A List That's Easy To Begin

On getting really good at fighting for myself.

When I was 24, I had my first professional job, and when my health insurance kicked in, I felt an adult duty to put it to use with an overdue checkup — where it was discovered by the female nurse practitioner that a mole I’d long had in the crease under my left breast appeared “concerning.”

“I’m not super worried about it,” she reassured, “but I also don’t want to leave it when we can just hop over and have the doctor remove it.”

{Gonna add a content warning here. This post discusses sexual trauma and rape.}

I can’t remember if I went straight over to the room the male doctor saw me in, or if I came back the next day. I can remember laying on the table, my top off and a paper gown draped over my shoulders, the opening gapping down the middle of my chest. I can remember a tall, older man wearing brown leather cowboy boots, jeans, and a button-up shirt walking in through the door to my right. As I recall this now, the image of him is sideways in my memory. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair that swooped over his eyebrows, like the Ocean Spray logo. He was older than my dad.

I don’t know why, because this was 2005 and not 1960, but when the female nurse offered to stay, he dismissed her and she, knowing all she knew about this man, left me alone in the room with him. With my top off. With my breasts exposed, save for a sheet of paper split down the middle. With a tray of scalpels near my temple. With a man who insisted she leave.

I wish I could say my intuition told me this was wrong, but it did not know how to interpret the situation. Here we have an official DOCTOR: charming, a kind voice, a gentle smile. Here we have an official NURSE: trusting, reassuring. What right did my intuition have to see anything more? I was only 24.

I had been around my fair share of dangerous men at that point, sure. I was raped 4 years before this on New Years Eve by a boy who would go on to tell my friends that I asked for it. I’d had my ass grabbed while I worked in bars, my tits the topic of conversation, openly, at two-tops where business men sat on their lunch while I served them martinis and chicken fingers, dressed in a basic v-neck cotton shirt bar uniform (hardly lingerie). And then all the regular, every day violations all women could begin to list but never finish.

But never a doctor. My god, not a doctor.

I would use his real name here if I could be certain I remembered it correctly. I have tried, a few times, to look him up, based only on knowing where the office was located in Reston, VA. But, there’s really no way for me to confirm as of now. At least, not with the energy I’ve allotted for this.

The doctor asked me to remove the paper gown fully from both arms. It hung below me off the sides of the bed, and I lay exposed from the waist up. He began with a breast exam, even though my NP had completed one already. Of course, he said, this was great to get an extra set of eyes and hands. Can’t be too careful! And considering I was still nauseous over hearing the word “concerning” describing that mole, another exam seemed like the obvious precaution.

As he pressed and massaged and, honestly, fondled my breasts and nipples, he began to tell me things like, “You sure are pretty. You’re the kind of pretty that makes me wish I was 20 years younger and not married.” And I thought, well, that’s… nice? I guess? But none of it felt nice, I knew.

Still, I smiled and said thank you, and hoped he was almost done, but he wasn’t. He still had to remove my mole. He gave me a bit of local anesthetic, piercing me with a fine needle in one hand while his other cupped my breast and pinched the skin below. It stung. I shifted my weight on the table and took a sharp breath. He picked up a small, sharp scalpel and I looked out the window. I wasn’t going to watch the next part.

“My wife should be very worried about you,” he scoffed as he began to slice into me. My eyes darted from the window to the side of the room opposite him, my head turning quickly, another sharp breath in. It still hurt. I could feel nearly the whole cut. The shock of the pain overrode the slap of his words. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said with a tender tone, “I should have waited longer for the anesthetic to kick in.” He brushed my arm with his hand, like he was soothing a child who fell off her bike.

I looked at him with, I’m sure, wide eyes, and then forced a smile and even a laugh. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s not that bad. I’ll be ok,” I lied, my brain desperately trying to sort through the stack of realities and fears I’d been handed.

“You’re a tough one, too? Just another beautiful thing about you,” he said with a smirk as he slid his stool between the bed and the tray of tools. He glanced at his watch, “Let’s give it another try. It should be fully in effect now.”

“You know, I told my wife, I could leave her at anytime. That once the right woman comes along, watch out. And I see a lot of beautiful women in here. She usually doesn’t have to worry much,” he said while I felt the pressure of the scalpel right on top of my rib bone. He didn’t look up, at least not while I had my head turned his direction. “But, I don’t know, she may have to worry now.”

I still remember the view of the medical complex from the window that day. I removed my mind from the room and floated just outside the glass panes for an hour or a minute or however long it took to finish. He put a bandaid on the crease under my breast and stood over me. “You can sit up now,” it almost sounded like an order. I pulled myself up and forward, steadying myself with my left hand and holding my right hand over my breasts. He pulled his blue latex gloves off, snapping each one before tossing them into the trash, never taking his eyes off me, a slow grin growing across his face.

“Well, if you decide you want to run off and leave your boyfriend for a man with a lot of money, who’s ready to have a lot of fun, you let me know,” he said with a wink. “Oh, and we’ll be in touch soon about a follow up appointment.” And then he left, and I sat half naked on the table, emotionally numb, a small burning ache growing where I was cut.

I gingerly put my bra back on, loosely clasping it in the back after it was obvious it was going to press onto my wound. I pulled my chocolate brown Anne Taylor Loft sweater back on and straightened my a-line skirt before sliding into my kitten heel shoes with pointy toes, then slung my Coach bag (purchased with my first paycheck) over my shoulder. I was giving adulthood my very best effort. I was only 24.

I left the office in a hurry, but I’m not sure if it was because I needed to get back to work or because my gut was urging me to run. Either way, I left without checking out and scheduling my follow up. And then I just… went about my day, not quite sure when the burning from the cut or the fog of dissociation would dissipate. But when they finally did, I’d had enough time to replay the scene over and over and over in my head, and I reached the conclusion that that guy could fuck off.

I wished I had told him that, but then I wondered when. When would have been an ok time to tell this grown man (with “a lot of money”) to get the fuck away from me? As I sat there with my breasts exposed, a tray of scalpels at his fingertips? Would I have run from the room, my arms covering my chest while the paper gown lay on the floor behind the table? Who would even believe me with no witnesses?

A couple weeks later, I got a call from his office. “Hi, yes. It shows we never collected $50 from you for your copay,” the woman on the phone explained. The sound of her happy voice made me furious. Hearing his name come out of her mouth jolted me. I pressed my hot pink Razr phone to my cheek and inhaled. "I will not be paying the copay. Not today, not EVER. I will not pay anymore for what that man did to me. And I’m SURE you know what I’m talking about because men like that aren’t just like that behind closed doors. And you sure as hell don’t just leave men like that all ALONE with female patients. But you did. And I will never step foot in that office again. Fuck your $50,” the words rumbled out of me with a deep exhale.

There was silence for a moment, and then she took a breath and replied, “I see. I’m very sorry. Have a good day,” before she hung up and never contacted me again.

Over the last 20 years, this memory has bobbed and weaved through the layers of my consciousness, sometimes hiding in the dark for long stretches, and then popping to the surface with the speed and intensity of a champagne bottle being uncorked: when I saw a male OBGYN during my first pregnancy who told me “only cows give birth without epidurals,” when a man chased me into a Home Depot after I unknowingly cut him off in the parking lot — his red face inches from mine, his belly touching mine, 6 months pregnant with Lowell, two male employees watching and doing nothing.

A list that’s easy to begin but doesn’t seem to have an end.

I owe a lot to that 24 year old version of myself.

She was in a really scary situation, and she survived. She went on to tell that OBGYN he was fired and found a midwife practice the next day. She fought through a panic attack in the paint aisle of Home Depot at 6 months pregnant, then marched up to the men at the customer service desk who saw everything and did nothing and shouted, “What is WRONG with you?” demanding they locate the man who accosted her in the store and escort her to her car immediately. She went on to eventually talk about being raped — with a therapist and with her family. She left relationships that were no longer safe. She fought for and is still fighting for her life, and she’s getting really fucking good at it, finally, at almost 44.

A list that’s easy to begin and will never end.