A Medical Journey, Pt. 3

THIS STORY IS GRAPHIC AND INCLUDES INFORMATION ABOUT AN ASSAULT I EXPERIENCED AS A CHILD. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY ASSAULT.

There was more crying on May 23rd than there had been in a while. Between the hormone induced rollercoaster I was riding, nausea, headaches, and re-emerging fears about the coming hysteroscopy, I was, once again, a wet, inarticulate ball of trauma and drama all at once. My husband was at work, and I officially resigned from my full-time job the Friday before. There was not much to do and, while part of me thought that was for the best, the rest of me scrambled for something to do in the interim. I had therapy and a meeting.

Everything was “fine” during therapy. My therapist asked about the wedding. They asked about all the previous concerns I had leading up to the wedding — including things that people complimented me for later. I was glad to report that all those issues were resolved or didn’t faze anyone. The one thing that went unchanged from before the party (since we were already married about three months, at that point) was the desire for the whole affair to be over. Satisfied others were satisfied, I turned my attention to more pressing matters like being cut open and having someone put their literal hands inside of my body.

Everything was “fine” during my meeting, as well. I tried my best to represent myself as I am and not as I am expected to be, describing the extent of my work and capacity for a new contract. It was short term work — the results of my labor would be delivered in two weeks’ time. The subject was one of my favorites and made it easy for me to produce a preliminary presentation. I eagerly worked on the presentation, my written notes, and my personal objectives for the project.

For all intents and purposes, it would be a wonderful week… until it wasn’t.

As part of the preemptive measures for the hysterscopy, I was instructed to take doxycycline the day before, the day of, and the day after the procedure. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you the last time I needed an antibiotic or what illness the medicine was intended to fight. When I took the first dose this time, I made sure it was accompanied with a hefty meal; I was still nauseous most of the day and the only reason the nausea didn’t bother me in the evening was because I forced myself to sleep it off. The day after the hysteroscopy, I couldn’t keep anything down the entire day. Most of the afternoon, I filled my stomach with saltines, ginger beer, and ginger ale. I felt my brain begin to float from the effect of the hefty carbonization and copious dosages of sugar but, I couldn’t eat or drink much else. Even though it pained me to do so, I drank every drop of the syrupy sweet beverages until I could finally sleep.

However, it was the hysteroscopy itself that made it a hellish 72-hour period. Here, I will warn that if you are easily triggered by sexual violence of any kind, it would be best that you skip the rest of this post. This has taken me a long time to write down because it is difficult to think about. I am writing this blog to help the next woman who looks even remotely like me find solidarity, support — even peace. I am also writing this blog to help myself document and process pain, loss, and pure fear. No one will blame you if you skip this part.

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I was assaulted by a white female gynecologist with a metal speculum in middle school in front of my mother who, like me, did not have the language to advocate and who, like me, was ignored despite the desperate pleas for the doctor to stop.

Prior to the incident and my arrival in the ER, I read almost everything I could get my hands on about menstruation. I began menstruating at age 9 off an on and had a cycle in earnest by age 11. Like many girls my age, I owned the American Girl Doll Company’s book for pre-teens and teenagers documenting everything about my changing body. It was easily my favorite guide amongst the texts I consulted at that time. Between the books, sexual education in school, and the relative matriarchy I was raised by (my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother plus a host of “aunties”), I knew a lot about sanitary napkins, tampons, and the proper selection of a brassiere. So, when my cycle started just before a pool party, I was prepared.

It was already embarrassing for me, then, when about two hours into the pool party, I went to the bathroom to change my tampon, only to find that the thread was not accessible. I already read about Toxic Shock Syndrome so, I immediately called my mother, ran to put my clothing back on, apologized to the hostess, and surveyed the pool one more time, sincerely hoping to find my tampon floating in chlorine. Some part of me would undoubtedly be mortified but, at least I wouldn’t die.

Most of the ride to the hospital was me describing the symptoms of TSS to my mother and attempting to dry my hair with very little success. When we got into the examination room, it was so cold. I remember wondering if I would have been that cold if I hadn’t just exited a pool. The most terrible part of that thought was the reality — that even if I was warm, the shock my body was to be subjected to would have left me cold anyway.

When the gynecologist and the attending nurse entered, I was grateful to see at least one woman because most of the books shared that, from time to time, a female gynecologist can be a better comfort. I said as much to my mother before the examination began. I tried to explain that I lost my tampon and that it could very well be floating in a pool somewhere but, I had no recollection of it falling out. In retrospect, I don’t think she was listening to my description of events. I think she entered the room having made up her mind. When she pulled out the metal speculum, I asked what it was for and if the male nurse was going to look along with her. She was irritated by the questions I asked and only replied, “it’s so I can have a better look.” The doctor asked the male nurse to hold my leg down so she could begin, claiming that I was moving too much. For the following nine minutes, the speculum was forcefully shoved into me while I cried and screamed “please, stop” and she smirked to ask, “don’t you want me to find it?” My mother kept asking, “isn’t there another way to do this?” The doctor largely ignored both of us and continued to ask, “are you sexually active? Where is your hymen?” Every time I could breathe enough to answer, I said, “I am twelve” or my mother replied, “She was born without a hymen.”

Ultimately, the doctor stopped because of the overwhelming amount of blood on the table. She did not stop because my mother yelled, “you’re hurting her” or because I begged her to; the doctor only stopped because I was bleeding so much, it started dripping onto the floor and her shoes. I don’t remember much of what happened next other than my mother and I being expected to leave the hospital quickly. I was given a huge sanitary napkin and my mother put me in her work coat in the back seat on the ride home. The next day, I had a follow-up appointment with a pediatric gynecologist. She was a Black woman who spoke for a very long time with my mother in the hallway. I always imagine that my mom tried to describe the horrors of the night before, how I couldn’t walk to my room without help, how I cried the whole night, how much it hurt. When the new gynecologist came in, she explained every step of what she did and used a small, “age appropriate” speculum to do an examination. The click of the tool frightened me, and I was still sore from the night before. She moved quickly, offered children’s Tylenol and an antibiotic, and had another long conversation with my mother in the hallway. Before I left, I asked her, “will every doctor be like the doctor I had last night?” I watched my mother’s face change and the first and only Black female gynecologist I ever had looked disappointed — I am not sure why. Her response is blurred in my mind, perhaps because I was still hurting.

Whatever her answer, it didn’t matter 18 years later when it was necessary for my surgeon to use a metal speculum — the only kind they had in the office — for my hysteroscopy. The heart rate monitors spiked, I cried like a baby, and even without my mask in observation of COVID safety, I could not breathe. Shakily, I asked if there was another speculum — a plastic speculum. The nurse, Trish, said these were the only ones they had in the office and asked what was wrong. “I was assaulted by one of those,” I answered breathlessly, describing it as some passive event, unrelated to me. I couldn’t articulate, “a doctor assaulted me with a speculum” or much of anything, really. The doctor repeated that we could stop at any time, that we could reschedule, that we didn’t have to move forward. Another nurse, Erika, appeared out of thin air and asked if I needed help. Trish was rubbing my shoulder reassuringly, hiding the speculum to the best of her ability.

I knew that this wasn’t the time to test exposure therapy, that if I came back and had to repeat this procedure, I would likely respond the same way.

As bravely as I could, I told the team to proceed with the examination, crying and gasping for air.

When everything was done, I was dizzy when I sat up. I felt brain working harder than usual to organize thoughts. Erika reappeared when it took me longer than expected to leave the room. The doctor said, “I’m so sorry, Sheryl” before completing the examination, but I felt no better than I did when I came in that day. I had to stop in another waiting room, disoriented and confused with a small water bottle in hand for Trish to come back and escort me to the front of the practice. When I finally made it to the elevator, I ran to the exit so quickly that I alarmed a few people in passing. The hospital parking lot was just one hill away, I thought. If I can get there — if I can get into my car — I will be fine.

I was not fine.

I called my best friend, Lyrric, and immediately sobbed, incoherent, inarticulate, trying desperately to de-escalate my heartbeat. On the phone, Lyrric was telling me to describe the things I saw around me, to tell me what I could smell, to count the number of available parking spaces, to think of what I wanted to eat and the steps it would take to get me there. I felt my paralysis lift and slowly took The Club off my steering wheel, shuffled through my wallet for my debit card, and even managed to laugh at a joke. I talked to Lyrric all the way to food and then most of the way home until my husband called me back. I told him what happened, and he left work early to come be with me and help me feel safe.

Although the procedure was thorough, the doctor still wanted me to have an MRI done. I tried to push the idea of more medical procedures out of mind, savored my French fries, and appreciated the relative quiet of my home from the perspective of my husband’s broad chest.