I went to a new gynecologist expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as the exam was over, he frowned and asked me in a strange tone who had treated me before; I replied naturally that it was my husband, who is also a gynecologist.
“Lucía Martín.”
Dr. Álvaro Serrano’s office was bright, with a large window overlooking a quiet street in Chamberí. He looked to be in his early forties, with graying hair, thin glasses, and a reserved, almost shy kindness. He asked the usual questions: medical history, cycles, pregnancies. I nodded and answered with short replies.
When I mentioned that my husband was also a gynecologist and worked at a private clinic in Salamanca, Álvaro raised an eyebrow with mild curiosity.
“Then you must already be used to all of this,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.
I smiled politely. In truth, ever since Diego opened his own clinic, we had avoided having him be my doctor.
“I find it hard to separate the personal from the professional with you,” he used to say, as if that confession itself were proof of love.
The examination began like any other: gloves, cold light, short instructions. I stared at the ceiling, at the typical panel with clouds meant to look calming but that always seemed ridiculous to me. I heard him switch instruments. The chair shifted slightly. I noticed he leaned in more than usual, and it took him too long to say anything.
thickened
The silence thickened.
I stopped thinking about my grocery list or the unfinished work waiting for me. Instead, I felt the pulse beating in my temples. He pulled back slightly, and I saw him frown behind his mask.
It wasn’t the neutral professional expression I was used to. It was discomfort. Or surprise. Or something worse.
“Who treated you before?” he asked again, his voice deeper now.
I swallowed.
“My husband,” I said. “Diego López. He’s a gynecologist too.”
Álvaro froze. He removed his gloves slowly, almost deliberately, and tossed them into the metal trash bin with a dry sound that made me jump slightly. Then he walked to his desk without looking directly at me.
“Lucía,” he finally said, using my first name for the first time, “we need to run tests right now. What I’m seeing… shouldn’t be there.”
The air suddenly felt heavy around me. I sat up slightly on the exam table, still covered by the paper gown.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice sharper than usual.
He avoided answering directly. He pressed the buzzer to call the nurse, opened the ultrasound screen, and began preparing the equipment. His hands moved quickly, but his eyes remained tense and alert.
“We’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound right now,” he announced, trying to sound routine. “I just… need to confirm something.”
The door opened, the nurse entered, and cold gel touched my skin. On the screen, gray shapes appeared—patterns that would make sense to someone trained to read them.
Not to me.
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
