The Gynecological Adventures of a Deana

In the continuing saga of doctors' office staff who can't get my name right, I made my pilgrimage into Little Rock for my yearly grope session today. (At the Cornerstone Clinic, which prides itself on being a Christian place of business. So you can get groped to the glory of God, I guess.) At last year's appointment, (I thought) I had gotten them all straightened out on my name. Today, I approached the sign-in desk, where the woman asked if I brought my forms. "Actually, I was never sent anything," I said. So she gave me new forms and I sat down to fill them out. A few seconds later, I heard, "Jeannie?" I looked up and realized that she meant me. Let me stop here and explain something that everyone named Deana (pronounced Deena) has to deal with. People mess our names up ALL THE TIME. And every time it happens, we have a split-second to decide whether we are going to correct the person or not. At this point, I decided not to say anything. And I'm glad I didn't, because it only would have added to the confusion that followed.

Woman: I think you didn't get your forms in the mail because we have an old address for you.

Me: OK...(giving her our "new" street address)

Woman: And you're still living in Lonoke?

Me: I've never lived in Lonoke.

Woman: Hmmm...is your date of birth 11/2/54?

Me: NINETEEN FIFTY-FOUR???

(I wasn't trying to be rude. But 1954? Really???)

So she got all that straightened out. At least I hope she did. I would hate for my Pap smear to show pre-cancerous cells on my cervix and Jeannie in Lonoke getting the phone call instead of me.

Then I sat down and immersed myself in a five-month-old copy of Southern Living. Then, "Deana Hall?"

I walked up to the nurse.

Nurse: Hello! How are you today?

Me: I'm great. But I need to let you know that I'm not really Deana Hall. I'm Deana Nall. I just respond to the name that sounds the most like mine.

Nurse: (looking quite puzzled) Let me check on that. I'll be right back.

A minute later, the nurse returned with a triumphant look on her face. "You're right! It's Deana Nall!"

I was right! About my very own name! What a moment.

Then I was ushered to a bathroom, where I had to roll my eyes when I realized I was peeing into a cup labeled "Dena Hall." (And rolling your eyes while peeing into a cup is not easy. You should try it some time.)

Once in the exam room, I glanced at my chart and anything else with my name on it to make sure it was right. In case the real Dena Hall was scheduled for major surgery that morning. But everything checked out. "Deana C. Nall" -- my official, legal, correctly-spelled name was on everything.

On my way out, the cheerful nurse (who had pronounced my name correctly up until this point) called out "Bye, Dee-Anna!"

I can't wait to see what they call me next year.

Here's what I don't get. My name is really not that hard. It's not like I'm Polish or anything. It's not like I'm Attitaya Indrakamhang, the photographer I knew while working on the college newspaper whose name we had to meticulously type into every single one of her photo credits. That poor girl probably never goes to the doctor. It's probably not worth the hassle.