'It’s Okay. I’m a Doctor': Recalling a #MeToo Experience

“It’s okay. I’m a doctor,” she calmly said.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and I was at one of my regular checkups for my endocrine issues stemming from Neurofibromatosis. A routine visit turned into a sexual assault, a “#DoctorToo” moment that speaks to larger, systemic issues.

On that day, a newly-minted physician I had never seen before and never saw again was examining me. She had shoulder-length, dark hair that curved a bit at the bottom. She had a lower, distinct voice, characteristic of someone who grew up speaking a language other than English.

I was on the examination table. To my immediate left, there were two empty chairs — my parents had been sent out of the room for a minute. To the right of me, this stranger was examining me.

I was about ten years old.

Because of Neurofibromatosis and a brain tumor removed in January 1991, my body does not make growth hormone or testosterone. I started taking daily growth hormone shots in about 1994 and took them for a full decade. I started taking testosterone — first as an injection and then as a gel — around five years later.

As a child, I saw one of two endocrinologists (and any of their students or trainees) every few months. When I saw the woman physician, the visits were short and quick. Sometimes a mere minute, starting and ending with an exclamation of “You look fine! We’ll see you in three months!”

When I saw a male physician, the visits were lengthy and thorough. As part of this exam, he would have me pull my pants and underwear down and use this ring of beads pulled from his white coat to measure the size of my testicles. (While writing this piece, I learned that the instrument he used is called an orchidometer. To my surprise, seeing pictures of this device was indeed a bit triggering. My heart started racing!) During this part of the exam, he typically pulled the curtain hanging from the ceiling around the area where my parents were. I was never told why the exam was necessary (I still don’t know!) or even what was actually being done, and my consent was never sought. After his exams, my testicles always throbbed with pain for days.

I grew somewhat accustomed to this uncomfortable exam and grew to accept or expect it. After all, I was used to different, painful, regular medical experiences. And always did what the doctors said.

But on this one Thursday afternoon, things were different.

A woman physician had me pull my pants and underwear down. She also had me lie back on the table. This was not typical. She didn’t use the beads. She used only her hands — no gloves — and was basically massaging and feeling the areas between my lower abdomen and the middle of my thigh. I remember being confused and surprised. She did not ask for permission or provide any heads-up. Whatever look I had prompted her to say, “It’s okay. I’m a doctor,” while she continued this sexual assault.

I have thought about this encounter numerous times over the intervening two decades or so, sometimes wondering what long-term impacts it might have had on me. It wasn’t until the last five years that I fully realized that her “exam” was not only different and unusual but very wrong. Like many children (and even adults) who are victims, I lacked the vocabulary, knowledge, and necessary agency to articulate what happened. I had always, innocently and naively, trusted the people in charge of my health.

A response of “It’s okay. I’m a doctor” was a clear indicator that she knew what she was doing was wrong, especially as she continued, unphased.

If this had been a legitimate medical exam, an appropriate response to whatever look of alarm and discomfort I had would have been to immediately stop, possibly get their supervising physician, talk with me with my parents, and then reevaluate and explain any tests necessary.

After this, and even continuing to this day, I somewhat dread and fear medical appointments where there is a chance of a “pull your pants down.”

My experience should underscore a few things.

Most importantly, all nurses, physicians, and other healthcare professionals need to take consent seriously. They need to be keenly aware of the potential abuses of power, and trauma patients may have. Before any touch, they should generally explain what they need to do and why and ask for permission. Verbal consent is needed. Constant non-verbal consent is vital, too. Medical professionals desperately need training in women’s studies and disability studies: Regular medical education does not teach such care and nuance.

We should also remember that at least 25–35 percent of all children are sexually abused before their eighteenth birthday. And, of course, these numbers dramatically increase for people with disabilities or chronic medical problems. My story is not exceptional. Indeed, when I posted about my encounter on my personal Facebook page, I quickly got numerous responses saying something similar had happened to them.

Women can be perpetrators of violence, and anyone can be a victim/survivor.

(I’m also reminded of another sexual assault about thirteen years ago when a woman nurse I knew suddenly gave me a quick kiss on the lips after thanking her for helping with medical paperwork.)

Finally, patients must be told and reminded of their rights: They can always say “no,” even to someone at a clinic or hospital.