Warning: Could be a trigger to those with PTSD.
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For me..."Doctor" brings to mind clammy, sweat covered sheets. The feeling of being insulted, mistrusted, put through medical procedures a 12 year old girl was not intelligent enough to earn an explanation of, medical records being hidden, brain tumor rumors...And most recently, sexual assault.
For a long time, my body has not been working. You know that feeling of not being able to sleep for weeks? I feel like that every day of my life, I can barely force myself from the bed some mornings, and most recently, started fainting from mild exertion. I'm constantly cold, I live with a constant headache, my hands and feet swell so drastically I sometimes go up 2 shoe sizes. I thought for a long time that that's just life, that's just being overweight, that's just not eating/sleeping/exercising well enough. My gynocologist believes that I may have a thyroid problem, or diabetes. She ordered a ton of blood work for me, but due to not having insurance, we were still saving up to be able to pay for said blood work.
When I fainted in my husbands arms the other morning, he finally had enough and talked me into going to see a "normal doctor" and get my blood work done (a normal doctor who would bill us rather than demanding payment upfront). We looked up a local primary care and made an appointment.
I arrived at the primary care, filled out my paperwork, and had my vitals checked by the nurse/receptionist. I was feeling positive, it was very clean, very well up-kept, and the nurse who took my vitals was warm and welcoming. Then...I met my doctor. The first thing he did? Recoil from my bright pink hair.
After making a snarky comment on how loud of a hairstyle I had, he lead my husband and I into his office, sat down at his computer with his back to us and started asking MY HUSBAND what my symptoms were. Throughout the entire conversation, I was treated as less than a human being. While nothing outwardly rude was said, he talked to me in a way that made me feel worthless. Barked instructions, curt responses, talking over me to ask my husband a questions about my body...
Then, he had me lay down on the examination table...I feel sick even typing this. He was between the examination table and the chair my husband was sitting in, effectively blocking my husband's view of my body. He started by listening to my heartbeat. Without saying a word to me, he shoved his stethoscope-clutching-hand so far into my shirt that it slipped inside my bra, and rested the heel of his palm against my breast. I was shocked. I was disgusted, I was terrified...I was also reliving my past, the horror of my body being used against my will, I couldn't move, I couldn't make a sound. I laid there, biting my lips and trying not to scream.
While still in shock, he was going about his business...he roughly yanked my shirt up under my chin and started thrusting his fingers in between my ribs and abdomen, asking me "Does that hurt?" I obviously made some sound of pain, as he had been rough enough that I will have bruises, as he pushed in harder between my ribs. I was in pain and mortified, terrified. Again, without saying a single word to me, he ripped my pants down past my ass, and I struggled to pull them back up, tried to sit up. He held me down and started what felt like punching me in the womb with 2 fingers. I cried, once again, he asked if it hurt, and I nodded, which led to worse prodding. When I was sniffling and shaking, I guess he decided he was done.
He walked over back to his computer and once again turned his back. My husband saw me, terrified, shaking, trying not to vomit or panic. I was shaking my head, pointing to the door, motioning for us to leave. The whole while, this horrible shit was asking my husband what blood work had already been ordered and promptly told us it wouldn't be needed, because obviously my gyno was an idiot and I needed a CAT scan.
My husband made some excuse about us not knowing and not knowing if we would do the CAT scan. This horrible doctor (though he does not deserve the title) walked us out into the waiting room with my paperwork, and said, loudly enough to make the other waiting patients and receptionist look up: "You obviously have some kind of brain tumor or neurological defect." and started badgering us about why we didn't want to give him another $300 to look after my health.
My husband told him that we would get back to him, and once he was back in his office, turned to the receptionist and started telling her on no account would we pay for the waste of time that had been the appointment. At this point, he had no idea what that bastard had done.
I was trying not to break down, I was covering my face with my hands. Finally, I completely broke and ran from the office, onto the side walk, crouched down in the corner of two buildings and fell apart. I was screaming, crying, pounding my fists against the bricks.
My husband ran out behind me, found me in my little corner, and pulled me into his arms. I brokenly told him what happened, he guided me into the car and went back into the office and told the nurse exactly what happened and demanded to speak to who ever was in charge. We're now awaiting a call from the head doctor or some bullshit to report this sick fuck. Apparently, I'm not the only girl he's treated this way, and this man is in danger of losing his medical license. We'll be making sure he does.
That was yesterday. I'm still not okay with this, and writing this feels more like describing the horrors of someone else's life. I also feel the stupid shame of feeling like I'm being overdramatic about what happened. I feel the shame of having to be "saved" by my husband rather than standing up for myself. I feel the shame of being used like an object and feeling that my body is public property.
But I've come to realize...It's not my fault. I can't help that I was molested as a child. I can't help that I have a panic disorder because of that, I can't help that I was too terrified at reliving that past, at the hands of someone who swore a Hippocratic oath to be a healer, to move or scream or stop it. I can't help that someone hurt me and touched my body without my permission.
It didn't matter that the person who stood up for me was a man, or my husband...wait, no, it does matter. It matters that it was my husband because it keeps me from becoming the type of person who believes all men are rapists and molesters. It matters that it was my husband because he loves me, and what I needed at that moment was someone who loved me enough to ignore my shameful pleas of "don't make a scene" and let them know this is NOT.OK.
And that is precisely the reason why I am forcing myself to write this, to admit that someone hurt me, to say "that's not ok" and that it's not ok to treat anyone else like that ever again.
Just because my body doesn't work, doesn't make it the property of some sick fuck. Just because you have a doctorate does not give you the right to treat someone's body like an object.
