I arrived at the hospital clinic for gynecological disorders in the rain. The Germans I passed gave me odd looks for walking across the grass. I was breaking the rules, but my desire to get out of the rain (and get this appointment over with) superseded convention.
The glass doors to the clinic were locked. I pressed the wet buzzer and waited in the grey daylight. A moment later the doors vibrated open.
I found myself in a sterile cream hospital hallway. The first door on my left was reception, but looked like an office. I hovered in the doorway, unsure if I was in the correct place.
”Bitte,” called the woman in the back. I’m never sure if I’ll be understood in these clinics. Though English is a given in most of Berlin, I have worked hard to learn German. Still, doctors make me nervous and the vocabulary of vulvodynia is not exactly taught in class, leading to confusion.
I presented my insurance card and was given a clipboard of paperwork in return. The waiting room was invisible to me — all I could see was the hallway of linoleum and scuffed walls. I wandered as if in The Shining until I found a door propped open, women silently waiting inside the dim.
The papers were easily translated by my phone. I scribbled quickly, not wanting to miss my appointment. One, however, gave me pause. It talked of an acid test to verify any lichen sclerosus. I didn’t want an acid test. I was there to verify vulvodynia and receive a possible treatment plan. I didn’t sign.
Back to the reception office to hand over the paperwork.
”This one is not signed,” stated the stern nurse.
”I don’t want the test,” I explained.
”You must sign it,” her chest puffed. “It allows the doctor to address your needs.” If you’ve never been backed into a corner by a German woman, then trust me, you’d have signed. I reckoned I could discuss the test with the doctor.
Moments later I was called into the exam room. It was the typical rigmarole. Bottoms off, no cover (because Germans are not ashamed of bodies), and onto a table with stockinged feet in stirrups.
I try making small talk with the doctor. She is young, perhaps my age. I’m thankful she speaks good English and seems kinder than the nurse. She responds sympathetically to my questions as I’m poked and prodded. Does this hurt? Yes. How about here? Not so much.
”This may sting,” she states out of the blue. I feel wet, then burning. There was no warning before she dripped the acid on my sensitive vulva.
”That hurts!” I tell her.
”I know, it’s okay,” she replies. Uhm, not okay. Not remotely okay. “No lichen sclerosus. Just vulvodynia.” Okay thanks, lady. Jesus I already knew that. “I’ll write my report while you get dressed. There are pads in the basket.” She dabs at my vulva, clearing off what I later assumed was vinegar (the word ‘acid’ translates for both).
I waddled to the bench where my clothes laid. Wiped with a pad but don’t put one on. I sat for a moment, out of her view, and whimper. I was angry that I have this condition, upset that the medicine is abusive, frustrated with myself for not speaking up, concerned that I didn’t have the chance for further consent, and heartbroken for the millions of women who have had far worse procedures done to them without informed consent.
When I emerged, she handed me a paper. “Show this to your OBgyn,” she said. That’s it. After all that, all I had is a diagnosis for something I already knew I had. No treatment plan. No support.
Instead, I returned to the rain.
Unsexy 