Sandy Langhart Michelet
Sadly, some of the most surprising interactions I have had as a childless woman are in medical facilities where professionals think that there are two kinds of women—those who have given birth and those who haven’t yet. Other than that, women don’t exist. And it impacts how women take care of themselves.
For many, doctors’ appointments become emotionally loaded spaces filled with triggers—duplicate questions about pregnancies, assumptions about parenting, or reminders of loss and unfulfilled hopes. I understandthat doctors’ offices need the entire picture to ensure the best healthcare…but there has to be a better way. Having to restate female surgeries and our inability to have children at every doctor’s visit can be upsetting—and quite frankly, gets old.
I would assume my decades of infertility issues are written in my chart somewhere, amirite?
The Podiatrist’s Office
One Saturday morning, I decided to become a runner. Yep. Thirty minutes later, I opened my front door and started to jog before I got to the sidewalk. Justin Timberlake was in my headphones. I had everything I needed—except proper shoes, a warm-up routine, and even a hint of athletic talent.
A month later, I was limping into a doctor’s office with plantar fasciitis in both feet and a promise to myself that I’d never run again.
While completing new patient paperwork in the waiting room: “Are you pregnant?” “No.” “Could you possibly be pregnant?” “No.” Are you sure? I mean, really sure you aren’t?” “I’M NOT PREGNANT!”
The signs in the waiting room were on high alert: “Notify our staff if you believe you are pregnant or could be pregnant.”
The magazines on the tables were dedicated to parents – helpful tips on dealing with homework, choosing the right bedding for an infant, articles on ‘all things baby’, blah, blah, blah. Interestingly, though, not a lot of articles on feet.
A nurse came to get me from the waiting room, but first, we needed to X-ray. *sigh*
“Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
“Could you possibly be pregnant? “No.” *sigh*
The Mammogram Clinic
My doctor’s office is in a hospital that caters to women. I have to trudge through the sea of pink and baby-blue crap to go get body parts smushed.
Like many hospitals, it is difficult to park exactly where you need to – so I have to rush through the long halls with blinders on, but it can be difficult. The walls are decorated with newborns (well, newborn pictures, not the real thing), and the floors are covered with baby-feet stickers.
There is only one reason I continue to go there—because I love my doctor.
Am I uber-sensitive to this topic? No doubt. But am I being unrealistic to want to increase awareness that the childless exist? No. There has to be a better way. What about a route within the hospital that can get me from point A to point B, that minimizes the tour of the gift shop, birthing center, etc.?
What about an area in a waiting room that doesn’t scream, “BABY!”?
What about magazines in the waiting rooms with articles other than“Binky Basics,” “Choosing the Perfect Nursery,” and “Five Ways To Soothe a Crying Baby”? <== Real articles, BTW!
I get it. We exist in the minority. But we still exist. Many childless women I’ve talked with have given up medical care in general. Why?
Maybe because they can’t bear it again, for any reason, including those listed below. I don’t know. But an environment dedicated to everything we want but can’t have certainly doesn’t help encourage good healthcare.
Sitting in waiting rooms next to pregnant women.
Answering repeat questions on your doctor’s intake forms year after year
Doctors assuming you’ve had children or still plan to.
Owning the “your-body-has-failed-you-again-and-again-so-why- should-you-take-care-of-it?” mentality.
Answering endless forms that ask how many children you’ve had or your “family history” that centers on reproductive health.
Why am I focused on medical facilities as opposed to restaurants, malls, etc.? Because when we need medical attention, we are at our most vulnerable.
Managing the experience
After doctors’ appointments, tests, and procedures, and still, nothing “has happened”—no children, no milestones—some women begin to feel overwhelmed but still invisible or dismissed in medical settings. Even though I was steady in my infertility journey – I was not a frequent flyer…meaning, I didn’t contact the doctor constantly. As a self-professed control freak, it was difficult….but I tried to rely on their expertise and I followed their instructions.
After too many tests and procedures to count, I continued to have horrible symptoms. I knew my body needed a break so I tried to find a solution to give it some rest. My doctor recommended an IUD – after the procedure I contacted their office about 15 times within the following month, because the pain was unbearable. I could not get comfortable. At all. I couldn’t find a position sitting, standing, lying down, crouching, anything…that wasn’t excruciating. I was lucky that my phone calls to the doctor’s office were answered and I at least felt someone was listening.
Not everyone receives that kind of understanding. Many women find their pain overlooked or brushed aside, and some are even told they’re exaggerating.
Pain Management
When it comes to reproductive health, the contrast in pain management is striking. For a vasectomy, men are routinely given local anesthesia to fully numb the area, and in some cases even receive medication to ease anxiety before the procedure. The standard of care assumes their comfort matters.
For women, however, pain relief for an IUD insertion is often minimal - usually nothing more than over-the-counter ibuprofen taken beforehand. Local anesthesia or numbing options may exist but are inconsistently offered, leaving many women shocked by the intensity of the pain.
The message is clear: male discomfort is anticipated and prevented, while female pain is too often downplayed, dismissed, or untreated.
The cruelest trend
Women going through fertility issues are forced to sit in doctors’ offices next to pregnant women or women with newborns. In some facilities, women experiencing a miscarriage or recovering from a hysterectomy are placed on the “baby ward”, which is a cruelty I cannot even fathom. Over time, this emotional weight can lead to avoidance of routine care like mammograms, pap smears, or annual exams, putting long-term health at risk. What appears as neglect is often silent self-protection.
We don’t want a monument dedicated to our plight. We don’t expect a special facility that removes all hints of babies and pregnant women. But a few tweaks could create a more welcoming environment and positively impact women’s healthcare.
