Earlier this month I went to the Nairobi Women’s Hospital. I was looking forward to accessing healthcare at a clinic that tailors to women’s health concerns. I felt safe. The doctor I saw was a man, and I didn’t think anything of it. I figured he was well-versed in treating his patients with respect.
I was bloated. I wanted him to address the issue. He asked if he could feel my stomach. I had a brief moment where I worried he would take advantage of me – it happens, after all. But I told myself I was being paranoid. “Let it go, Caro.” It was fine.
He sent me to the lab to do some tests. I felt vulnerable. Scared. When I returned to his office with the test results – as instructed – he simply looked at them and laughed. Laughing at someone’s test results is not exactly the path to rapport-building.
Finally, he looked up at me with a sardonic smile. “Everything’s fine.” Now, how much longer are you in Kenya for?”
2 months.
“Does that mean I won’t be able to take you out for dinner or a coffee?”
I wanted to spit in his face. To tell him he was being unprofessional. To storm out. But I froze. He was about to fill out a prescription for me and I worried that if I told him to fuck off, he would prescribe me something else – something completely useless, or harmful. Paranoid, perhaps. But you never know.
Finally, I spoke. “I’m in a relationship.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re a very beautiful women. It only makes sense that I would ask you.”
I felt like puking. Just an hour earlier I had gone to this women’s clinic, excited to be in a place that purportedly caters to its patients needs, that respects them.
This was clearly not the case.
Had I known that he was so unprofessional, I wouldn’t have let him touch my stomach. I wouldn’t have even shaken his hand.
I told the only woman staff member I saw on the way out. She said “I’m sorry.”
I’m looking into who I can report this to.