Mark, 7 Weeks and 2 Days

The other day, I went back to the Civic Hos­pi­tal for my long over­due six-week post­par­tum checkup—it had actu­ally been eight weeks since Mark’s birth but that was the ear­lier date the ob-gyn could sched­ule me.

It was strange to go back to the Civic—the last time I checked in at D4 I could barely speak between two con­trac­tions.

I sat in the same wait­ing room where I had spent a good chunk of my time over the sum­mer for the weekly check­ups. I was the only non-pregnant woman there, the only one with a baby in my arms. “It’s almost over!” I wanted to tell the very preg­nant woman sit­ting next to me. “You will be okay!”

But I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t enjoy being preg­nant but maybe some women do.

The recep­tion­ist called me and I walked into the exam room. I hadn’t seen the nurse since the day before I gave birth so she quickly went through my chart.

“So you had a… ‘nat­ural’ birth, right?”

“Yes, I had a vagi­nal deliv­ery,” I replied, not sure what she meant by “natural”.

“I see… oh, lucky you, you didn’t have to push for too long! But you had a second-degree tear. So, do you think you are heal­ing well ‘down there’?”

Down there? Seri­ously? I’m at the ob-gyn, I fully expect my “pri­vate parts”, aka “down there”, to be named out loud.

“I think I healed fine,” I said, “I mean I’m not in pain. But I can’t really see if I healed!”

Hint: I’m not that flex­i­ble. Even with some yoga train­ing, I can­not look inside my “pri­vate parts”.

“I see,” said the nurse. “Well, we have two options here. The doc­tor can check you ‘down there’ and make sure the stitches were resorbed. But you will have to take off your clothes, like in a med­ical exam.”

Again, seri­ously? Well, duh, I have an appoint­ment to see an ob-gyn, I fully expect to have to take off my clothes at some point. Unless she has x-ray vision and some super­nat­ural pow­ers, it’s pretty much the only way to see “down there”.

Preg­nant pause (ah ah, pun intended).

“… and what’s the sec­ond option?” I asked.

“Well, if you think you healed well, she doesn’t need to check!” she said cheer­fully. “These kinds of med­ical exams are not too pleas­ant, you know,” she added sotto vocce.

I’m sorry, but what I think is irrel­e­vant. I’m not in pain but how would I know if the tear healed well if I can’t see in the first place because let’s face it, it’s inside my vagina?

And gyne­co­log­i­cal exams aren’t pleas­ant? Well, sure, I’d rather be sip­ping cof­fee at home than spread­ing my legs on a cold exam table but I was look­ing for­ward to hav­ing a doc­tor check my “pri­vate parts”—not because I have some weird fetish but because I care about my health. I’d much rather undergo a five-minute exam than to have prob­lems later on. I am not a doctor.

“I think I would rather see the doc­tor,” I sim­ply replied.

I took off my clothes behind the cur­tains (mak­ing sure I wouldn’t mis­place my panties this time) and I wrapped in the clean sheet provided.

The doc­tor even­tu­ally came in and described out loud what she was about to do. “Okay, now I’m going to put my hand on your legs.” “Now you will feel my fin­ger.” “Now I’m look­ing at ‘it’ with a light.”

It felt like being in a bad X-rated movie with two very inex­pe­ri­enced actors. I wasn’t sure what my lines were. “Yes, please do so”? “I can see you look­ing at me with a light”?

I was pro­nounced healed and fine, or rather, as the doc­tor said, “it’s look­ing good ‘down there’”.

“Down there” again.

For Christ’s sake, how old are we? Can’t we call a “vagina” a vagina, espe­cially at the ob-gyn’s?

I gave birth in the hos­pi­tal and I can tell you it’s not the time to be mod­est. A bunch of nurses, med­ical stu­dents and doc­tors stared at my “pri­vate parts” for long min­utes when I was push­ing. Mark came out cov­ered in blood and body flu­ids. I took a shower with the door open right after giv­ing birth, and I think I even sat on the toi­let under the watch­ful eye of a nurse when I was in labour.

And you know what?

I didn’t care. I was in pain and I was focused on push­ing that baby boy out. Nurses and doc­tors are pro­fes­sion­als, they expect to see some skin and body flu­ids. They all made me feel like there was noth­ing to be ashamed of, that it wasn’t a big deal—because there is noth­ing to be ashamed of and it is not a big deal. It’s life.

I expect health­care pro­fes­sion­als to use the proper term for body parts. Come on, say it out loud! “Vagina”, “anus”, “cli­toris”, “uterus”, “breast” and so on. It’s not dirty, it’s not shameful.

Yes, I’m rant­ing. Because the more peo­ple hide behind words like “down there”, the less infor­ma­tion patients are get­ting. This is not the time to use euphemisms. This is the time to talk freely about body parts and body functions—knowledge is power.

This is not the time to be mod­est. Why should we?

Related arti­cles:

1. My Non-Scary Non-Gory Labour and Birth Story – Part II
2. The World: Meet Mark, Born 12÷10÷12!
3. Of Los­ing Con­trol (And Chang­ing That Pyjama)
4. 10 Things That Feel Great When You Are No Longer Pregnant
5. The Day Canada Tried To Give Me Diabetes
6. My Non-Scary Non-Gory Labour and Birth Story – Part III