Doctor knows best...

I woke up the next morning and I was scared. I was still bleeding from events over 24 hours ago. What if something was seriously wrong? What the hell was I supposed to do? I reviewed what seemed to be my limited options and decided to go with "calm the hell down, give it more time, everything is going to be alright" option. I went to work again, nervous and hoping that soon I could just forget about all of this.

I couldn't. I got home from work still bleeding. Scared turned into panic, enough panic to swallow my pride and call one of my good friends, Greg. I prayed that I could just leave him a message and that the act of vocalizing everything would simply make it all go away. When his machine picked up I was relieved and crushed at the same time: I just couldn't handle what was going on and needed him to do it for me. In between sobs I gave his answering machine a confused, nervous synopsis of that the hell was going on and told him to call me back and tell me what to do. A couple minutes later he called and told me exactly what I'd been dreading: go to the doctor.

I had known this all along, but the thought was sickening. I work in the student health center on campus - where my doctor for the past two years was located - and I knew that I couldn't handle going there. To have all my co-workers and supervisors knowing and seeing me at this low of a point was too much. I decided that I'd rather see a complete stranger than have these people silently, awkwardly judging me.

I drove across town to one of the walk-in, urgent care facilities. I was given the traditional five or six forms to fill out. Working in healthcare, I knew them well. I made my way through them quickly until I came to the section where it asks you to describe your injury or illness. A wave of embarrassment and . . . shame came over me. I was going to give this the sweet looking ladies at check-in, who were going to review it and put it into their computers before giving it to the nurse. The nurse would read it over and ask me questions about it on the way to the examination room where, finally, I'd be confronted with the problem by the doctor. Then the process would be repeated when I checked out.

I watch this process everyday at work: people coming in for STI testing, morning-after pills, depression, eating disorders. I always helped them as best I could with very little thought to the problem that brought them there. I wasn't there to judge them, just to help them. I was always slightly confused when the people I helped where nervous or uncomfortable. It was, after all, a health facility; everyone who was there had some sort of problem and it's our job to help you regardless of what your problem is.

Now I was on the other side of the rope and I understood. Sure its their job, sure they’re bound by confidentiality laws, sure they’re there to help, but the fear of judgment is still there.

After staring at the piece of paper for a good five minutes I scrawl “bleeding” into the section and quickly finish the rest. They call my name and bring my paperwork and insurance card back to the check-in counter. The lady at the desk skims through it and comes to the problem section. “Honey, could you be a little more specific here? It’s really important that you’re as detailed as possible.” I stare at the paper for another minute before adding “rectal” to the “bleeding”. She takes it back and frowns for a second before gently telling me that the nurse will be out shortly.

The nurse calls me back and walks me to the examination room while she looks through my paperwork. She asks a couple basic questions and, once in the room, starts in on the problem. “When did the bleeding start?” “How much blood is there?” “How uncomfortable am I?” I answer as best I can, my face flushed and words stuttering. She tells me that the doctor will be in in a minute and that I should strip from the waist down, handing me a sheet to cover myself with.

I sit on the cold, sticky examination bed: anxious, embarrassed and naked. I’m sweating by the time the doctor gets into the room. The doctor was an older gentleman with a neat mustache and a warm smile. As he asks me questions his smile fades. “When exactly did the bleeding start?” “Why did you wait to come in?” I try my best to be truthful and nondescript. Then he asks, “Did you experience any trauma to the area?”

I mumble “yes” and hope there will be no follow-up question. “Well, what happened?” He asks.

My face grows redder and I stare at the ground as I try to explain. “I was with a guy and . . . I told him to stop, but he didn’t.” There was a heavy silence in the room. I finally looked up, tears forming, to see him staring at me, his face carefully blank. “Well,” he said, “why don’t you roll on your side and I’ll take a look.”

What followed filled me with the most shameful feeling I’d ever experienced in my life: being examined and prodded in one of the most intimate and already painful places of my body.

When it comes to men and my ass the only experiences I’ve had have been warm and loving or hot and needing. Then there was Vodka Tonic and his urgency and pain. Now there was the doctor: cold and sterile and shaming. I’m sure I would’ve cried right there, lying on my side on the wax-paper covered bed, if his touch hadn’t left me feeling so empty and used up. Instead I closed my eyes and pretended to be far away.

I opened my eyes with the snap of his glove being thrown into the trash can. He abruptly left the room, telling me I could dress now and that he’d be back. I’ve never put on my clothes faster in my life.

He returned with a prescription and a curt analysis of my injury: a small tear that would heal soon and irritation that had formed a hemorrhoid. He handed me my paperwork and told me to come back if “the problem” persisted for more than two weeks. I went through check-out in a slight daze and hurried out of the building back to my car. Once in the relative safety of my car I looked over the pile of papers in my hand. I found my encounter form and read through the doctor’s comments. In the cause of injury section he had written “NONE.”

I couldn’t help but wonder why he had asked if he was negate my answer to “NONE”. I crumpled up the sheet and threw it away. I was going to be fine and that’s all that mattered.