The Doctor Asked to See My Breasts and I Showed Him

While I was still standing facing the other way, he told me to take my jacket and shirt off, so he could examine my back…

I love my breasts — and yours probably — but in a different way. What I mean is I am a fan of this particular part of the anatomy… Over the years, I have thoroughly enjoyed mine. However, on a couple of occasions I became boob-confused when I was duped into showing off more than I would have liked.

This story is about an incident that happened to me when I was in my early 20s. The feelings it evoked affirmed that the medical professional overstepped the line. Have a read and see if you agree…

As a teenager, I was in and out of the Doctor's surgery on a regular basis. This was because I suffered — and still do now and then — with eczema.

In those days — the early 80s — there was no such thing as a repeat prescription. This meant that each time I ran out of ointment for my skin, I would have to make a doctor's appointment, where I would receive the note which said I was entitled to the cream.

For many years I had the same middle-aged Dr… He was very nice, and had a small surgery attached to his house around the corner from where I lived with my parents. I trusted this man so much, I even went to see him when I found out I had a slight fissure at the entrance to my anus. He was always totally professional.

When I left the family home at twenty-one and moved into a flat with some friends, I had to change surgeries. It was important to be connected to a Dr from the neighbourhood. This was not a big deal as I was taking an oral contraceptive at the time, and one positive thing about the pill was my skin healed. However, over the years, I have uncovered many negatives regarding women’s contraception in general, but that is not what this story is about.

At twenty-three, I split up with a long-term boyfriend and decided to have a break from the pill. I had been taking it for six years and didn’t appreciate the mood swings I was having and felt they may be related.

However, within about three months, my eczema had returned. I only had patches, but they were irritating in more ways than one, so I made an appointment with my new doctor.

When I sat in the waiting room or the large surgery which had a handful of medical staff assigned to it, I was already feeling nervous. This was the first time I had been to consult with a Dr since leaving home and the friendly, small, surgery down the road.

I was called into a large room and sat at a desk opposite a man around forty years of age.

I explained I was just there to get a prescription for a lifelong ailment — Eczema.

He looked at my quite extensive notes, asking a few pertinent questions. I showed him the patches on my wrists and elbow creases. Which he examined. Dry and scaly. Yep Eczema.

He then asked if the patches extended elsewhere, and thinking it was important to be honest with a professional, I said,

“Yes, behind my knees, on my shoulder blades and the side of my breasts.”

I continued by mentioning they were all similar to look at, and places where I had been inflicted before.

When he requested that I show him the skin on my legs I was not yet concerned. It was summer and I had a skirt on. It was easy to stand and lift my skirt hem slightly so he could see.

Then while I was still facing the other way, he told me to remove my jacket and blouse, so he could look at my back.

My pulse rose. But taking a deep breath, I placed my coat and shirt on the chair. And he stood behind me asking some minor questions.

Then he said, “please take your bra off so I can check the eczema on your breasts.”

I turned and faced him, feeling self-conscious as it was, standing in a strange room, with a strange man in just a skirt and bra. I plucked up the courage and briefly spoke…

“The patches are the same everywhere.”

Nerves showing by the quiver in my voice.

He replied, “I am sure there is nothing to worry about, but it is important to check.”

At that point, I should have simply said — “NO.” But this man was an authority figure, a professional, so surely trustworthy? Just like the family Dr had been. But then again, that man had never asked to see my breasts.

Not wanting to take off my bra completely, I snaked my hands around and undid the clasp, lifting the cups away from my flash. Immediately I felt embarrassed that my nipples were alert.

The moment I saw the expression on his face at the sight of my boobs, I knew I’d been had. When he leaned forward, touching the small scaly round patch on the left side, my heart sank.

Fooled.

Taken for a mug.

And I was furious…

…with ME.

There was absolutely no reason for him to touch the eczema anywhere on my body. But he had chosen to do that on my bare breast.

Exposed once more.

Leaving the surgery with my prescription, heat radiating from my face and heart beating fast, I ran down to the bus stop with tears streaming down my face. The incident shouldn't have happened.

I should have stopped it.

I changed surgery, but without reporting what had gone on. Why? Well, I didn't want to have to deal with being questioned and knew I would be up against people telling me he was just doing his job. But of course I knew better.

As the years have passed, I have often looked back on that day and remembered it in detail. I know that the young me should not have taken the shame on to herself. He was the one in the wrong and should have been held responsible.

The consequence of this was I never trusted male doctors again and always made sure I saw a female — be it Dr or nurse.

One bad apple.

Years later, I was chatting to a nurse at my village surgery regarding the possibility of having my breasts examined — a friend had cancer and I wanted to be reassured. I was pleased to hear that rules and regulations surrounding such examinations had changed and were now more foolproof.

And isn’t the phrase interesting— foolproof? I was a fool that day when I showed the apparently professional man my boobs. But that was the last time I was caught out and exposed in such a way.

For a so-called professional to make a young woman feel ashamed of her actions is reprehensible. I would hate for such a thing to happen to one of my daughters.

What do you think?

Another true story by May More

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