Trigger Warning: This post contains material that may be triggering to some people. Descriptions of sexual violence, sexual assault, abuse, medical procedures and injuries are mentioned in the following post.
This summer I had an appointment at my doctors office to have some stitches removed. As anyone who has had stitches removed knows: the procedure, when it goes as planned, causes only minor discomfort and is relatively fast. The whole procedure takes a few minutes at the most. Unfortunately, the knots in my stitches (the part they have to cut) were too close to my skin making it difficult to remove them. It took one intern, two nurses, and a nurse practitioner to remove the stitches; it took almost an hour. In the beginning, as the first two nurses tried to remove the stitches, my dad and I talked and we made jokes; we even made the nurses laugh. When the nurse practitioner came in, about half way through the appointment, he examined the stitches and he tried to cut one of them but he missed and cut into my skin instead. I cried. In that moment, he looked at me as if he didn’t understand why I was crying, the pain he had caused me-he was sure-wasn’t enough to justify my reaction. Exacerbated, he told me that the best position for me to be in was to lay down on my back with my arm above my head and that he would try to remove the stitches as quickly as possible. I laid down on the table with my arm above my head while another nurse leaned across my body and pulled the skin away from the stitches. The NP tried to cut into the stitches: catching my skin a few times.
By the time I laid down on the table, on the outside, I appeared better. The tears had mostly stopped, I wasn’t flinching when the scissors went into my skin. My eyes were glued shut. I didn’t say anything for the rest of the appointment. What you probably didn’t realize is that when I laid down on the table, you had lost me. The moment I appeared ‘better’ was actually when I was the most distraught. Earlier when you had judged me for crying was actually when I was trying the hardest to maintain my strength and stay present. When the tears were there I was present there with you, in a little pain, but with you… in the office… having my stitches taken out… by you, my nurse. By the time I had laid on the table I was already gone. My mind was flooded with memories I wasn’t in the doctors office, I was in my bedroom… being raped… again, one of them holding my arms down while the other one raped me. Then another memory surfaces… I am in the bedroom, he had just tried to rape me and I fought back, he got mad and then cut my side with a knife. I couldn’t move to curl up and protect myself because he was leaning over me. I laid there with one hand on my side, frozen, trying to keep the blood from getting everywhere. “I’m sorry” you say as you agree with the other nurse that she should put a band-aid on my arm. I nodded (barely), my mind is still preoccupied and I quickly put my jacket on. I don’t need to be fully present to get dressed, walk to the car, or even to talk to my dad. I’ve had years to practice seeming like I am here when I am recovering. My brain runs on auto-pilot. We get in the car and I sip my (now cold) tea and I am finally back in my body.
A quick glance at my medical history would have told you that I have had my arm reset 5 times, while awake with no anesthesia. I had burns covering my entire forearm and still drove myself to the hospital. I broke my arm and still practiced gymnastics for a month and never complained because everyone thought it wasn’t broken. I was raped for years by a man who was 3 times my size. You judged me in this one encounter, you assumed that my tears were unwarranted and unjustified because I couldn’t possibly be in that much pain. You, never once, asked me if I was okay… if I needed a minute… if I would be okay with being on my back with my arm above my head… you saw my eyes closed, my body not moving when you accidentally cut into me instead of the stitches, and you didn’t even think to check in with me, not even once. You let me lay there. Reliving two of the worst experiences I’ve ever had in my life and then you judged me for crying- wondering what might have caused me to cry but not bothering to ask. Assuming that all of the history I had ever had was having three stitches put into my arm that needed to be removed; that’s what you reduced me to. You dehumanized me. I wasn’t a person. I wasn’t even a patient, I was a procedure, one that you hoped would be over quickly because it was difficult to deal with my tears.
If only you could see what I see. If only you felt what I had felt. If you had bothered to take a few seconds to look beyond this one procedure: you wouldn’t have been so quick to judge.