He tried to say afterward it was an “avuncular” hug. Hah! Well, I’m here to tell you it was anything but. I had to look up the word avuncular when I was copied on his reply to the medical inquiry panel. The dictionary said “uncle-like.” That’s not how I saw it, but I’ll allow you, the reader, to be the judge.

My daughter was born by emergency caesarean section while my family doctor was out of town. I kept telling myself afterward it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been there, they would have called a specialist anyway. When Dr. Goodwin arrived, he was older than I would have expected, maybe mid-seventies. He was overweight with a bald head and flushed face. His silver-framed glasses reflected the harsh light. His voice was strident, he didn’t smile, he was not reassuring. Business-like you would call it, and that was absolutely okay; it wasn’t exactly a social occasion.

I recall his tone more than anything. He wasn’t a team player. He was in charge, which was a good thing, but he was not a team player. He was rude and took a superior tone with the nurses, nasty and sarcastic. He belittled each one of them through ridicule or downright humiliation; I was uncomfortably aware of this in my quasi-lucid state. It bothered me. I couldn’t say anything, of course, but I was conscious of his every sneer, and every tamped expression of distress from whichever nurse happened to be in his line of fire. I don’t believe I heard even one encouraging word directed at any of them. Now, you might feel that should not have been expected, given the fact my baby and I were experiencing a medical crisis requiring imminent surgery. But being forced to witness his utter contempt for the support team at a time when I was incapable of interceding was demoralizing. Sadly, Dr. Goodwin’s misogynist behavior that day is what I remember most, and it is not a pleasant memory.

He was haughty, authoritarian, and cold. I abhorred him from the start. There were a few initial complications, and he was competent, I’ll give him that, but through it all, I was aware of his contempt for women whom he clearly regarded as inferior. It put my hackles up, and I could not let the feeling go, which is not like me at all.

Weeks later, I had a follow up appointment to have the staples removed. And I do mean staples: long, thick, huge staples parading in a vertical line from navel to pubis, no neat little hidden incisions for him! When I arrived, a nurse waved me into his inner sanctum. He told her to leave, brusquely, and motioned me to the examining table. I asked if I’d need a gown. He leered at me and told me to remove my dress and lie down. He watched. It did not feel right or comfortable to me, but I did it. He asked no questions, made no pleasantries. I thanked him again for successfully delivering our healthy baby girl. There was no reply, not even a nod or smile of acknowledgement.

He stared at me in a way I found insulting. It made my skin crawl. He removed the staples. It hurt like hell. He was not gentle. I thought he took delight in the process. His only words were, “We’re done,” when it was over.

I hopped off the table. I felt shaky and I was sweating. I reached for my dress, but he plucked it from the chair first and just stood there. He looked at me with a crooked little smirk. His eyes were cold. He held on to the dress for a good long time before he passed it to me. He placed his arm around my shoulders before leaving the office. I made my way out. The nurse was nowhere in sight. The receptionist peered at me; her eyes were sympathetic. I thanked her and headed for the elevator.

I was wobbly and wished I’d asked my husband to come. He’d wanted to accompany me, but I insisted on walking the short distance from home. “It will be fine,” I’d said. Not so much though. There were no cell phones then and I didn’t have a dime. I walked along the shoulder of the road looking out over the marshy edge of the harbor. It was windy and bitter wisps of fine snow stung my face.

I felt unsettled. I’d never undressed in front of a doctor before. I’d never been alone, disrobed, on a table without a nurse present. I’d never felt anything like this. Violated is too strong a word, but something kept whispering that it had been a violation. I remembered the look on his face, how uncomfortable it made me. I was aware of the power shift. He had it as soon as my dress was off. He didn’t do anything except look at me. But it was the way he looked at me, as though I were an object, nothing more or less.

When I arrived home, I didn’t say anything at first. I did sit down to compose a letter to the Medical Board outlining my concerns about the appointment. This gynecologist had not followed protocol and I’d been troubled. From the beginning I made it clear I wasn’t interested in any action beyond documenting the incident. I wanted to ensure my experience was on file in case other women felt obligated to express similar complaints

Six weeks later, I received a written response to my letter of complaint directly from Dr. Goodwin. I’d been informed earlier that a personal reply would be forthcoming. This step is legally required by the Medical Inquiry Board, otherwise, I’m quite certain Dr. Goodwin wouldn’t have addressed my concerns at all. Instead, his justification spoke volumes when he wrote: “What have things come to when a kind doctor cannot give a patient an avuncular hug showing care?” Those were his words meant to fill me with shame and doubt. What he could never have understood is how his ignorance, unprofessionalism, and inappropriateness would empower me to take action instead. I couldn’t change what he did to me, but I could make sure that his behavior had consequences that would follow him into the next exam room.

Virginia Boudreau is a retired teacher living on the south shore of Nova Scotia. She can often be found at the beach. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a wide variety of international literary magazines and anthologies, both in print and online.