Today I’m calling my GP again. I explain to the receptionist that my vulva is on fire. It itches and feels as though I’ve rubbed it with fresh chili pepper. When I looked at my sacred temple with my makeup mirror, it seemed different from usual. As if I’d had surgery. As if I’d thought: those labia minora, I think they’re too big, I’m going to shorten them a bit. And voilà, suddenly I had a much smaller vulva.
During office hours, I sit in the waiting room with a real Rotterdam woman. She clearly feels like having a chat and starts talking about the weather.
‘Girl, it’s such a shame summer is over again. I can just feel in my bones that the cold is back in the air. Why are you at the doctor today?’
I swallow. I don’t think that’s really a question you’re supposed to ask at the doctor’s office.
She looks at me inquisitively and continues: ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, you know. I’ve got so much pain in my stomach again, I’m absolutely beside myself. You know, those stabbing pains, but they feel like knives. I’ve learned to live with them, but actually, it isn’t normal. I’m so fed up with it.’
I nod. I know that feeling. I’ve had it since my first period and have been to the doctor so many times for these problems. It’s so bad that sometimes I can’t work, and I used to have to skip school because I had to spend my time curled up in bed. Apparently, women’s health is something incredibly complicated.
I hear my name echo through the waiting room, wish Ms. Rotterdam a nice day, and the doctor walks ahead of me toward her office in long strides.
Two minutes later, I’m lying on her examination table with my legs spread, thinking about her view. How many penises and vulvas must she see in a day?
Her face is hanging very close to my intimate area. I washed it extra well this morning, especially for my doctor. I hope she doesn’t smell anything. At the thought, I break out in a sweat, and my back sticks to the paper covering on her examination table.
‘You have a yeast infection. I’ll send a prescription to the pharmacy; you can pick it up within five minutes.’
I sigh. Another yeast infection?
I carefully ask whether she can refer me to my gynecologist. I’d really feel better if she took a look at it. This is my fourth prescription this year, and I think something else is going on.
My GP falls silent and looks through my file. After some digging, she comes across the account in my file about sexual violence. I see her swallow. She looks up from her screen, clears her throat, and says that women with sexual trauma often suffer from vulvar pain and that it’s good that I contacted my gynecologist about it right away. She proceeds with a referral, and within two weeks I receive a call about a new appointment.
I wonder how all those women manage who are less willing or able to insist on further investigation. Do these women go through the rest of their lives with unbearable symptoms?
The gynecologist needs only one look. It’s lichen sclerosus.
I swallow. I feel a lump rising in my throat. ‘I’m going to die. I have cancer,’ echoes through my head. I feel my eyes fill with tears. I stammer: ‘How bad is it, and how long do I have left?’
My gynecologist looks at me kindly. I see a very small, minute smile at the corners of her mouth. She gestures for me to sit at her desk and explains that living with lichen sclerosus doesn’t mean I have cancer. That it’s very possible to live well with it. But that it will never go away.
Sticking to the treatment schedule is very important: Dermovate at night and greasy ointment during the day after every trip to the toilet.
She tells me I don’t need to worry. That the important thing now is to calm my flare-up as quickly as possible and make a plan together.
She tells me that stress can have an effect and that some doctors claim food can also play a role, but that more research is actually needed. That the right Lichen Sclerosus underwear can help. That there is still a great deal we don’t know. That every woman has to find her own rhythm and balance when it comes to LS.
She tells me I can get a great deal more information and that there are also support groups where I can talk to other women about LS.
The information makes my head spin.
‘Can I never have sex again?’ I ask her, my voice trembling.
The gynecologist says: ‘You never have LS alone. It affects your relationship, your surroundings, and your life. LS is not contagious, and you can simply have sex whenever it feels right for you.’
She reassures me that everything will be all right and that it will get better. She cautiously glances at her watch and walks toward the door of her consultation room. Apparently, my time is up. The waiting room is full of women looking at me questioningly.
On my bike ride home, I feel the first drops of autumn falling. I throw my head back toward the sky and stick out my tongue. The rain on my face feels like a breath of fresh air.
From today onward, a new chapter begins. LS and I, hand in hand. Never alone again. Until death do us part. As well, beautifully, and completely as possible.
Because it will never be the way it was yesterday or in all the years before. But knowing is better than leaving things as they were.
