WARNING: The following story may not be suitable for all audiences.
Let's face it. There are some jobs that women are better suited for than men, and then there are some jobs that women let the men do alone. Like. . .sewer maintenance. I don't think many women would volunteer for that job. I don't think many men would either, but hey, SOMEBODY'S got to do it, right?
Now, teaching. That's a job for both genders. Men and women are equally qualified to pass on knowledge to up-and-coming generations. Or paper delivery person. Who has trouble shoving a newspaper into a box?
When I think about jobs that men and women are equally capable of doing, I tend to lump doctor in alongside the rest. We're all humans, and we have the same bodily functions and maladies. For the most part.
Yes, it's true, men and women both get the flu. We are both susceptible to cancer and mesothelioma (though hopefully not anymore). We can all get food poisoning followed by a case of the trots. So, picking a specialty should generally be a "what's-your-fancy" kind of deal.
Unless it comes to gynecology.
I am a firm believer that men have no business being gynecologists. There are a few reasons for this, including:
Let's face it. There are some jobs that women are better suited for than men, and then there are some jobs that women let the men do alone. Like. . .sewer maintenance. I don't think many women would volunteer for that job. I don't think many men would either, but hey, SOMEBODY'S got to do it, right?
Now, teaching. That's a job for both genders. Men and women are equally qualified to pass on knowledge to up-and-coming generations. Or paper delivery person. Who has trouble shoving a newspaper into a box?
When I think about jobs that men and women are equally capable of doing, I tend to lump doctor in alongside the rest. We're all humans, and we have the same bodily functions and maladies. For the most part.
Yes, it's true, men and women both get the flu. We are both susceptible to cancer and mesothelioma (though hopefully not anymore). We can all get food poisoning followed by a case of the trots. So, picking a specialty should generally be a "what's-your-fancy" kind of deal.
Unless it comes to gynecology.
I am a firm believer that men have no business being gynecologists. There are a few reasons for this, including:
- Men do not need to be staring at hoo-haas all day long. That's just weird. And uncomfortable. For women.
- Said activity of staring at female ladybits has to be a real turn-off when it comes to intimacy with the Ms.
But the #1 reason I believe men should not be allowed to practice gynecology is that they have no basis for empathy, sympathy or experience. What's that? They can learn?
Sure, they can learn the names and locations of the Fallopian tubes, cervix and every other nook and cranny that's crammed into our nether-regions.
But have they ever woken up in the middle of the night to find their bed looks like a scene from Psycho?
Do they know what it's like to shove a giant cotton swab into their privates and walk around with a tail dangling out? To wear a diaper all day, for several days, that has to be changed every three or four hours (if you're lucky) like a newborn?
How do you teach a man to understand what it's like to feel menstrual cramps? "Pretend someone stuck a hot poker up your wee-wee. . .and then twisted it until it felt like something came loose in your stomach. Yes, now sweat. And don't forget to rub your aching man-boobies."
Oh, and let's not even get started with childbirth.
When I was pregnant, I developed a condition called hydronephrosis of my right kidney. Basically, because I always slept on my right side, the baby had become accustomed to laying on my right side, too. She compressed the tube leading out of my kidney, basically creating the most painful event of my life. It was so bad that when I went to the ER to have it checked out, the nurses thought I was going into premature labor and were ready to operate. They didn't even put me in a room - I was in a delivery ward.
Thank God, I didn't have to have surgery, and after a few days in the hospital, I was sent home with the instructions to stay off my right side as much as possible (now I've taken to my left, so. . .) and drink as much water as I could. The solution is to coax the baby into a different position and make sure you're hydrated - odd, being that the condition means "water in the kidneys". But, it was manageable there on out.
While I was at the hospital, being wheeled around by a very compassionate L&D nurse, I received some news. She said, "Honey, if you get through this, delivery will be a breeze."
Apparently, kidneys stones and renal problems are the most painful health crises that both genders can experience. Connection: it's been said that a man passing a kidney stone is the closest he'll ever come to physically understanding childbirth.
Well, that's all well and good. And I do sincerely feel awful for anyone that experiences a kidney stone or renal issue (I've had kidney stones, too, and they're terrible!). But that doesn't make a man an expert on women's health issues. And it doesn't teach him to empathize with women when it comes to such issues.
I had this general discussion today with Hubby after going to the doctor and having one of THE most unpleasant experiences I've ever had in that realm of my body - short of having an IUD inserted.
I had an HSG - hysterosalpingogram.
We got to the radiology department on time, and it wasn't long before I was called back. These aren't done in a regular examination or ultrasound room. These procedures are done in the X-ray room, on a cold, hard table.
The nurse led me into a bathroom, told me to empty my bladder and change clothes. She was very nice, and she assured me the male technician would not be in the room during the procedure.
When I came out, she brought the step-stool over for me to climb onto the table.
The doctor was already in the room, putting on a lead-proof jacket. She came over to the table and gestured, "Lie down."
I did, and I looked around at Hubby, who was sitting in a chair against the wall. At first, the nurse didn't want him to come back with me. She thought I only wanted him because I thought there was going to be a man in the room. She didn't realize that I wanted him with me because I was nervous.
The doctor and the nurse were talking to each other. "Which size do you have? A ten?"
Nurse: "A ten. You want an eight?"
I'm thinking needles, because that's what I usually associate with sizes in a medical facility. Except there aren't supposed to be any needles involved.
The doctor stepped over to me. "How many children? You have children?"
"One," Hubby said.
"None?" Doctor answered.
"No, one," I said.
"Ah, one - and did you have normal delivery or Caesarean?"
"C-section."
"Okay - you have a six?" she asked the nurse.
It's then I realize she's talking about dilation. The speculum. Since I've never gone through childbirth, she wants the smallest speculum possible. That's kind of her.
"A six?" Nurse asked. I hear her rummage around in a cabinet. "I thought ten. No, no six."
"No. . .what about eight?"
At his point, Hubby came over and said something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about childbirth and the procedure and how I wish I could've stayed in bed because I'd had a horrible night.
Doctor came back over to me. "You know there is some pain with this, right?"
"Yes," I answered.
"You read the internet?"
I nodded.
"Good," she said. "You took the pill they gave you, right?"
I nodded again. They gave me an analgesic. I supplemented with a muscle spasm medication. My body was feeling relaxed, but I was still nervous.
"Okay. So, what happens is. . ." She explained the procedure, starting with cleaning. "Then I will insert a tube into your cervix. . .and inflate a small balloon with liquid. I will put as little liquid as possible. Sometimes when the balloon inflates, this causes pain. It will be like menstrual cramps."
See, that reference to menstrual cramps? How could a man say that? How does he know what menstrual cramps feel like?
I braced myself as she continued. I have terrible, awful, double-over in blinding pain menstrual cramps. Surely she's not referring to my kind.
"Then the radiologist will come in, and I'll push the dye. He'll take the images, and that's it."
I nodded. I'd read the internet sites. I saw conflicting views: It's worse than childbirth! I didn't feel any pain. The doctor LIED!!! Every woman has a different experience. This is mine.
The cleaning began, and while it wasn't enjoyable, it wasn't horrible. I'd call it a nuisance.
"Are you hurting?" Hubby asked from across the room.
I shook my head no.
Then she inserted the speculum, and if you've ever had a Pap smear, you'll know that it's like an invasion of privacy. It doesn't hurt, per se. But it's not something I want to walk around with.
The worst part was my legs. I had to bend them at an ungodly angle and keep my feet on the table. Which was difficult because the table was covered in a drape (as was I). They were slipping, and I felt like I would kick her in the face and the speculum would go flying.
"I'm inserting the tube now. . ." she said.
I expected a pinch or a dull ache. I didn't feel anything. Hmm. Okay, so the reviews talking about the exaggeration of pain were right. I can deal with this. It's nothing, I thought.
"Call the radiologist," Doctor ordered. "We're almost finished."
The radiologist came in, and while the nurse was helping me scoot back up on the table (and put my legs down, thank God), he adjusted the monitor. I don't mind the radiologist being a man. He wasn't in communication with me. All he had to do was look at the screen. Anyone can be trained to look at a screen.
"Shall I push?" Doctor asked.
I didn't hear the radiologist say anything, but it didn't matter. Because she pushed.
And my insides caught on fire like someone was stabbing me AND burning me from the inside out at the same time.
"Ahhhh!" I cried. Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to stay still. I clutched the drape over my stomach.
"I need you to turn on your left side," Nurse said.
Turn?!?!?!?! I may never walk again! I thought. "Okay. . .just. . .wait," I said.
"Again?" Doctor asked.
What the. . .?!?!?! Again?!?!?!
The fire exploded in my stomach, and it occurred to me that when she said it would feel like menstrual cramps, she did mean MY kind. The tears started sliding down my face.
"Okay, right side," Nurse said.
"We're almost finished," Doctor consoled. She patted me on the leg.
I rolled, barely, to the right with the help of the nurse. The doctor pushed the dye for the third and final time. Or was it the fourth? I don't know. I lost count after number one.
"Finished," Doctor said. I felt her pull the tube out, painlessly.
Hubby rushed over to my side, took my hand and wiped my eyes. He kissed my forehead. Wisely, he didn't say anything.
"Are you okay?" Nurse asked.
"I need the bathroom," I said. That's another perk of having things poked and prodded into your uh-huhs and no-nos.
"Okay. Wait a bit," Nurse said.
I suppose they thought I would collapse if I stood.
Finally, the nurse came over and helped me sit. "You can change. You feel okay?"
"Yeah," I lied. My stomach was still cramping, my back was aching and I felt like I'd just been on some kind of medieval torture device.
"I'm sorry," Doctor said. She came over and rubbed my arm, motherly. "I am the one who gave you the pain. I'm sorry." I don't know where she was from, but her level of compassion made me feel slightly less uncomfortable. "The test shows no blocking. That's good."
No Fallopian blockage is the desired result of an HSG. So, at least the news was positive.
With the help of Hubby, I got down, went to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. As we left, I realized I was kind of weak, and my legs felt wobbly. It was probably a combination of the meds I took and the pain. I was smart to have asked him to come along.
We left radiology and headed for the front of the hospital.
"You stay here, and I'll get the car," Hubby offered. "I parked far away."
Gladly, I sat in the waiting area and looked around at the myriad women also waiting for someone or something to come along. He has no idea what I just went through, I thought. There is absolutely no way that he ever could.
Sure, it wasn't the worst pain I've ever been in. But it was so personal.
If I got lung cancer, he could commiserate. Not because he has cancer, but because he has lungs.
If I break my hand, he can fathom the pain.
If I have a cold, he knows what it feels like to be in my shoes.
But no man, ever, anywhere, can know what it's like to lay on a table, legs bent and propped on either a hard surface or (even better) stirrups to help you balance. A man can never know what it's like to expose your most private of private parts to a stranger, for them to put their hands, fingers and other objects in. To have a tube inserted into an area of yourself that you've never even seen with your own two eyes. To have to hold as still as humanly possible while someone squirts a dye into your body that feels like acid. To be told your essence. . .the very thing that makes you a woman and separates you from men. . .needs to be completely removed. No, no man can ever know.
And that, my friends, is why I stand firmly on the ground and say that men are not qualified to be gynecologists.
Let them be podiatrists. Oncologists. They should definitely be urologists.
But they should never, ever, under any circumstances, be allowed to practice gynecology.
Or do mammograms.
Sure, they can learn the names and locations of the Fallopian tubes, cervix and every other nook and cranny that's crammed into our nether-regions.
But have they ever woken up in the middle of the night to find their bed looks like a scene from Psycho?
Do they know what it's like to shove a giant cotton swab into their privates and walk around with a tail dangling out? To wear a diaper all day, for several days, that has to be changed every three or four hours (if you're lucky) like a newborn?
How do you teach a man to understand what it's like to feel menstrual cramps? "Pretend someone stuck a hot poker up your wee-wee. . .and then twisted it until it felt like something came loose in your stomach. Yes, now sweat. And don't forget to rub your aching man-boobies."
Oh, and let's not even get started with childbirth.
When I was pregnant, I developed a condition called hydronephrosis of my right kidney. Basically, because I always slept on my right side, the baby had become accustomed to laying on my right side, too. She compressed the tube leading out of my kidney, basically creating the most painful event of my life. It was so bad that when I went to the ER to have it checked out, the nurses thought I was going into premature labor and were ready to operate. They didn't even put me in a room - I was in a delivery ward.
Thank God, I didn't have to have surgery, and after a few days in the hospital, I was sent home with the instructions to stay off my right side as much as possible (now I've taken to my left, so. . .) and drink as much water as I could. The solution is to coax the baby into a different position and make sure you're hydrated - odd, being that the condition means "water in the kidneys". But, it was manageable there on out.
While I was at the hospital, being wheeled around by a very compassionate L&D nurse, I received some news. She said, "Honey, if you get through this, delivery will be a breeze."
Apparently, kidneys stones and renal problems are the most painful health crises that both genders can experience. Connection: it's been said that a man passing a kidney stone is the closest he'll ever come to physically understanding childbirth.
Well, that's all well and good. And I do sincerely feel awful for anyone that experiences a kidney stone or renal issue (I've had kidney stones, too, and they're terrible!). But that doesn't make a man an expert on women's health issues. And it doesn't teach him to empathize with women when it comes to such issues.
I had this general discussion today with Hubby after going to the doctor and having one of THE most unpleasant experiences I've ever had in that realm of my body - short of having an IUD inserted.
I had an HSG - hysterosalpingogram.
We got to the radiology department on time, and it wasn't long before I was called back. These aren't done in a regular examination or ultrasound room. These procedures are done in the X-ray room, on a cold, hard table.
The nurse led me into a bathroom, told me to empty my bladder and change clothes. She was very nice, and she assured me the male technician would not be in the room during the procedure.
When I came out, she brought the step-stool over for me to climb onto the table.
The doctor was already in the room, putting on a lead-proof jacket. She came over to the table and gestured, "Lie down."
I did, and I looked around at Hubby, who was sitting in a chair against the wall. At first, the nurse didn't want him to come back with me. She thought I only wanted him because I thought there was going to be a man in the room. She didn't realize that I wanted him with me because I was nervous.
The doctor and the nurse were talking to each other. "Which size do you have? A ten?"
Nurse: "A ten. You want an eight?"
I'm thinking needles, because that's what I usually associate with sizes in a medical facility. Except there aren't supposed to be any needles involved.
The doctor stepped over to me. "How many children? You have children?"
"One," Hubby said.
"None?" Doctor answered.
"No, one," I said.
"Ah, one - and did you have normal delivery or Caesarean?"
"C-section."
"Okay - you have a six?" she asked the nurse.
It's then I realize she's talking about dilation. The speculum. Since I've never gone through childbirth, she wants the smallest speculum possible. That's kind of her.
"A six?" Nurse asked. I hear her rummage around in a cabinet. "I thought ten. No, no six."
"No. . .what about eight?"
At his point, Hubby came over and said something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about childbirth and the procedure and how I wish I could've stayed in bed because I'd had a horrible night.
Doctor came back over to me. "You know there is some pain with this, right?"
"Yes," I answered.
"You read the internet?"
I nodded.
"Good," she said. "You took the pill they gave you, right?"
I nodded again. They gave me an analgesic. I supplemented with a muscle spasm medication. My body was feeling relaxed, but I was still nervous.
"Okay. So, what happens is. . ." She explained the procedure, starting with cleaning. "Then I will insert a tube into your cervix. . .and inflate a small balloon with liquid. I will put as little liquid as possible. Sometimes when the balloon inflates, this causes pain. It will be like menstrual cramps."
See, that reference to menstrual cramps? How could a man say that? How does he know what menstrual cramps feel like?
I braced myself as she continued. I have terrible, awful, double-over in blinding pain menstrual cramps. Surely she's not referring to my kind.
"Then the radiologist will come in, and I'll push the dye. He'll take the images, and that's it."
I nodded. I'd read the internet sites. I saw conflicting views: It's worse than childbirth! I didn't feel any pain. The doctor LIED!!! Every woman has a different experience. This is mine.
The cleaning began, and while it wasn't enjoyable, it wasn't horrible. I'd call it a nuisance.
"Are you hurting?" Hubby asked from across the room.
I shook my head no.
Then she inserted the speculum, and if you've ever had a Pap smear, you'll know that it's like an invasion of privacy. It doesn't hurt, per se. But it's not something I want to walk around with.
The worst part was my legs. I had to bend them at an ungodly angle and keep my feet on the table. Which was difficult because the table was covered in a drape (as was I). They were slipping, and I felt like I would kick her in the face and the speculum would go flying.
"I'm inserting the tube now. . ." she said.
I expected a pinch or a dull ache. I didn't feel anything. Hmm. Okay, so the reviews talking about the exaggeration of pain were right. I can deal with this. It's nothing, I thought.
"Call the radiologist," Doctor ordered. "We're almost finished."
The radiologist came in, and while the nurse was helping me scoot back up on the table (and put my legs down, thank God), he adjusted the monitor. I don't mind the radiologist being a man. He wasn't in communication with me. All he had to do was look at the screen. Anyone can be trained to look at a screen.
"Shall I push?" Doctor asked.
I didn't hear the radiologist say anything, but it didn't matter. Because she pushed.
And my insides caught on fire like someone was stabbing me AND burning me from the inside out at the same time.
"Ahhhh!" I cried. Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to stay still. I clutched the drape over my stomach.
"I need you to turn on your left side," Nurse said.
Turn?!?!?!?! I may never walk again! I thought. "Okay. . .just. . .wait," I said.
"Again?" Doctor asked.
What the. . .?!?!?! Again?!?!?!
The fire exploded in my stomach, and it occurred to me that when she said it would feel like menstrual cramps, she did mean MY kind. The tears started sliding down my face.
"Okay, right side," Nurse said.
"We're almost finished," Doctor consoled. She patted me on the leg.
I rolled, barely, to the right with the help of the nurse. The doctor pushed the dye for the third and final time. Or was it the fourth? I don't know. I lost count after number one.
"Finished," Doctor said. I felt her pull the tube out, painlessly.
Hubby rushed over to my side, took my hand and wiped my eyes. He kissed my forehead. Wisely, he didn't say anything.
"Are you okay?" Nurse asked.
"I need the bathroom," I said. That's another perk of having things poked and prodded into your uh-huhs and no-nos.
"Okay. Wait a bit," Nurse said.
I suppose they thought I would collapse if I stood.
Finally, the nurse came over and helped me sit. "You can change. You feel okay?"
"Yeah," I lied. My stomach was still cramping, my back was aching and I felt like I'd just been on some kind of medieval torture device.
"I'm sorry," Doctor said. She came over and rubbed my arm, motherly. "I am the one who gave you the pain. I'm sorry." I don't know where she was from, but her level of compassion made me feel slightly less uncomfortable. "The test shows no blocking. That's good."
No Fallopian blockage is the desired result of an HSG. So, at least the news was positive.
With the help of Hubby, I got down, went to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. As we left, I realized I was kind of weak, and my legs felt wobbly. It was probably a combination of the meds I took and the pain. I was smart to have asked him to come along.
We left radiology and headed for the front of the hospital.
"You stay here, and I'll get the car," Hubby offered. "I parked far away."
Gladly, I sat in the waiting area and looked around at the myriad women also waiting for someone or something to come along. He has no idea what I just went through, I thought. There is absolutely no way that he ever could.
Sure, it wasn't the worst pain I've ever been in. But it was so personal.
If I got lung cancer, he could commiserate. Not because he has cancer, but because he has lungs.
If I break my hand, he can fathom the pain.
If I have a cold, he knows what it feels like to be in my shoes.
But no man, ever, anywhere, can know what it's like to lay on a table, legs bent and propped on either a hard surface or (even better) stirrups to help you balance. A man can never know what it's like to expose your most private of private parts to a stranger, for them to put their hands, fingers and other objects in. To have a tube inserted into an area of yourself that you've never even seen with your own two eyes. To have to hold as still as humanly possible while someone squirts a dye into your body that feels like acid. To be told your essence. . .the very thing that makes you a woman and separates you from men. . .needs to be completely removed. No, no man can ever know.
And that, my friends, is why I stand firmly on the ground and say that men are not qualified to be gynecologists.
Let them be podiatrists. Oncologists. They should definitely be urologists.
But they should never, ever, under any circumstances, be allowed to practice gynecology.
Or do mammograms.
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