It’s My Pu**y and I’ll Touch It If I Want To
A Provocative Recount of the Gynecologist who Blamed my Chronic Pain on Self Examinations
If you’re a woman who has lived on this earth for more than a day my guess is you’ve touched your own vagina. It’s not sexual, offensive, un lady-like, or an act of sin as some may have previously shamed you into believing. When any part of your body is in pain or injured, the most natural and often first response is to touch it. If you get a paper cut you suck on your finger. If you have a headache you rub your temples. So what happens when your doctor scolds you for touching your own body? Not only that, but actually blames you for creating the chronic, debilitating pain that has stripped away your quality of life and caused you to bleed all over the exam table?
You fight. You cry. You scream. You beg for help. You desperately try to make your voice heard. But sometimes the only thing left to do in your power is to speak your truth.
I have chosen to share my story in the hopes that it may serve as an uncensored allegory for sexism in the medical field- particularly when it relates to women’s reproductive health and invisible illness. This is a story for all young girls and women who have been gaslighted, shamed, or dismissed by health care professionals. If you happen to know anyone who does not fit into this category please tell me where I can find the source of all her powers so that I may steal the secrets of this omnipotent goddess. If you read my last story, you will recall I have been battling an unfortunate concoction of chronic illnesses most of my life with the most significant being endometriosis: an incurable disease. However, hailed as the “golden standard” of care, the pot at the end of the rainbow, is expert excision surgery. I am finally poised to receive this presumptive life changing surgery on June 16, 2020, much to the chagrin of my last gynecological surgeon. I’m still internally healing from the disgusting, yet perfectly legal, violation I endured with a doctor who decided to “change his mind” after months of waiting for surgery. When my operation was originally delayed in March due to the pandemic I was at least able to understand why, but I will never be able to rationalize what happened to me on that godforsaken exam table on May 20, 2020.
[TW: Sexual Harassment, Explicit Language, Medical Trauma]
I literally stumbled into the doctor’s office, barely able to walk. My doctor bragged how he was able to squeeze me in at the last minute for an emergency exam. I suspected a uterine prolapse since my cervix was beginning to bulge out of my inner labia. I felt like my insides were literally about to fall out of my body; an unexplainable sensation of gravity and pressure bearing down on my pelvis. The pain became unbearable as I began passing blood clots. Even going to the bathroom was an excruciating task. My mother described my appearance as if I was a woman in labor, violently shaking and sweating simultaneously while groaning in pain. I went into my doctors office with the hopes that the appointment would at least give me a post-Covid surgery date, even preparing myself mentally for the possibility of emergency surgery. The nurse took me back and asked what my pain level was on a scale of 1–10. I will never forget how she assumed,
This must be the worst pain you ever felt right?
My heart dropped as the brain fog quickly clouded my response. Do I tell her the truth and say no? What if she doesn’t take my pain seriously then? I can guarantee my level 10 pain is far different from that of an able bodied person. I stuttered a mixture of yes’s and no’s that eventually culminated into tears. Every breath I took was like a knife piercing my abdomen, so I felt as though I couldn’t speak further. The nurse quickly grabbed the doctor. He opened the door with a chipper voice and a big smile,
Hello Mady! So how are we feeling today?
Annoyed that he seemed to be approaching it as a typical check up, I started explaining how the pain I was experiencing warranted some kind of immediate medical attention. He cut me off after about 3 sentences,
Well let’s just have a look first to see if you really need anything or have a prolapse.
He immediately left the room as the nurse handed me a gown. I slowly changed and collapsed face first onto the exam table. I groaned as I rolled over onto my back and covered myself with the sheet provided. He entered the room and began the exam; my mother sitting on the right side of the room and 2 “learning nurses” observing on the left. I was crying before he even inserted his fingers. Not from anxiety. Not from being irritated by the observing nurses. I cried from pain and pain alone. He completed a pap smear as my whole body cringed. He began a digital exam to check my ovaries as I held back screams, literally putting my hand over my mouth at one point. My left ovary was particularly hard to find so he had to dig around with his hands until he found it. The pain made it impossible to not have some kind of verbal response. He pulled out his bloody hands and exclaimed,
Well everything looks normal! Just seems as though you have a low tolerance for pain.
I was in shock. I began firing questions, asking how things could possibly be normal with that much blood, my inner labia swelling, my cervix dropping, and the physical lumps in my vaginal canal (not to mention the uterine contractions).
Then why does it look so different? I know what my own vagina looks like and it’s never looked like this.
He glanced at me perplexed as he began to stand up. I pleaded,
Wait! Wait! Hold on, can you please tell me what that lump is? It wasn’t there before and it’s extremely painful.
My mother interjected, successfully restraining her inevitable fury,
Can she at least show you what she is talking about?!
And that was exactly what I did. I flung the sheet off my knees, leaned forward and began attempting to point to areas of concern. I felt absolutely humiliated as I spread my labia with my fingers in front of what felt like an audience. I pointed to my extremely swollen and bleeding cervix and his only response was,
Yep that’s all normal anatomy! Some women are just more sensitive to pain and since you have Fibromyalgia that’s probably your problem.
A bullet pierced my chest, I barely had the breath to respond. But before I could, he informed me that because of my “low pain tolerance” he was concerned with doing “more harm than good” if we rescheduled my previously postponed surgery. Floored I was having to ask what seemed like such an obvious question,
But if I needed surgery before and you agreed to do it… doesn’t that mean I still need one? Wouldn’t the disease still be inside of me?
He promptly interjected to correct me stating that he never agreed to perform excision surgery. This was a lie. He brought up my clear MRI results to help justify his decision that I did not need the operation. We began a banter that felt like a competition of who’s voice could overpower the other:
Ok I know MRIs can detect stage 4 endometriosis and I don’t have that, but what about stages 1–3? Everything I’ve read said that-
(Doctor) Oh well our machines are extremely sensitive to detecting endometriosis so this proves you don’t need surgery.
But I had a surgery date!
(Doctor) No you didn’t you must be misunderstanding-
Yes I had one scheduled before Covid lockdowns on March 30, but then it got delayed and I was told the hospital would reschedule.
(Doctor) No I never actually agreed to do surgery I have paperwork that-
Wait no I have paperwork from my pre-op appointment-
(Doctor) Well sometimes doctors change their minds. I’m confident your endometriosis was adequately treated with your last laparoscopic ablation.
It was in that moment I realized he had decided not to perform my surgery before he even entered the room. He was blatantly lying to my face and there was nothing I could say to change his mind. I wanted to shut down completely, but my desperate desire for answers persevered. I asked if he had any explanation for my constant bleeding and he interrogated,
You said you first felt a problem when you were trying to insert a CBD suppository? (*I nod yes) Yeah you got to be real careful with those, you never know what you’re putting inside your body and we don’t even know if they work.
I informed him that I make my own suppositories so I know exactly what ingredients are used. He quickly brushed it off and reluctantly agreed that must not be the problem. He continued his interrogation and asked how I noticed the bulge (note: he is acknowledging that my cervix is bulging even though he previously declared it “normal). I began explaining that when I couldn’t physically fit the suppository into my vagina due to the swollen bulge and a couple of small nodule-like lumps, I inserted my fingers without the suppository; flustered that there was something blocking my vaginal canal . I told him how I grabbed a mirror and began to feel around just to see if I could examine it. As soon as I said that it was as if I handed him a golden ticket; a justification for all my pain that he couldn’t explain. An avenue in which it was all my fault:
Oh you really shouldn’t be giving yourself exams. You can’t do that, it can cause problems. You know, this can happen with a lot of girls, they start looking around and they notice things that they haven’t before and get scared. That can also cause irritation and swelling so I recommend you don’t continue…
Was he really blaming this on me? An incurable disease that has taken away what’s supposed to be the best years of my life? Is he really attributing literally 200 days of vaginal bleeding, intense swelling, uterine contractions, and the inability to digest almost all foods to inserting my own 2 fingers? I had never felt more invalidated in my entire life. His hurtful words, “you can’t do that” rattled around in my head. It became clear that he was blatantly discriminating against me because I was a challenging case for which he either didn’t have answers for or decided wasn’t worth his time. My fight with him was over. I needed to swallow both my pain and my pride to move on from this condescending misogynist who was obviously never going to give me the treatment I deserve. Before I was able to shut down the conversation, he continued,
Now let’s talk about the psychiatric contributors. Due to the trauma you have undergone in the last year along with your pre-existing depression and anxiety, its likely to have essentially created a breeding ground for this pain to manifest [in your head]. So let’s move forward with saying that we’re going to drop the digital exams and suppositories, try a pain specialist, and go back to your neurologist for Fibromyalgia treatment.
I couldn’t hold back the tears in my eyes after the comment about my trauma. I knew he was referencing my beloved boyfriend, Jacob Levy, who was killed by a drunk driver in January. I remember watching a nurse write it down in my file and wanting to ask her to scratch it out. Grief certainly contributes to my physical pain, but I know for a fact it does not create a “breeding ground” that progresses the disease inside of my body. I compartmentalized these derogatory comments of which I had all heard before in some fashion and took a deep breath,
OK. that’s fine. (*fueled by passive aggression) I understand now. So what do you suggest I do for pain in the meantime?
He handed me a sheet of paper with a list of pain specialists and told me to call them. When I asked about a referral he ignored me knowing full well I couldn’t make a single appointment without one. He refused to give me any kind of pain medication, but gave me “permission” (his choice of words) to get a second opinion from another gynecologist. However, he stressed the fact that I was required to report back to him because we were still “on the same team” and “needed open communication”. I gave him a strained, fabricated smile and just waited for him to leave. He told me if “the bulge” (he is now actively acknowledging my abnormal cervix that he previously characterized as “normal anatomy”) was still bothering me in two weeks to come back and see him. I wanted to scream in his face. I wanted to tell him off using a slew of profanities. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. However, I decided in that moment that he was not worth my time so I silently stared him dead in the face until he left the room.
That tick will never see my face again.
The internal rage started to boil over as they sent the nurse in to take my blood before I left. The words poured out of my mouth as I explained how shocked I was that they were sending me away. As concerned as she was, she was in no position of power to change anything. I was in so much pain from the exam I told her that I couldn’t walk and needed a wheelchair. They made my mother go down to the first floor to request one and bring it back up herself. She then had to frantically rush back down to the car to bring it around front. As the nurses were literally pushing me out of the exam room, I desperately looked around the office and began sobbing uncontrollably. I just wanted one person to believe me. One person to hear me. One person to see my pain.
But I was completely alone.
I made a point to make direct eye contact with every person I passed, crying out to the nurses as a final hail Mary. I probably looked completely ridiculous; just a young woman creating a dramatic scene because she wants attention and opioids. I could feel the blood beginning to soak through my “period proof” underwear. The nurse pushing my wheelchair wouldn’t go past the outside door so she forced me to walk to the car my mom had luckily managed to pull up to the front in time. I was in excruciating pain physically and emotionally; broken, defeated, infuriated, but knowing there was nothing left to do but move on. As I hobbled out of the hospital with blood trickling down my leg, I told myself there was no point in wallowing over this tiny man because I was not going to subject myself to an abusive doctor for one more second of my life. Even if every doctor in the state doesn’t believe me- the only voice I need to believe is my own. It was that lesson which proved to be invaluable for taking an authoritative role in improving my own health.
My relationship with this doctor had warning signs. He wasn’t this perfect cookie cutter OBGYN that one day decided to turn over to the dark side of the patriarchy. There were concrete red flags. They may have been red flags that I noticed, but they were also red flags that I was actively attempting to justify. I couldn’t help but draw parallels between other kinds of abusive or toxic relationships I’ve experienced in the past.
I recognized the toxic behavior before the situation climaxed into victimization, but because he held power over me I was manipulated into tolerance.
The power he held was the alleged ability to drastically improve my health and eliminate my pain. At one of my initial appointments I even mentioned to my father,
“He’s a d***, but he’s a d*** who can help me.
I had no idea the painful lesson I was about to learn. Before you’re proven otherwise you assume all doctors are trained to serve, but time and experience proves that to be a utopian daydream. This experience allowed me to reflect on what kind of healthcare professionals are actually worth my time, energy, and money. It’s universally agreed upon not to patronize physically or sexually nefarious doctors (although I would simply call them criminals). I am in no way comparing my event to those of women like Evelyn Yang or Aly Raisman who endured violent attacks and years of grooming from their doctors. However, as a chronically ill woman who has survived sexual abuse in the past, I am simply raising the question of what we view as tolerable in the doctor-patient relationship. Why is criminally abusive behavior separated from the gaslighting and toxicity women endure on a daily basis in the medical field? Sure, you could theoretically make the argument that gaslighting women about their bodies is not a crime, but it’s certainly not a victimless act. While I may have consented to the exam, I still felt an extreme sense of violation and invalidation. He could have informed me of his intentions to cancel my surgery before he administered the extremely painful exam, but he chose to let me suffer. He spent what felt like years digging for my left ovary, listening to my screams, when he knew he wouldn’t give me any answers. I know what my own body looks and feels like, but he had the audacity to tell me I was wrong.
Gaslighting: an increasing frequency of systematically withholding factual information from, and/or providing false information to, the victim — having the gradual effect of making them anxious, confused, and less able to trust their own memory and perception.
If the factual information being withheld from a patient is in regards to their own health does that not create physical harm? The visibility of a symptom does not equate its validity; just because the lesions created by endometriosis are behind the abdominal wall doesn’t mean I’m not internally bleeding. If the false information being given results in the decision to stop seeking medical care for a treatable disease, does that not inflict more pain physically and psychologically? I have suffered from severe depression for years while the doctors told me over and over again that nothing was medically wrong, making me question my own sanity. This is what truly creates a breeding ground for self-doubt.
If the community only cares enough to hold our medical professionals to the bare minimum of a sexually and racially oppressive health care system we can not expect change. Until those in authority choose to hold destructive doctors accountable, that power is wielded by the patients. I may not be able to publish the doctor’s name due to inevitable legal retaliation, but I can share my story in the hopes that no other woman convinces herself to justify those bright red flags waving in front of her face (you could also contact me directly under the Instagram username miss.misdiagnosis if you’re planning gynecological care in Houston, Texas and I would be thrilled to name drop). I have no idea how long it will take for women not to be labeled as inherently emotional, dramatic, and attention-seeking creatures, but I do know I have the power not to tolerate any doctor that does. I implore young women, particularly those with a chronic or invisible illness, to remember that you don’t owe your doctors anything. You have every right to walk out of that room if you so choose; the patient’s role is never to get harassed, humiliated, or invalidated. So if you’re wondering if your doctor specializes in gaslighting, here are some red flags that let you know it’s time to move on…
- They say things like… “you don’t understand/you are remembering wrong”, “you must be sensitive to pain/women have a lower pain tolerance”, “it’s all in your head/the pain is only psychiatric”, condescending remarks towards your gender, or inappropriate pet names like “baby doll” and “sweetheart”
- They do things like… begin an exam before they ask for consent (*this is assault), don’t explain to you exactly what they are doing while they are doing it, scold you instead of inform you, make you undress in front of them, or make you feel uncomfortable in any way, shape or form
- They make you feel like… your pain is invalid, your pain is non-existent, you don’t know how to read your own body, you were wrong about what your body is supposed to look like, or you’re going crazy
These may seem like obvious warning signs. However I was desperate to receive a surgery I knew he could provide so they never became deal breakers. In the future, I will never subject myself to any other doctor who fits this list because the emotional toll is just too great. Before, I thought I could tolerate condescending doctors because I was confident enough in my own identity, but my existence is worth so much more than a young woman who tolerates old white a**holes that perpetuate her pain. If I had originally used this list to identify those red flags during my very first appointment I could have saved thousands of dollars on the testing, scans, and pre-operative appointments this doctor convinced me to participate in before he ultimately decided everything was “normal”. Spoiler alert! It wasn’t.
I’m having my excision surgery tomorrow. The experience with this surgeon has been night and day. At our first appointment she walked in the room, sat down to look at my old operative photos, and immediately stated,
Alright Madelyn so it looks like you’ve got at least stage 2 endometriosis so you’re going to need to go ahead and get that excised.
I know now to trust my own voice above everyone else’s. I am the one in charge of my health journey and no one else can tell me how my body is supposed to feel. I’m both terrified and excited, my heart beating with anticipation like a little kid on Christmas Eve. Finally being able to receive this surgery is truly a gift: one way or the other I will have a definite answer about my endometriosis. I look forward to the day where a woman simply being believed by her doctor is not a gift, but just another appointment.
