I’m so sorry that I was a bit hostile to you when we first met. Fear does strange things to a person. I didn’t expect I’d ever be this way. I try really hard to be a good person. I’m usually the funny one telling stories having a great time. But I can’t be that person with you. I’m terrified of you even though you’ve only ever been kind to me. This is why...
The first doctor had a nurse hold my legs open when she decided to give me a pelvic exam. I’d never had sex. It hurt. A lot. When I thought the worst of it was over, she did a rectal exam without warning or explanation with her thumb. That hurt a lot too. Walking felt weird after and the medicine she gave me after made me throw up for 12 hours.
A few years later, the next doctor put me in some sort of paper gown. I’m not sure why. She startled me when she walked over and just simply ripped it open while examine my body and then doing a pelvic exam. That one hurt too.
I tried to put this all behind me. I got married. I got pregnant. I was so excited to be a wife and mother. People dream of lots of things. This was my dream. I couldn’t wait for our baby to come. As my due date approached I got nervous. I tried to tell the midwife about the previous experiences. She cheerily dismissed them, told me to have some cake and take it easy. It’d be fine.
Except it wasn’t. I knew birth was going to hard going. I didn’t expect for it to be violent and humiliating and riddled with mistakes that nearly cost me my life. Oh well, everyone said. They saved you! A healthy baby is all that matters....
The health visitor didn’t understand why I was crying. All anyone wanted to know was would I take tablets? You know, antidepressants? I’m not depressed I whispered... I’m pissed off! I tried therapy. It didn’t help much. I found myself living between two worlds. Not quite alive, not quite dead. I started the tablets in desperation. They made me well enough that I could try EMDR. It banished a few demons. I shakily rebuilt my confidence, my life. But I swore no doctors would touch me. Ever.
The smear letters came yearly at first. Then six monthly. The hand written messages from someone in the office got longer. 5 years over due! Then 6, then 7. Then they said they wouldn’t write to me again if I didn’t call. I didn’t call. It still came every six months sending me into ptsd panic.
I didn’t exactly mean to get pregnant the next time. I was stable and wanted another baby. I’d missed out so much on the first babies life in the fog of trauma. We thought about trying again... but then one day I felt weird and there was a double pink line staring at me.
This time, I decided, I’m doing it my way. I hired an independent midwife and doula. I bought a birth pool. I told everyone else to sod off. I knew there was no other option for me. I would not be going to the hospital. He came into the world peacefully. I held him and cried. The experience bolstered my confidence with the medical community ever so slightly.
The cream coloured smear letters continued on their path. I’d seen you for another reason and you seemed nice. My husband was worried I’d left it too long. Please go, if you can, he’d whisper. I didn’t sleep the week before the appointment. I tried to explain to you about the nurse who held me down, how the birth was so awful but it’s so difficult. I was trying so hard not to cry. When you asked me to lay down, my eyes were closed because I wanted to not move at all. I wanted to be invisible. I didn’t want you to tell me off or hurt me. You were so cheerful and did your best to distract me. I really appreciate it. I heard the speculum as you moved it. It was hard to breathe. I remember you apologised saying you knew this was the part I was probably dreading. I just silently nodded. I wanted to tell you that it wasn’t, that the worst part was actually having to lay there. To let you touch me, to see me. To have to trust you. That’s the worst part.
Time marched on. My already heavy periods became even more unmanageable. Then last year the migraines started. Every month without fail. I knew what you’d recommend before I went in. The nightmares in the lead up to the appointment to just talk were horrific. Again, you were so very kind. You gave me a script for diazepam to help. I made the appointment to see you for a coil insertion. My blood ran cold though when the receptionist said a nurse had to be present too.
The anxiety waiting for the fitting was intense. The diazepam made me feel woozy and I fought against it to remain in control. When the nurse introduced herself and said supportively she’d be there to hold my hand, I wearily smiled and looked away. I didn’t mean to be ungracious. She seemed genuinely nice. But I kept my hands behind my head just in case. I didn’t want her to hold me down. I’m sorry that I didn’t respond much too you and when I did, that the words came tumbling out. I wanted to get the hell out of there and I was starting to cry.
I didn’t feel well that night. The next day everything hurt and I had a little fever. I really didn’t want to bother you but my husband said I should really see you before the weekend. I’m sorry I couldn’t look at you when I came in. It’s easier to just look the floor or the space next to you. It’s so hard to let you examine me. Thank you for being patient and explaining everything. Thank you for not hurting me.
I don’t really know why I’m writing this. I won’t send it to you. You’ve got enough on your plate I’m sure and I really don’t want to be the difficult/awkward/whatever patient even more than I feel I might be already. I guess by posting it on mumsnet I hope if someone reads it and finds it rings true, they know they aren’t alone. Or perhaps a GP will read it will give them just that little bit extra compassion with the scared and difficult patient. We really wish we weren’t.