Is there a doctor in the 'hood?

When I moved to the Upper West Side, I was pretty aware of the situation I was entering. It’s tranquil, as this frenetic city goes; quiet. Sirens cede to relative silence, horns honk only on occasion. As such, it draws a certain kind of person—those were want a more serene city life. And also those that want babies.

Strollers, axle for axle, outnumber any other vehicle in this section of the city. Babies wail, toddlers tug at fraying mom-pants, the streets are atwitter with little children: some of which wonder aloud--for the seventh consecutive time--if they can have an ice cream cone. With sprinkles. Pleeeeeez. Pahleeeeez??

I like my neighborhood a lot. The more family-friendly vibe is just an offshoot of this being a really nice place to live. Plus, it makes me feel like the single-guy renegade, going out at night to throw a few beers back and make a little noise. I'm like a Hell's Angel here, comparatively. Anyway, my point is this: I'm aware of the parent-and-un-potty-trained populace, and I'm completely fine with it. So, I guess I shouldn't be surprised by what I've discovered.

Given my new job, I finally have paid health insurance. So, this week I went about finding a doctor in my neighborhood. I went on the HMO’s website and started looking for generalists on the Upper West Side—just your average Internal Medicine doctor, a friendly neighborhood MD with a stethoscope and smile. I was given a list of doctors to click on.

The first one was an OB-Gyn doctor. As was the second. Third. Fourth. Sixth. Seventh through ninth. Twelfth.

Seriously, there were a lot of lady/baby doctors. It's almost as if my neighborhood is hoarding them. I wondered if I was at the epicenter of a government-sponsored baby farm, a delusive cabal of highly-trained baby facilitators helping to spawn an urban super-race. A stretch, I’ll admit – but someone had to have run all the other doctors out of this area. In any event, I was beginning to think I was going to be one womb short of treatable in this zip code.

Not that OB-Gyn's were not the only doctors in my neighborhood. There were pediatricians. Number Eight was a pediatric pulmonary specialist—for the apparent swath of UWS kindergartners bridled by the Black Lung. There was also a pediatric otolaryngologist, an orgy of syllables that I thought might describe a scientist that studies baby dinosaurs. It’s not. It’s an ear/nose/throat guy. These are all valiant and valid specialties, no doubt, but what’s a dude gotta do to get a check-up in this joint?

Finally I was able to find a few general doctors to choose from, who in no way discriminate based on age or genitalia. I think I may make an appointment with an OB-Gyn anyway, though, for fun. She'll say “You're in the wrong place.” And I'll say “Why? Is this because I don't have a uterus?” And then she'll laugh and laugh, because gynecologists like a good joke as much as the next person. Or, more likely, she’ll just kick me out of her office with the vehement promise of criminal charges.

But then, that's the kind of thing that happens when you're dealing with renegades.