Previously, on the Defective Woman: I had found a name for my condition, but self-treatment was not working. Also, my BCP scripts had run out, and I needed to visit a new doctor to renew them. I already had two less-than-positive experiences with doctors concerning this condition, and feared that the next might be the worst. (I hope you imagined that in a voice of a TV drama narrator.)
I chose the OB/GYN office that looked to be the largest, and had the most comprehensive information on their website. They have a section called “Knowledge is Power,” addressing some preliminary concerns about several common gynecological and urinary problems. Although I didn’t find the term “vaginismus” in that section, I did see the terms for other similar conditions — vulvodynia, interstitial cystitis, etc. — and that gave me a bit of hope.
However, the only doctor I could see within two months happened to be male. I signed up to see him, but I was scared as all hell. I had never had a male doctor before; I had no idea if that would be a good thing, neutral, or negative. Would I feel threatened by a male doctor? Would he, not having the body parts necessary to experience the pain I was in, have even less sympathy than the other doctors? Their office claimed that knowledge is power, and that they treated several kinds of chronic pain conditions, but could they live up to their prestigious advertising?
When I went in for my first visit, I was astounded by the size of the building; it was solely a women’s health center, but it was four stories high! I passed a gift shop and a cafe on the way to the stairwell. There was a directory listing in front of the stairwell, with numbers for various surgery and birthing centers, and probably over fifty doctors names listed. The doctors were divided into two wings on the fourth floor: the regular OB/GYN section, and a separate division for a pelvic medicine and urogynecology department. My appointment was with the OB/GYNs, so I went in and waited — waited with two dozen other women in the lobby until my number was up. (Or at least it felt like it was.)
My doctor turned out to be a very soft-spoken older man. I explained my need and my condition to him, quivering with fear, but he reassured me. “I won’t do anything to keep you from having your pills,” he said. “I had a patient who, a few years ago, was just like you, couldn’t even get a Q-tip in without screaming in pain. She has two kids now.”
It’s probably around this point where I started crying. I know it happened at least once during this visit. My emotions were a bit too complex to explain fully; a mixture of frustration and relief, I suppose. Frustration at having to acknowledge the presence of this pain again, but so, so relieved that my doctor was sympathetic, and hopeful — perhaps I could be the next success story he tells.
He did an external exam, which stung and burned (like usual), but wasn’t worse than any of Dr. Barbie’s exams. He then offered to write me a letter of referral to the pelvic medicine division. “This type of condition is out of my realm of expertise,” he said, “But one of the doctors in the other department deals with these cases quite often. I’ll write you a letter today, and his nurses will call to schedule an appointments for a couple weeks from now.”
He wrote me a script too, and soon I was back on my blessed BCPs. Next stop? The pelvic medicine department, to finally start addressing the vaginismus head on.
The Defective Woman 