This happened to me several years ago, but for some reason, (maybe it was the rude lady on the train yesterday who demanded to know why I had scars on my face and then told me I was rude when I said it was an innapropriate question) I want to post the story again.
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Undressed and wrapped in paper, I wait 20 minutes on the frigid exam
table, examining my pale skin and striped socks under the fluorescent
lights while I wait for the doctor to arrive. The assistant who took my
vitals was cute. Japanese with a blue tongue piercing, she commented on
my eyes. I couldn’t tell if we flirting. Needless to say, she was
enjoying her job. Done taking my vitals, she pointed to the folded paper
on the exam table. “Put the blue one on top, opening in the front and
put the other over your lap.” And then she was gone.
I’m glad to
have made it this far. It’s two hours past my scheduled appointment
time. In the waiting room, I witnessed three women approach the
receptionist window only to be denied a Pap smear for financial reasons.
One had a $500 deductible on her health insurance that had not yet
been met. Another woman had gotten a small raise at her job and no
longer qualified for San Francisco’s Family Pact card, a city-sponsored
card for free family planning and STI prevention services, but could not
afford the astronomical PAP smear fee. The third time all I heard was
rejection and looked up in time to see a cardiganed pair of shoulders
slumping out the door. I’m tired of sitting in this hard plastic chair
under institutional lights. The room is crowded, and everyone looks
irritable.
Now I’m waiting again, although this time by myself, where it is colder and I am more naked. Finally, the doctor enters.
“Sorry about the wait. We’re really understaffed today. Two people called in sick.”
I
placate her guilt, wanting to get on with the exam. “Everybody’s
getting sick.” I say. “I have an immune system of steel. I work with
kids.”
“You know what I love the most about kids?” She asks in a
cheery voice. “Their curiosity.” She points to her own forehead and
says, “What happened?”
“Oh, you need medical validation.” My tone
is mildly condescending, and I hope she’ll get the hint that this line
of questioning is inappropriate. I’m here for my breasts and vagina.
Nothing else. I do not want to volunteer information about cosmetic
differences in my appearance, and I know she is not asking for medical
reasons . I wrote on my intake form that I was hospitalized for a brain
injury in 1978. That’s all she needs to know. She’s looking at me in
my paper gown, expecting an answer. “I had an accident. I was dragged
by a horse.”
“Oh, how horrible!” The doctor has a sharp intake of
breath, the way people do when they’re shocked be something truly
awful, like the holocaust are starving Ethiopian babies. She begins my
breast exam, her icy hands palpating my armpits and mammaries. “My
mother is in remission from breast cancer with reconstructed breasts and
my father died of glioma in 2007,” I report. Still, she has the gall
to go on about how awful my head injury most have been, asking me for
details and exclaiming at how lucky I am.
As she prods my
breasts, I think to myself, “That my mom now has fake tits and my father
is dead is not horrible, but that I survived a head injury and have
done the physical, emotional and mental work to become passable as an
able-bodied member of society is? What is wrong with this woman?”
Now
I’m on my back, feet in the stirrups, ass hanging off the table, cervix
exposed. Unaware that this might be a slightly awkward position for
me, the doctor goes on. “You know, head injuries can really be quite
serious. Oh, when young people get them it’s just awful. Imagine not
being able to swallow solid food or use your legs?”
At this point,
I feel it is time for me to stand up for myself, whether my vagina is
in her face or not. “A big part of disability is how the people around
us react. Really, we adapt quite well. It’s society that has the
disability.”
“Oh, but some of these disabilities are just awful.
I mean, you, you’re lucky!” She finishes her exam. I sit up. “You
know, someday, when they have better technology and you have more money,
you could get that fixed with lasers.” She points to my forehead.
My
womanliness, in all her fabulous, well-groomed glory has been exposed
and scrutinized by this quack, yet the uniqueness of my face is still
more interesting. I smile, “Actually, they have that technology already
and I wouldn’t change my face if you paid me. I like my scars.”
She
gives me a “Good for you” that one usually reserves for a 3 year old.
Do I look like I need a hug? Especially from someone who has just stuck
a variety of cotton swabs up my vaginal canal?
Honestly, I was just
trying to take care of myself by getting a check up today, but instead I
ended up having to explain and defend not only myself but the entire
spectrum of physically-disabled people to an ignorant doctor whose only
concern should be that I don’t get cervical cancer or any other type of
boob/vagina illness. And then, after I’m done defending myself, she
has to end it with a “You go, girl!” As if I need her vote of
confidence. I’m offended in triplicate (as a human, feminist, and
disabled person) that she would suggest that I fix my face without
knowing anything about my personality, politics, or body image.
I
will answer questions from children, family, and friends regarding my
scars and where I fit on the disability spectrum. I don’t mind at all.
I like to open up dialogue and create a safe space for inquiry. But
when I go to a Planned Parenthood to see a doctor whom I will probably
never encounter again, I am not there to be an educator. I am there to
get my pussy checked out so I can go get laid like a responsible adult.
And that is all!
For the record, I love my face and my
forehead. The circular scar in the center is a third eye, a glimpse
into my past, why I am the strong and compassionate being that I am
today. I resent it when anyone (especially a healthcare professional)
tells me there is something wrong with my appearance. Can they not see
the beauty of this scar, this map of my past, on my face? Are they
blind, or are they just so insecure about their own appearance that they
can’t appreciate the uniqueness of mine?
Whatever the reason,
Planned Parenthood, I’m glad you exist, but I am never going back to you
again. I would write a complaint about this particular doctor, but I
don’t want her to lose her job. Of course maybe she should. She
doesn’t seem to understand the Hippocratic oath very well.
