“Remove your clothes from the waist down and hop up on the table. Let me know when you’re ready, sound good?” She smiles reassuringly and pulls the modesty curtain between us.
This is a doctor I can get behind. Or sprawl in front of. I am at a local clinic in Perth for a routine physical which, because I have a vagina, includes a pap smear. Now, in socks and a tank top, paper napkin across my lap, I tentatively say, “Ready,” as one might announce to an opponent in a face-slapping contest.
My doctor is dressed for a cocktail party. Full make up, tight floral dress, gold necklace. Strappy black platforms reveal a glossy red pedicure. “Your shoes are amazing,” I couldn’t help but remark when I walked into her office. In classic Aussie style, she shrugged off the compliment and told me they’re just for work because the rest of the time she’s in trainers running after her kids.
I know this will be quick. Appointments at this clinic are 15 minutes long – five minutes to express concerns about your health, and nine minutes for the doctor to investigate, suggest, and prescribe. The remaining seconds are for getting dressed and discussing payment, which, in a universal health care system, means cheers see ya. There’s no whinging. Australian GPs are mechanics, not therapists.
The doctor joins me on my side of the curtain. She’s in the same outfit but with new accessories – white latex gloves. “Pop your knees up. Scoot closer. Here we go.” As she’s inserting the speculum, I say a little prayer of gratitude. Thank you for not having a creepy moustache.
Ten years ago, I spent four months living in France in the former art studio of Anna Klumpke, a portraitist in the 1800’s who was known primarily as the lover of Rosa Bonheur, an animal painter who received a special dispensation from Napoleon III to wear pants. But I digress.
During that time, I had to look up “le gynécologue” in the phone book. I made an appointment with a doctor in the next town over. My French is ok but I’m no Charlotte Rampling, so to reduce my odds of telling a doctor there’s a croissant in my pantry, I brought along my Canadian friend Natalie who could help translate.
The doctor’s office was on a residential street in Fontainebleau, in a simple house with a wooden sign out front. I rang the bell. “Une minute. J’arrive.” His voice was low and stern. When he opened the door, I discovered the world’s best-kept secret.
Salvador Dali is not dead. He is working as a gynecologist in a picturesque town south of Paris. The moustache, the slicked back hair, crazy eyes, the whole thing. Natalie and I had a conversation with our eyes: “You’re going to let Salvador Dali touch your lady parts?” “Yes in fact I am going to let the famous surrealist painter examine me. I’m tired and I hurt.”
There was no waiting room, no secretary. Just a wood-paneled windowless room with a table and leather straps on loan from Frankenstein. Natalie explained my problem to Salvador. He muttered something I didn’t understand. Natalie looked intently at me and said, “He wants you to take off all of your clothes and lie down on this table.”
“All my clothes?”
“Yes. Everything.”
“Why my shirt and bra? Where do I change? Is there a robe?”
Sensing an uncooperative patient, Salvador sighed and grumbled at Natalie. All I could make out was something about “all Americans.” She said, “He says American women are very prudish and this is an insult.”
We left immediately. Natalie held my hand on the train. “I’m Canadian and would not have taken off all of my clothes either.” She suggested I call a hospital and request a female doctor. I did just that and secured an appointment with a kind, female, English-speaking doctor. In her brightly lit office, I asked her if I needed to fully undress. “Why would you need to do that?” she said. “Just your pants. I’ll turn around. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Now, a decade later, I zip up my linen pants and step out of the Perth clinic into a warm afternoon breeze. The wind is famous here, blowing in from the nearby port city of Fremantle and providing relief on hot days. Locals refer to it as the Fremantle Doctor.