Major trigger warning for gynecology, mentions of medical practices, medical malpractice, trauma, detailed description of a bad medical experience. I am using my platform to discuss trauma. I am reducing shame. I am vulnerable and raw right now. This is what sexual health writing is for.
I have never been scared to go to the gynecologist (or the doctor in general). I do sometimes panic when I have to get blood drawn or a shot, but I always tough it out. Over the past week, I've had a bad flare up of inflammation and pain, so I went to the gynecological urgent care center in my area, figuring I had BV again (it's the kind of thing that likes to come back once you've had it once.) I was hoping for a quick swab and a prescription for the medication I've taken before. Unfortunately, I am now scared of the doctor. I am re-traumatized. I feel violated by the medical system.
I got there and the intake nurse was very kind and gentle, asking me questions about my symptoms, etc.
I left to go provide a urine sample, and while I was walking to the bathroom, one of the male doctors in the triage made a joke about the Me Too movement to a female nurse. I was offended, but I tried to brush it off.
I got back and the nurse instructed me to put on a johnny (weird, because I was wearing a dress and the doctor definitely could have examined me without the johnny, but okay.) Then she told me 'we'll make sure you get a female doctor,' with a kind smile. I told her it really didn't matter what gender doctor I had as long as it was a good one. Spoiler alert: she wasn't a good one.
So she came in, looking skittish and nervous. She didn't tell me her name. I was laying on the gurney, and she instructed me to position myself the right way. So I did. She sat between my legs and asked me to strap my feet into these velcro holsters while she stared at my vagina, honestly looking a little perplexed.
"Right off the bat," she said, "I'm seeing that you look super inflamed and raw. You clearly have a lot of irritation." I nodded.
Abruptly, she inserted the speculum without letting me know. My usual gynecologist uses a smaller size one, and always uses lubricant. This doctor used a large one and it was very dry and very, very painful. I cried out, and she said "sorry," but continued to press forward. She hadn't even opened the speculum yet and I had already started to cry. I have a very high pain tolerance, and have never cried just from having a speculum inserted. The pain felt like a hot knife slicing open the top and bottom walls of my vagina. I was genuinely concerned that I might bleed.
"I don't even think I can open the speculum," she said, realizing how much pain I was in. Then she followed up by saying, "Oh wait.. Actually, I'm going to have to." And she did. I literally screamed from pain, but she kept pressing forward. My sobs were causing my whole body to convulse, which caused my vagina to basically push the speculum out from the force of my convulsions. She kept shoving it back in no matter how much my body rejected it.
She then had to take six swabs, for six different possible infections. For two of the swabs, she pressed the stick so hard against my vaginal wall that it snapped in half. That happened twice. When describing this experience to my best friend, I said '"it felt like she was taking out some kind of deep-seated rage on my unsuspecting vagina." She then abruptly yanked the speculum out, and said "well, it doesn't look like you have an infection, but I can't be sure until the tests come back." I was confused. She had said I looked 'irritated and raw.' So why was I, then, if she couldn't see any sign of infection? I was too traumatized to ask.
She finally looked up and saw that my medical johnny was soaked in tears and that I had broken out in hives from weeping. My throat hurt from screaming. I had burst capillaries in my eyes and cheeks from screaming and sobbing. Coldly, she said, "I'll give you a second to collect yourself." But before I could even close my legs, she said, "let me just give you a quick pelvic exam now and then you're all done." She used a non-lubricated, latex gloved hand to roughly palpate the inside of my body. Naturally, she didn't use lube, so my body was not welcoming of that latex hand. My vagina met her hand with lots of resistance, but she roughly pushed past it. I cried out more. Around this time, I blacked out, partly from pain and partly from stress. I dissociated. Finally, I opened my eyes and it was over. It should be noted that during this process, I heard the voices and saw the faces of everyone who's ever made me feel small, who's hurt me. I had a complete attack of post-traumatic stress.
As abruptly as she had hurt me, she stood up. Without looking at me (it actually seemed like she was hanging her head in shame,) she said "I'm sorry." Then she left, leaving me weeping on the table in a stupid blue johnny, bow-kneed with my feet still in the stirrups. She even left the broken swab sticks, vials of my samples, and the used speculum and gloves in a messy pile on the table.
I grabbed my phone and texted my mother, who was in the waiting room, to come back. She ran back into my room and held me while I cried, unable to tell her what had happened. Eventually I did. She was, as always my fiercest advocate.
The reason I'm writing about this is because it's important to tell our stories, of trauma and of success. It's important to make it known that these things happen. Even if you're the most educated, most 'woke,' most in-touch-with-your body person on the planet, dangerous and uneducated people exist. And the potential to get hurt is there. I'm also telling my story because it's going to help me to heal. Storytelling heals, and I have made a promise that I will be open and vulnerable on my platform.
Stay strong and raw, my wonderful readers, and thank you for giving me this space to share.
I have never been scared to go to the gynecologist (or the doctor in general). I do sometimes panic when I have to get blood drawn or a shot, but I always tough it out. Over the past week, I've had a bad flare up of inflammation and pain, so I went to the gynecological urgent care center in my area, figuring I had BV again (it's the kind of thing that likes to come back once you've had it once.) I was hoping for a quick swab and a prescription for the medication I've taken before. Unfortunately, I am now scared of the doctor. I am re-traumatized. I feel violated by the medical system.
I got there and the intake nurse was very kind and gentle, asking me questions about my symptoms, etc.
I left to go provide a urine sample, and while I was walking to the bathroom, one of the male doctors in the triage made a joke about the Me Too movement to a female nurse. I was offended, but I tried to brush it off.
I got back and the nurse instructed me to put on a johnny (weird, because I was wearing a dress and the doctor definitely could have examined me without the johnny, but okay.) Then she told me 'we'll make sure you get a female doctor,' with a kind smile. I told her it really didn't matter what gender doctor I had as long as it was a good one. Spoiler alert: she wasn't a good one.
So she came in, looking skittish and nervous. She didn't tell me her name. I was laying on the gurney, and she instructed me to position myself the right way. So I did. She sat between my legs and asked me to strap my feet into these velcro holsters while she stared at my vagina, honestly looking a little perplexed.
"Right off the bat," she said, "I'm seeing that you look super inflamed and raw. You clearly have a lot of irritation." I nodded.
Abruptly, she inserted the speculum without letting me know. My usual gynecologist uses a smaller size one, and always uses lubricant. This doctor used a large one and it was very dry and very, very painful. I cried out, and she said "sorry," but continued to press forward. She hadn't even opened the speculum yet and I had already started to cry. I have a very high pain tolerance, and have never cried just from having a speculum inserted. The pain felt like a hot knife slicing open the top and bottom walls of my vagina. I was genuinely concerned that I might bleed.
"I don't even think I can open the speculum," she said, realizing how much pain I was in. Then she followed up by saying, "Oh wait.. Actually, I'm going to have to." And she did. I literally screamed from pain, but she kept pressing forward. My sobs were causing my whole body to convulse, which caused my vagina to basically push the speculum out from the force of my convulsions. She kept shoving it back in no matter how much my body rejected it.
She then had to take six swabs, for six different possible infections. For two of the swabs, she pressed the stick so hard against my vaginal wall that it snapped in half. That happened twice. When describing this experience to my best friend, I said '"it felt like she was taking out some kind of deep-seated rage on my unsuspecting vagina." She then abruptly yanked the speculum out, and said "well, it doesn't look like you have an infection, but I can't be sure until the tests come back." I was confused. She had said I looked 'irritated and raw.' So why was I, then, if she couldn't see any sign of infection? I was too traumatized to ask.
She finally looked up and saw that my medical johnny was soaked in tears and that I had broken out in hives from weeping. My throat hurt from screaming. I had burst capillaries in my eyes and cheeks from screaming and sobbing. Coldly, she said, "I'll give you a second to collect yourself." But before I could even close my legs, she said, "let me just give you a quick pelvic exam now and then you're all done." She used a non-lubricated, latex gloved hand to roughly palpate the inside of my body. Naturally, she didn't use lube, so my body was not welcoming of that latex hand. My vagina met her hand with lots of resistance, but she roughly pushed past it. I cried out more. Around this time, I blacked out, partly from pain and partly from stress. I dissociated. Finally, I opened my eyes and it was over. It should be noted that during this process, I heard the voices and saw the faces of everyone who's ever made me feel small, who's hurt me. I had a complete attack of post-traumatic stress.
As abruptly as she had hurt me, she stood up. Without looking at me (it actually seemed like she was hanging her head in shame,) she said "I'm sorry." Then she left, leaving me weeping on the table in a stupid blue johnny, bow-kneed with my feet still in the stirrups. She even left the broken swab sticks, vials of my samples, and the used speculum and gloves in a messy pile on the table.
I grabbed my phone and texted my mother, who was in the waiting room, to come back. She ran back into my room and held me while I cried, unable to tell her what had happened. Eventually I did. She was, as always my fiercest advocate.
The reason I'm writing about this is because it's important to tell our stories, of trauma and of success. It's important to make it known that these things happen. Even if you're the most educated, most 'woke,' most in-touch-with-your body person on the planet, dangerous and uneducated people exist. And the potential to get hurt is there. I'm also telling my story because it's going to help me to heal. Storytelling heals, and I have made a promise that I will be open and vulnerable on my platform.
Stay strong and raw, my wonderful readers, and thank you for giving me this space to share.
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