Today is the 1st of June. Not that it is an especially significant date, but it does mark something of a turning point in my emotional and psychological state. For the past three days I have experienced immense and overwhelming physical and emotional pain. What should have been a routine cervical smear left my private parts and insides bruised, tender, and my pillow tear-stained. No doubt this entirely avoidable injury, coupled with the frustration of feeling unheard by my primary care service triggered the ensuing emotional avalanche.
It started with anger. I was indignant at the maltreatment by my GP practice physician and receptionists. Through inwardly gritted teeth I demanded my medical records. I decided to take all the responsibility for my wellbeing out of the hands of others. When looking through the 119 pages, my anger turned to rage as I read in black and white that the gynaecological complaints that prompted me to make an appointment earlier that day had been exactly the same every time I visited by practice in the past eight years; almost verbatim. Yet each time with a different diagnosis and never a referral to a specialist. My rage turned to frustration as I could find no path to take the next steps. Every other NHS practice within a 6km radium had equally horrendous Google reviews. Would there be anything gained from registering elsewhere?
Aside from the fact that at my GP practice, I had never seen the same doctor twice since 2009, and had always received the same brusque uninformed treatment, a previous experience with private practice also demonstrated to me that the problem is not isolated to Dr. C. Kwan at Doncaster Drive Medical Centre. Rather it is a cultural issue that extends through the medical profession …in London? The UK? The West? Although I can’t generalise my statement too widely, if analysis of my singular lived experience as an approaching-middle-aged woman with the ‘healthcare’ field is anything to go by, then “fix it for now so they can fuck off” or being a little less crass: “medicate and move on” is the only treatment I’ve ever received by any doctor I have ever seen. NHS or private.
On a temporarily positive note, that abhorrent appointment with said Dr. Kwan did provide me with one useful word to latch onto. I took to the digital streets with this. And it was on Reddit that I found myself reflected in the despondent posts and testimonials of women writing about their vulval pains. A subsequent stronger wave of sadness and sorrow crashed down on me as I realised that a) the past near decade could have been entirely different and b) I may never get the help I need from the healthcare professionals.
I do not yet know what the diagnosis or prognosis is for me. As 1st June, 2024, I have no more answers than when I first went to my GP with the same complaints in 2016. However, today I feel a little lighter knowing about the the online forums, support groups, instagram pages that provide a small, warm light of comfort in the cold, obscured environment than can be women’s healthcare.
p.s. Always ask for a chaperone.
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