T O D A Y

Drama Queen candidates
This won't hurt a bit

Contestant No. 1
Contestant No. 2
Contestant No. 3

Vote now!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

R E C E N T L Y

Things are not quite what they seem
By Polly Shulman
Themes of transformation populate three weirdly hypnotic children's books
(11/16/98)

Dark night of the iguana
By Anne Lamott
How my son's pet reptile taught me to love all sentient beings -- and Republicans too
(11/12/98)

Is one enough?
By Vivienne Walt
Will China's generation without siblings break away from the one-child rule?
(11/11/98)

Time for One Thing: Anxiety
By Jennifer Moses
Anxiety: That persistent, gnawing sense that something, somewhere, is not quite right actually serves a purpose -- it gets me out of bed
(11/10/98)

The last campaign
By Erin Aubry
My father was the kind of upright politician who did thankless, largely unquantifiable good works. Unfortunately, the electorate didn't give a damn
(11/09/98)

ARCHIVES

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

Dr. Diabolic
By Nicole West

The dingy waiting room, crowded with miserable looking pregnant women, should have tipped me off. I would soon realize that this was truly the gate to hell and the devil wore an oily wrinkled lab coat.

At one point in my early 20s I was long overdue for a pelvic exam. As this is a truly traumatic experience for me, I have at times procrastinated. The doctor's office was in my neighborhood, and after learning that he treated a few of my acquaintances, I made an appointment. I waited nervously for hours before being hustled into a shabby exam room. The doctor immediately rushed in behind me. I made an effort to greet him warmly in order to help put myself at ease, but before I could even smile, he grunted angrily.

"Take off your clothes, your panties, get on the table, on the table," he ordered in a thick accent that I couldn't identify. I hurriedly removed my dress and underwear and got on the table.

"You a big girl," the very short doctor noted. "I must use extra large, very big speculum."

Speechless, I cringed and gritted my teeth while being subjected to a rough and painful exam, conducted in silence, and witnessed by two smirking young nurses. It was torturous and embarrassing but thankfully the careless doctor didn't take very long.

Since I thought I couldn't be any more humiliated, I decided to go for broke and ask the doctor about treating a small infection under my breast. Such infections are common in very humid climates and I thought some kind of antibiotic might help it clear up faster.

The doctor refused to even look at it -- apparently only a quick look at my vagina was included in the deal. Instead, he said that I must visit a local cancer specialist.

"Cancer, if you have cancer you go to cancer doctor," he grunted.

Cancer? I was horrified at the thought. And as an uninsured doctor-phobic young woman I was angry that this man was sending me to another doctor -- to a damn oncologist -- for no real reason.

I left shaken and in search of a glass of wine.

Several weeks later Dr. Diabolic called to inform me that I had an apparently minor infection and needed medicine. I reluctantly returned to his office, expecting to pick up a prescription and maybe a grunt or two of advice. I was subjected to an unintelligible explanation of my condition and treatment. He would prescribe medication to be taken by both me and my partner. I didn't quite understand what the actual problem was and didn't quite know how to ask for enough pills for all three of my partners. Seeing the confused expression on my face, he slithered into action.

"Panties off, on the table," he grunted.

There was nowhere to run, so I complied. He immediately shoved his ungloved hand deep inside me.

"I can identify this infection by the smell," he said as he removed his hand and smelled his fingers. With a gruesome expression of pleasure on his face, he put his hand under my nostrils.

"Smell! Smell!!! This is the smell! Can't you smell it?"

His tone was angry and accusatory. I had never felt dirtier or more embarrassed. I started to cry. And strangely, I couldn't smell a thing.

The next half hour is a blur. Somehow I got out of there and got home with my $75 prescription. During the next few months I spent a lot of time thinking about how I would ever get up the nerve to see another gynecologist in my lifetime. I avoided the vicinity of the doctor's office and tried to block out the entire disturbing experience. I felt crushed, dehumanized and humiliated. Didn't this doctor realize how hard this is for most women?

I had almost gotten past the experience when I was invited to a reception for a visiting Supreme Court justice. We were asked to bow our heads and join hands in prayer. When the reverend stopped speaking I looked up to see that I held the clammy palm of my favorite gynecologist.

I had no wish to renew our relationship and got out of there quickly.

I can laugh about the experience 10 years later, especially now that a very mellow Swedish nurse practitioner examines my pelvic area. She prescribes herbs and affirmations as often as medication, and never ever grunts.
SALON | Nov. 17, 1998

Contestant No. 1 | Contestant No. 2 | Contestant No. 3 | Vote now!