How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Gynecologist

An HPV love story

For years, I had a crippling fear of the gynecologist. My mother began booking appointments for us both when I was sixteen, and I resisted every step of the way. First, I flat-out refused to get in the car. Then I figured I would go, but only if I didn’t have to get the full examination. The nurse never made it past second base. She could feel the boobs a bit, but the pants stayed on. “My period,” I’d lie, and she’d nod knowingly. Eventually, I learned menstruation is a great Get Out of Anything Free card. “Can’t go home with you tonight, got my period,” or, “Can’t wade in the urine-saturated Lazy River at Water World. My period. You know the drill.”

At sixteen, I wasn’t comfortable with an older woman probing my nether regions with cold, sterile kitchen utensils. I was afraid of what she might find, what she might tell me. I was more afraid of what she might tell my mom. We had the same nurse practioner, so our appointments were always booked back to back. Her looming proximity discouraged me from being honest during exams, come hell or high blood clots.

Do I smoke? No, of course not (yes). Have I had sex before? No (it’s been a few months, haven’t those incidents expired?). And of course, my go-to white lie, “No, I have my period; maybe you can examine me on my next…