I used to have stress dreams about going to the gynecologist that left me sweating and anxious when I woke up.
The vulnerability that comes with revealing literally the most private parts of myself to a stranger made my dread feel relatively reasonable. That fear feels especially heightened when you factor in the physical discomfort of having a cold, metal speculum shoved inside of your body as your vagina is cranked open using other unfamiliar objects.
When I first experienced bleeding during sex, I brushed it off. But when it happened again with a different partner, I began to panic. “It’s probably nothing,” I’d lie to myself as I tried to stifle my increasing trepidation. The Internet, as usual, didn’t help to calm my nerves.
“YOU HAVE CANCER!!!” screamed every WebMD-esque article. My fruitless searching yielded no better results, only offering me a vast range of possibilities from sexually transmitted infections, to menopause, to polyps, to faulty birth control, to just plain old vaginal trauma.
Finally, after serious urging from my friends — and a tearful phone call to my mom — I admitted that maybe this was something worth getting checked out by a professional. This was for my own peace of mind, if nothing else.
The gynecology department at my university’s student health center would not even see patients under the age of 21 unless they were experiencing a medical abnormality or emergency, which I found puzzling. My general practitioner had always told me that it was important to see a gynecologist for annual exams upon becoming sexually active, which was something that I had been guilty of stalling. Of all places, shouldn’t a university be encouraging students to take ownership and responsibility of their reproductive health?
Making an emergency appointment proved no easier. In the two-and-a-half weeks leading up to spring break, only two appointments were available, so I swallowed my apprehension and jumped at the chance to take the first possible spot.
A quick Google search of my doctor’s name yielded eyebrow-raising results: a one-star rating on a third-party website. But with over 40 years of experience in the field, I was certain that she had seen my problem before and could at least give me the mental placidity I craved before I began my final exams.
Instead, I walked out of Student Health feeling confused, unsatisfied, and ashamed of my life choices.
I sat on the table and waited for my doctor for what felt like an eternity. Naked from the waist down, covered only with a flimsy sheet, my clothes sat crumpled on the floor like a sign of surrender. My mind raced, and I nervously fidgeted with my hands, wondering what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to lie down and count the dots on the ceiling? Or was I meant to sit up, conscious of my terrible posture and my bare ass on the too-crunchy paper?
My meeting with the doctor began fairly standard, but my first inkling that this appointment would be futile came when I brought up my personal suspected causes of the bleeding. “I was wondering about the possibility of endometriosis causing this bleeding? I’ve never been diagnosed, but my mom had it, and I’ve been taking birth control to ease my really painful periods for–”
“The pill is the best method for dealing with endometriosis, so you probably shouldn’t change what you’ve been doing,” she interrupted.
Having my questions basically discontinued by the doctor wasn’t the worst part of my appointment, while pondering my chart, she turned to me and said, “You know, I don’t like you having this many partners in such a short amount of time.”
I was stunned. As I lay there, scared, splayed open and vulnerable, this doctor had the audacity to criticize me for having safe, consensual sex with two different people in a span of two weeks. And, frankly, let’s be honest. It’s college. Crazier sexcapades have surely happened.
While a doctor’s concern for a patient’s health and safety is always reasonable and appreciated, I felt as though this comment crossed a line of professionalism. Her judgment regarding the frequency of my partners — in spite of the fact that I explicitly stated that I had used condoms in both encounters — read as preachy, not professional.
As young people begin to take agency of their reproductive health, the last thing we want or need in a daunting situation is a doctor who openly shames us for our expression of sexuality. I was disheartened to have left my first gynecologist appointment — something that already had me wracked with nerves — feeling ashamed and unheard when I should have left feeling comforted and supported.
Sermons about promiscuity that go far beyond the boundaries of the job descriptions of medical professionals are, sadly, nothing new.
While there isn’t data at the ready specifying the percentage of women who have experienced slut-shaming by their doctors, medical professionals often overstep beyond unbiased patient care into personal lectures about moral conduct. Countless young women have reportedly encountered health care professionals who will not prescribe them birth control because they deem them too young, too promiscuous — or simply unworthy due to some unrelated, subjectively implemented standard.
It is not the job of a gynecologist (or any doctor, for that matter) to judge a patient who is lying physically and emotionally bare before them. It is their job to offer as much help as possible. And, in my case, my doctor not only shut down my questions and refused to answer them, but she also made me feel unable to be wholly honest about my sexual history and activity.
Being candid and truthful with healthcare professionals is one of the most vital parts of seeking treatment. As young women set out on the quest to maintain good reproductive health, the last thing we need is to be shamed, invalidated, or questioned for wanting to practice safe, consensual sex — and for pursuing the healthcare that comes in conjunction with that. Experiencing a negative impression from my first-ever gynecologist appointment will surely leave a lasting mark, and I wonder how many other women at my university (and beyond) have had similar experiences?
Shame will not likely amend our lifestyle choices, but it will affect how much we tell our doctors and even how willing we are to schedule additional visits when facing a medical crisis. And, that’s where the real danger lurks. Â
First two photos by Maizy Shepherd and last photo by Kama Snow.Â