relative informality of Canadian doctors which allows me to float through medical exams deluding myself that it is just a unique form of coffee klatch.

Docteur Le Foulard’s stringent manners, compounded with the neck scarf, just drove home the point that even if I stretched my imagination to its absolute limit there was no way I could delude myself; a complete stranger would soon be seeing me completely naked.

To be continued...