He laughed whilst I cried at the doctor’s office
TW medical shit. Literally.
TW CSA mention
salmon poke
There’s this beautiful thing about no longer being in New Zealand that I adore: in this cold rock I live on, there are no supposed-to-be Raglan bums. For those lucky enough to be unfamiliar, picture the Florida chill guy who wears sandals everywhere and somehow treats tan lines and CrossFit as a substitute for a personality.
It’s 16 degrees outside.
I’m at a doctor’s office.
The nice, kind of matronly female doctor I specifically chose has been swapped out for the European equivalent of Florida Man. No socks. Birkenstocks. A tan that rivals anything I’ve seen at the beach. He looks like he should be handing out mushroom microdoses beside a campervan, not discussing internal bleeding. I’m being an asshole (ha) but I mean specifically MY internal bleeding.
Good for him, but I’m here for an appointment about my lower colon. My boyfriend came with me because I’m shaking, and because I waited six months to even make this appointment. One thing you pick up growing up on a farm is that unless you’re actively dying, life keeps moving.
One thing you pick up from being a woman is that female doctors are often the ones who take you seriously before your organs physically detach and slide onto the floor.
As I describe why I’m there, and I won’t describe the specifics because none of you need to become spiritually acquainted with my rectum, he asks
“So you’ve never been to the doctor here?”
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
“New Zealand.”
“Why come here?”
I point at my boyfriend.
The doctor looks at my tall, hefty wall of a partner and goes, “Of course”.
Finally, we get into the bottom of my bottom, and things get even tenser as he keeps trying to talk over me while I nervously try to get over the fact I have to describe this to a man wearing open toed shoes who looks at me like I’m the kind of “cousin” every rural family has. The one who dealt meth in his twenties, found spirituality in Bali, and somehow married into the family twice.
I’m coping with humour. Clearly.
Doctor sandals laughs while asking something, and I’m sitting there thinking that I would not be here unless something was seriously wrong. My boyfriend is here to 1) stop me from bolting out of the room, and 2) make sure there’s no gap in language while I’m shaking and close to crying.
God, Buddha, the Loch Ness Monster, or whoever’s supervising this cursed little planet knows if I wasn’t losing blood, I’d still be at home googling “foods that accidentally simulate internal bleeding”.
Then he says he needs to do a physical exam.
I freeze and look at my boyfriend.
My boyfriend explains why.
Doctor Sandals gets irritated, bless his invisible cotton socks, and tells me I can’t simply “request” a female doctor.
I start crying and explain that I come from a background of child sexual abuse and cannot do that.
The wave of disgust, followed by realization, on his face is clearer than the white walls surrounding us.
Nothing sobers a man faster than realizing the terrified woman in front of him isn’t being difficult. She’s reliving something.
He finally books me in with a female doctor and, because I mentioned piss me off disorder formerly known as PCOS, now rebranded in my head as PMOS, I’ve somehow also acquired a gynecological appointment. Like bonus content nobody asked for yet.
Then he walks me through the process of scooping stool into a bottle like I’m five years old.
“TOILET,” he says, so loudly I’m sure my father in New Zealand heard him through tectonic plates.
At this point I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole. Not medically. Spiritually. I waited 3 months for this appointment.
I just wanted a referral.