This week I left my second review on Yelp. The first was for a Turkish restaurant on Long Island that was suffering because it didn’t serve wings or show baseball games on an overhead television. The second review was for my gynecologist.

Yes, I am the kind of person who indulges in inappropriate humor for the sake of shock value. Yes, I am perversely obsessed with euphemisms for genitalia. Yes, I know that writing about vagina will likely mean that I can still keep some lesbian cred. But I earnestly reviewed my new doctor because she was that good. After taking what looked like a miniaturized toilet brush to my cervix I still wanted to sing her praises. After five different doctors looking at my nether region over the span of six months, I’ve learned that not all OBGYNs are the same. Granted, I never spat at the ones who freaked me out, or wrote angry letters to the ones who neglected to ask me questions, or keyed the cars of those who gave me backward advice. I happen to think that looking at labia all day can probably fry a brain pretty quickly, similar to pornography editors or swim coaches.

The main reason why this doc had me clicking a five star rating on a website is because of what other doctors fail to do. The average primary care doctor spends less than eighteen rushed minutes with their patient. This seems like a ton of time to me, considering that I’ve often been in and out of an office with an exchange that amounted to a two-word description – "it hurts," "it’s swollen," "can’t breathe." I’ve always been prescribed antibiotics, but I’ve rarely understood what was wrong with me when I left. I don’t blame the doctors. They have to spend the majority of their day filling out paperwork and micromanaging bureaucratic nonsense due to the insurance debacle of this country. So for this woman to sit down with me both before the exam and after, and for her to take the time to ask me about my history, it was a welcome change from the harried gyno visits from the past, most of which seemed more like unwilling one night stands.

Gynecologists probably have to deal with more paperwork than other doctors, too. This is an assumption I’ve come to after reading that their insurance premiums are among the highest in all specializations. Being sued for malpractice is one thing when a scar doesn’t heal correctly or a boob implant leaks, it’s something completely different when the health of a baby is involved. Although the majority of malpractice claims end with the ruling in favor of the gyno, this risk of being sued left and right comes with a high price. Moreover, the possibility of being sued lasts long beyond the initial cord cutting, since many problems only show up once the child starts to develop. If my dad is reading this, I don’t think you can sue after your kid turns twenty-five.

Dr. Gershowitz was like a hip version of my grandmother, only a little younger. She buzzed around at the speed of an NBA referee, smiling and chatting with everyone as she made her way from the examination room to the office and back again. This was a change for me. Usually, an exam was sort of like a visit to the DMV. I’d wait for an hour or so, grinding my teeth, and when my name was finally mispronounced, I was treated with the sort of brusque, cranky service that you expect from people who would rather be anywhere but at work. The sun-soaked waiting room and proficient, good humored staff were a change. I had to double-check that I was in the right sort of doctor’s office, as this sort of contentment in a doctor’s office I only associated with nitrous oxide.

Another difference was the exam itself. I’m a hypochondriac by nature, so I naturally approach the examination table as though it were an electric chair. Unsuccessful evasive tactics I have used while in the stirrups include straightening my legs until my vagina was as far away from the doctor as possible, folding my knees towards one another in order to prevent speculum insertion, and holding my breath. I also clench every muscle and orifice in my body once the doctor peeks under the hood, a ridiculous and self-defeating tactic that only makes the whole thing that much more difficult. Like a Bergman film, there’s never much in the way of sensible dialog, simply wincing and doom. It’s not as if I’m so obtuse that I don’t realize that, as with all things, my approach is probably a large part of my problem. But every tactic – from yoga-inspired deep breathing, to visualizing a peaceful forest, to trying to find the humor in the situation – does nothing to sway my screaming brain away from the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable to the point of whimpering. I feel nauseated, sweaty, and as though they’re probing a literal open wound as opposed to a metaphoric one. I just know that I want it to be over and done with, and no relaxation technique that doesn’t come inside of a prescription bottle is going to change that.

In case you believe I’m being glib, my psychiatrist wrote me two prescriptions for anti-anxiety medications for the last visit. Although I didn’t take them due to fierce paranoia when it comes to my sobriety, I had ‘em on hand.

Dr. Gershowitz is not the kind of doctor who allows for those sorts of shenanigans. She realizes that our precious time together is brief, and she’s already gone through the rigmarole of figuring out what’s going on with me medically. The time when I’m on my back is her time to chat, to let loose. I have never had a woman who I wasn’t dating insert two fingers inside of me while telling me about themselves. Moreover, I’ve never been expected to keep up my end of the conversation during a Pap smear. Dr. G actually looked at me with what was almost impatience when I hesitated offering my opinion about the West Coast as she finished dusting the cobwebs away from my uterus. Oddly enough, this tactic worked. Because she wasn’t letting me lay there and think it was a big deal, and because she acted like this was more of an opportunity to connect, not dissect, I wasn’t allowed to get sucked into my usual spiral of panic. By the time my adrenaline had gotten to the level I normally associate with having that part of me probed, my panties were going back on. I was amazed. Finally I was presented with an example as to why OB/GYNs make nearly $300K a year on average.

When I researched what’s normally involved in the field, I was even more impressed. Sure, like most doctors, gynos have to go to medical school and then partake in a residency program. After that they usually attend some sort of fellowship for a subspecialty, such as Maternal-Fetal Medicine, Reproductive Endocrinology, and Gynecological Oncology. This fellowship often lasts about three years. Following the fellowship there are examinations and certification from the American Board of Obstetrics and Gynecology. Then, after four years of undergrad, four years of med school, and three years of a fellowship, they enter a career where the number of patient care hours per week averages around fifty. Often because of labor and delivery, they work at all hours. Certain practices allow for more schedule control, like private practices where the baby extracting stuff is left to family physicians, hospital OBs, and midwives. Clearly tons of factors like where they practice can affect a gynecologist’s schedule, but you have to think that this is some pretty exhausting work, in spite of those elementary school jokes that the boys made about it being an easy job.

I give every doctor I see a ton of credit. Not only are they busting their ass in a system that is filled with legal minefields, bureaucratic pitfalls, and mountains of paperwork, they also have to hear people complaining all day. If they spend more than two minutes in a room with me and I don’t leave feeling like a donkey’s lower colon, I figure that I owe them a repeat visit. In Dr. Gershowitz’s case, I’d like for every vagina on this damn island to go to her. Their owners would probably leave feeling a whole world healthier and happier. New York would be a more laid back, peaceful place. Maybe the girl next door would even start smiling at me in the hallway. But I kind of doubt it.

And to put the cherry on the oversharing sundae, I have menopausal level estrogen, which means that reproduction will require more scientific intervention than Jeff Goldblum’s acting in The Fly. Although I’m under thirty, for me to have a baby, a sperm would needed to be guided into my egg with more precision and planning than a moon landing.

I’m no goddess worshiper, but sometimes I want to be. I’ll admit it, the new agey stuff intrigues me, as much as I scoff at it. No, I don’t want to dread my hair, or wear hemp pants, or own a cat named after an ancient goddess. But sometimes I do think that herbal supplements, meditation, and positive visualization can act as buttresses for conventional, i.e. Western, medicine. And I do think that the power of relaxation and being easygoing is understated. After all, I practice quite the opposite in my daily life, with its rigid system of lists, an ungodly early waking hour, and, currently, incessant trips to very level-headed, diploma-awarded doctors. (Both my mom’s oncologist and my gynecologist have been nearly social calls in their regularity of late.) So, in my head, doulas, or labor companions, are individuals who tread that fine line between bullshit-mongers and awesome-sauce.

In case you’re wondering, Kalma, Axomamma, and Nike would be the top three names for the patchouli-scented cat that my perpetually-barefoot, new age doppelganger would own. They’re the goddesses of decay, potatoes, and basketball sneakers, respectively. And I still snicker when people chant “om” before yoga classes, so don’t get your hopes — or tapestries — up.

“Doula” is a derivative of a word in Greek that translates into something like “really important female slave.” Though I can’t hire a doula to clean my toilet or lick my boot, I can give one a call when I get knocked up. (If I get knocked up. Aforementioned gynecologist visits potentially indicate a slim-to-none chance of that happening in this lifetime.) These “birthworkers” are brought along for the ride of pregnancy, not as bewildered hostages like many a husband and boyfriend, but as assistants. Coaches, if you will. Additional punching bags, perhaps. The technical definition, according to Klaus, Kennell and Klaus’s cleverly titled tome Mothering the Mother, is “a woman experienced in childbirth who provides continuous physical, emotional, and informational support to the mother before, during and just after childbirth.”

According to Childbirth.org, a doula does everything from explaining medical procedures, to assisting in the creation of a birth plan. They also offer support and guidance as new parents figure out how to get the baby to breastfeed with minimal discomfort for the mother and maximum consumption of liquid lunch for the infant. It seems like doulas are heavily relied on by women and couples looking to avoid pharmacological pain relief, surgical intervention, or a more “Americanized” version of childbirth. Hey, to each their own. If I discovered that I was pregnant I would demand an epidural before the piss dried on the stick. But that’s just me.

So you want natural childbirth, or maybe you want to shoot your reproductive tract all over the interior of a kiddie pool, or perhaps you’d like to forever taint your house with the memory of passing a several-pound person through a hole in your body smaller than a thimble? Then for you a doula is totally doable. These pregnancy cheerleaders are mainly walking birth dictionaries, providing information, support, and pain relief techniques for the woman about to pass a human being through her cervix. The doula will explain things to the family prior to the water breaking, and, if they’re a postpartum doula, they’ll help out around the house afterward. This is looked at as useful because introducing a brand-spankin’-new baby into the home is kind of like releasing a swarm of angry bees inside of a grade school girls’ locker-room, at least from what I’ve been told.

There are benefits to having a labor companion, and they’re not just ones for the husband or same-sex partner who can’t quite figure out how to make the screaming stop. Doulas have been noted to reduce the length of labor by 25%, reduce the split-me-open-like-a-watermelon cesarean rate by 50%, reduce the use of forceps in deliveries by 40%, and, unlike my high-school’s drug abuse prevention program, reduce the use of Oxycontin by 40%. These are just a few on the list of benefits, which have been studied for years by skeptics and fans alike. One has to think that midwives helped to keep the human species conveyor belt moving right along for years, what’s the harm in bringing old school birthing back? After all, history proves that once you take away the midwives, the maternal mortality ratio goes up.

Just as I go postal on people who rigidly argue that vaccinating their kids is dangerous without exception, and that tinctures can cure petrussis (“whooping cough”), being too stubborn about Western medicine can be just as close-minded and potentially detrimental. Again, this is simply my point of view, based off of my semi-comparative, non-scientific study over the course of several years where drinking, overeating dairy products, and reckless sex never helped my anxiety. These days yoga and meditation keeps me from curling up into a ball and writhing on the floor to Joy Division’s Substance…most of the time. Uniting doulas along with traditional labor assistance enjoyed by mothers in developing countries can’t be a wholly bad thing.

Typically doula services run about $500, though some can cost upwards of $1K. Hospital doulas and free/low-cost doulas are available for the practical pregnant person. In the case of hospital doulas, the mother wouldn’t know them prior to getting contractions, which, to me, would make labor kind of like an awkward one-night stand. Only backwards? Free doulas are still in training, which would not appeal to me, mainly ’cause I’d imagine delivering a baby is a pretty intense situation to learn-by-doing.

Are you the kind of person who thinks that a rice sock is an adequate pain-relieving measure for childbirth? Do you think that sounds crazy-bananas, but are a devoted believer in the healing power of breath? Do you like babies? Do you like babies with the placenta still attached? Then becoming a doula might be a viable career path for you. You can enroll in a workshop and get certified through one of the three internationally-recognized doula-making organizations: DONA, CAPPA, and ALACE. Network with other doulas in or near your community, offer to help them around their office (or house) in exchange for information and guidance. Mentoring is always useful, but when it comes to the viscera-covered nitty-gritty of birthing — especially if you’ve never been inside of a delivery room other than your arrival on this planet — the more hand-holding the better.

There are several reasons why I would make a better, oh, I don’t know, professional wrestler, snake charmer, conservative Republican lobbyist, anything than I would make a doula. One of these is the schedule. You’re on call, a la ER, 24/7 until that baby arrives, is home, is nursing, is pooping in its diapers, and the parents are slightly less than shell-shocked. It’s your anniversary and your honey has taken you to Blue Ribbon Sushi to celebrate your months of contraceptive-aided-sexual bliss and love, but your mother-to-be sprung a leak and appears to be in labor two weeks early? See ya sushi, too bad, boo, you’re off to the hospital, Ms. Doula. (Or off to the house, if your client is delivering at home.) As I’ve mentioned, I’m slightly-to-completely obsessive compulsive, prone to scheduling, list-making, and adding and subtracting from my spiral-bound day planner more intensely and often than Jim Zorn does to the Redskins’ playbook. Living on the edge of my seat, awaiting a phone call which would summon me to work, would be more stressful than actually being pregnant.

Moreover, truth be told, I’m vagina squeamish when it comes to the non-recreational aspects of the thing. I nearly gag every time a gynecologist inserts a speculum in my bits, and if I was forced to see the utilitarian functions of female genitalia up-close and personal, well, I’d be the one needing medical attention. I’m also not one who is, as they put it “comfortable with touch,” especially not with strangers. A non-touchy people pleaser in a room with a gaping, bloody hole, belonging to a screaming woman…it sounds like a PSA for birth control, or a scene in a film by Takashe Miike.

Take note that this is written by someone who is seriously ignorant, on top of being selfish. I’m a sexually overt twenty-something who is more in tune with the Lakers’ shot clock than her biological one. I’ve never had a kid and, like I said, it’s doubtful I will. As with the new age mumbo-jumbo that makes me chuckle and then think, I do believe that childbirth is a miracle, though it also kind of seems like a nightmare. But most new mothers, just like the Nag Champa burning granola munchers I pretend to roll my eyes at, seem to have a content glow and all-encompassing smile, the likes of which this cynic’s cheeks have never seen.

Drop me a line. Angry letters from doulas and mothers welcome. AinsleyDrew at gmail dot com.

Thanks to everyone who donates.

Hire me to birth some words.

Doula Resources:

American Pregnancy Association’s answers to why you may want a doula.

So you think you can doula? Here’s a checklist, just to make sure.

Birth Roots, which looks like you should get a bowl of Kashi with every click, is actually a really informative site about returning to the “roots of chilbirth.”