On Gynecologists, Planned Parenthood, and HPV

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

On Gynecologists, Planned Parenthood, and HPV

cordial.emily @ flickr

There are few things in life a woman dreads more than her annual trip to the gynecologist. For years, I was one of those women. Something about shoving my vagina into the face of someone who was not, by any leap of faith, offering to cook breakfast the next morning seemed slightly off-putting.

My first few trips to the gynecologist were uneventful. I’d only allow the nurse to get to second base. Feel the boobs a bit, but the pants stay on. “My period,” I’d say, and she’d nod knowingly. Eventually, I learned that your period is a great bargaining chip in any scenario. “Can’t go home with you tonight, got my period,” or, “Can’t wade in the urine-saturated Lazy River at Water World. My period. You know the deal.”

For my purposes, the period was an extremely effective excuse. More importantly, it was necessary for survival. At 16, I wasn’t comfortable with an older woman probing my nether regions with cold, sterile kitchen utensils. I also shared a nurse practioner with my mother. My mother is the last person on this planet I‘d want to share a vagina inspector with, in any capacity. She’d book our appointments back to back, and her looming proximity prevented me from telling the truth to the nurse.

Do I smoke? No, of course not (yes). Have I had sex before? No (it’s been a few months, those incidents have expired already). And of course, the go-to white lie, “No, I have my period; maybe you can examine me during my next visit. In the meantime, can you hook a sister up with some birth control?”

Then it’d be my mother’s turn. I could just hear them whispering about me behind that circular curtain, had I allowed that nurse to give me a full examination. “Let’s be real, Stephanie doesn’t ride bikes, does she?” and my mom, legs spread like she was scrubbed clean and on the verge of becoming a sanctuary for Thanksgiving stuffing, would snort and say, “That girl? Please. Give it to me straight, Dorothy.” (I just know they are on a first name basis.) Dorothy would grin and say, “Oh, she’s definitely a little whore.”

My mother would smile, her common sense outweighed only by her desire to talk about her eldest daughter‘s sex life, and she’d casually reply, “Dorothy. Tell me something I don’t know.” They’d have a giggle at my expense. Moments later, my mother would emerge from behind the door of secrets and take me to McDonald’s.

I treated each of these visits with equal contempt. I couldn’t bring myself to trust Dorothy. I knew she wasn’t worthy of my scorn, and I knew that as a professional, she would never report back to my mother the shameful secrets she could discover while examining me. I knew that, if I were to discriminate against anyone entering my vagina, there were more deserving opponents. But in my mind, every visit was coupled with the potential of being found out. With every visit loomed the threat of introspection, the threat of holding myself accountable for my actions.

I made it all the way to 19 before my mother directly inquired about my sexual prowess. I was sitting in a director’s chair in my living room, natural light washing over every blemish on my skin; her face mere inches away from mine. She was customizing foundation for me; custom make-up being just one of many short-lived hobbies she dabbled in. She was always selling something, or going to school for something, or, in this case, mixing an SPF 15 medium-tan foundation with a natural-tan foundation, a blend that would surely outmatch and outrank whatever I was currently using to disguise impending acne.

She kicked off the conversation by addressing Human Papillomavirus (or HPV, as we call it on the streets). Although this condition has existed since the beginning of time, a vaccine became available (and excessively marketed) in my late teens. HPV is sexually transmitted, hard to detect, and often, 100% symptom free. It’s worth noting that in other instances, untreated HPV can cause cancer. Seemingly overnight, Human Papillomavirus went from being an unknown enemy to the most common STD in the world, one that infects 5.5 million people a year.

My mother, former nurse and present-day sex enthusiast, expressed to me how important it was that I get vaccinated. I promised to look into it. She took this as an opportunity to delve deeper, explaining that the vaccination works best on virgins. “Are you a virgin?” There was no profound moment here, no heart-to-heart, no Wonder Years monologue about growing up and the unavoidable loss of childhood. I had been dating the same guy for a year, and we both knew the answer to her question. “What do you think, mom?” She smiled, still uncomfortably close to my face. “Well? Did you like it?”

This threw me for a loop. I’d hastily assumed that I’d hear some prepackaged manifesto about condoms, teenage pregnancy, waiting until the third date — anything but a request for my ill-informed opinions on the joy of sex. In that moment of sheer shock, I simply exclaimed, “Mom!” which was my way of saying, “I’m not going to answer that question, but I’m your daughter; put the pieces together.” She gave up, but she wasn’t defeated — her expression winked, “Momma knows, momma knows.”

That was the first and last time we’d had a conversation like that, and had I heeded her advice to look into getting the HPV vaccine, I might still be one of those women who ranks the discomfort of gynecological appointment somewhere between root canals and natural childbirth. Instead, I became a different kind of woman — a woman with HPV. That’s when I met Dr. Sifton.

I remained fiercely intent on confining gynecologists to the northern regions of my body but when I eventually loosened the reigns years later, I discovered that my cervix was ‘irregular.’ Not enflamed, not missing, just irregular. Like the heartbeat of someone who is seconds away from going into cardiac arrest. I was referred by the school nurse to an office close to campus. I called immediately. The receptionist at the doctor’s office asked if I would mind a male doctor, but the only thing I’d mind at that moment was if my vagina fell out of my body and ceased to function. I accepted the male doctor and had an appointment for a half-hour later.

I was pleased to discover that I would’ve allowed Dr. Sifton to check out my stock in an unprofessional setting. He was a real-life McDreamy, with deep brown eyes and a head of thick, black curls. With the aid of a nurse, he confirmed that indeed, my cervix was irregular. Then he asked if I was on the volleyball team. Apparently, they were ‘irregular,’ too. The entire team.

I had a colposcopy, which (painfully) ascertained that I had HPV, that I didn’t show signs of cancer (yet), that I’d need to return. I continued my doctor-patient relationship with Dr. Sifton for months. In that time, he regaled me with tales of his Greek wife, answered my hard-hitting questions about vibrators, and assured me that I was neither the first, nor would I be the last, woman living with HPV. I went from loathing icy speculums and cotton swabs to greeting them with open legs; knowing that each foreign object entering my vagina would bring me closer to being healed.

During class, my thoughts would often wander to Dr. Sifton and what questions I would address at my next appointment. It was a stark contrast to the way I’d behaved years earlier. I had gone from wearing a gynecologist-proof chastity belt to styling my paper gowns into a-line dresses during my visits. It took some time, but Dr. Sifton was the first man I could trust with my vagina.

I look back on my short time with Dr. Sifton fondly; and not because I was about to find out that I was One More and not One Less, as the vaccine’s slogan went. It was the last time I had health insurance, the last time I could waltz into a doctor’s office with a half-hour’s notice; the last time I didn’t have to spend half of my day in a waiting room. It was certainly the last time I could get screened for cancer without being verbally attacked by an abortion protestor.

This happened to me, by the way. Planned Parenthood is prone to all kinds of conservative retirees who, pained with the boredom of their elderly existence, stand guard to chastise any and everyone in the vicinity of the establishment. One particular morning, I had a showdown with a man who wore a sandwich board clad with images of partial-birth abortions. We volleyed back and forth for fifteen minutes; his main argument being that a baby’s life was not worth free healthcare, my main argument being that I was there to get re-screened for cancer and that if he’d like to invest in my personal well-being and provide me with healthcare, I’d be glad to take my business elsewhere. We screamed at each other, and no one won.

That argument, while brief, had a lasting impact on me. Being reprimanded by someone you don’t know in the middle of a New York City street will have that effect, especially when you’re on your way to a biopsy. It made me reflect on the last year of my life; the disappointment I’d carried on my shoulders, the shame I’d inflicted on myself, the sexless months where I couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a bed with another person.

Every potential relationship was tainted before it started, because I’d chosen to stigmatize myself rather than understand that my situation was not permanent or uncommon. Physically, I was told time and again by doctors that I’d be okay, but the endless mental and emotional anguish I put myself through was not under their control. And here was this stranger, berating me, reminding me that I was broke and uninsured, assuring me that if I cared about dead babies, I would not use Planned Parenthood’s services. I stared this man in the face, attempting to will his untimely death; but when I couldn’t, I simply went inside.

What I wanted to do was snatch his fucked up sandwich board and beat him unconscious with it. What I wanted was for him to understand that my reproductive health couldn’t wait for affordable healthcare to rain down from the heavens. I instead walked away with a terrifying lesson: that there are men who still believe they have the right to dictate the personal choices of a stranger, and they’re not confined to the Bible Belt as I had previously assumed. Here was a live one, parading around on Bleecker Street, completely unwilling to consider the circumstances that had brought me there in the first place. Immune to feeling the smallest degree of empathy. It was soul crushing.

Because of that day, no barrage of disturbing photographs could prevent me from supporting Planned Parenthood. It’s not some dirty corner of hell replete with welfare recipients and half-live fetuses. It’s a place where you’re not judged from the moment you enter. It’s a place that cares for you when you have nothing to give in return but appreciation. It’s a place that educates, that tries to undo the damage young girls are privy to. And in my case, it worked. After a year of using their services, I received papers in the mail confirming that my cervix had been restored to its regular state.

Though I rarely saw the same doctor twice, I felt equally reliant on each the Planned Parenthood staff. They were each informative and more than patient with my constant badgering. Picture a kid in the backseat of a car during a road trip. “Are we there, yet?” “Not yet, we can’t perform another colopscopy for another few months.” “How about now? Does it look better?” “We can’t say yet.” And on, and on, and on.

As I paid nothing, as I showed up month after month for an update, they answered my inquiries with the discipline of Mother Teresa, and for what I imagine to be an unlivable salary (if any).

There was one doctor in particular that I took an instant liking to. She was my indie doctor, the one who always had a comment about whatever L Train-approved literature I had in my hand; the one who had her own iHome, playing her low-fi tunes so quietly that only she could hear. I imagined that, in a world where she was not the primary caregiver to my vagina, we would be friends.

We would pay $12 to see faceless bands; we’d go thrifting on the weekends, we‘d take in an independent film or two. We’d never take cabs, because they were overpriced and bad for the environment, duh. I imagined that, when I had vaginal problems, I would turn to her first, as she was the authority.

I would invite her over once every two months; pull my pants down, and say, “How about now? Are we there yet?” And, in a platonic sense, in a, “I’m your friend and I care about your reproductive organs” sort of way, she’d check out my private parts and surmise that, yes, we are there.

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Stephanie is an editor at Thought Catalog. She’s been featured on CNN, Forbes, MSNBC, McSweeney’s, Gizmodo, The Next Web, and elsewhere. Follow her on Twitter: @omgstephlol.