It’s Like I Wasn’t Even In The Room: Struggles as a Bi+ Patient at the Gynecologist
Sara Schmieder
I’ve never enjoyed going to the doctor. Between the sterile, impersonal environment of the average doctor’s office and their tendency to attribute all of my issues to anxiety or my weight, it’s a generally unpleasant experience at best and profoundly traumatizing at worst.
At 21, I went to the gynecologist for the first time, which was also the first time I came out to a healthcare provider. I had been dealing with recurrent yeast infections for a while and was desperate for some relief. Sadly, this became the first of many times that my sexuality caused problems at that office.
Sitting alone in a cold doctor’s office, we went over the usual questions about my health. While trying my best to be calm and collected, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for the questions about potential pregnancy. I couldn’t find any reviews about this doctor and her beliefs about LGBTQ+ people, but being in Virginia, it could go either way.
“It’s impossible for me to be pregnant. I’m dating a woman.”
“Oh,” followed by a long pause as the apparent weight of what I’d just said settled into the room. “Well, I guess you won’t need an STI test!” Which is ironic because that’s exactly what I was there to get.
I didn’t explicitly mention my bisexuality at that appointment. Why would I when I was already dealing with the consequences of medical misinformation on the apparent inability of two AFABs to give each other STIs? The complexities of my sexuality meant nothing at that moment.
It wasn’t until a few years later, when I went back to the same practice to discuss birth control options, that I finally fully came out to a healthcare provider.
At that point, I was single and dealing with a horrible premenstrual dysphoric disorder. I wanted only to discuss my birth control options and my fears of going back on the combined birth control pill, which previously caused a months-long mental breakdown with daily panic attacks.
The standard questions were asked, and I dutifully responded that I was not sexually active and that I had never had intercourse with someone who had a penis.
The doctor responded with a slight scowl and the following conclusion: “Oh, so you’re a lesbian. Well, lesbians don’t need birth control.”
If I wasn’t already uncomfortable with the vibe created in the office, I was now. I felt like it didn’t matter what I said for the rest of the appointment; she had already decided I wasn’t worth her time.
“No, I’m bisexual, and I might have a male partner in the future, so I would like to discuss my options.” I tried to stand my ground, but wearing nothing but a thin paper robe in a dark office didn’t instill a sense of self-empowerment. “I was on birth control for 6 years, but I’ve been off of it for the past 3 or so. I had a bad reaction when my pill brand kept changing because of insurance, so I’m not sure what my options are.”
“Bisexual?” She sounded like I was telling her a unicorn was standing behind her. She then offered the following assessment: “It sounds like you have a lot of mental health issues. Did you go to the psych ward when you had that breakdown? It sounds like it was just stress from college and being confused about your sexuality, honey.”
I was dumbstruck that a medical professional would sit there and tell me not only that I was confused about my sexuality (classic biphobia) but also that I was lying about my previous experiences with hormonal birth control.
All I could make myself say through the sound of my heart pounding in my chest was, “It was from the pill. My panic attacks went away after I got off of it. I’m not opposed to going back on the pill. I just want to know all of my options.”
“Why are you being so difficult and refusing hormones!” She said – as if I didn’t just say that I was interested in hormonal options, “Well, the good thing is that you can still say you’re a virgin since you’ve never had intercourse with a man, and most people don’t consider the sex you had to be actual sex. I suggest that you either stay abstinent until marriage with a man as God intended, join a convent, or get back with your ex. Honestly, unless you’re ready to get pregnant, I don’t think there is anything else I can help you with.” I was 24.
Eventually, I got on the pill through an online pharmacy. Still, their inability to listen to me and not jump to conclusions did not help the growing distrust between the medical establishment and myself.
Naively, I believed that once I moved from Virginia to Massachusetts, I would find a provider who didn’t push God down my throat and might understand that my bisexuality played a role in the kind of care I needed.
Sadly, I was wrong.
I was in a much different situation at the time of my last appointment than the last two times. I was beginning a relationship with a cishet man and considering more long-term contraceptive options because of my growing concerns about healthcare access after the overturning of Roe v. Wade.
I answered all of the standard questions as expected: I’m about to be sexually active again; no, I can’t be pregnant; I haven’t had intercourse in 6 months; yes, I use protection; I’m on the pill, and I use condoms. It was all going well, not great, but better than previous experiences until I came out.
“I’m also bisexual,” I told my provider while wearing yet another paper-thin medical robe. The doctor looked at me, confused, unsure how this was relevant to the appointment.
When she asked me about how many partners I had for a moment, I was impressed. Maybe she was aware of polyamory, which, while it did not impact me, it was nice to know she had that knowledge. I told her I only had one partner, my boyfriend.
“Be honest with me. How many partners do you have?” And right then, a lump formed in my throat. She wasn’t trying to be inclusive; she was stereotyping me.
“I am being honest; I only have one.” I squeaked out as I suddenly felt like the room shrunk.
“But you’re bisexual, that means you have multiple partners, and I need to know how many so I can provide you care. Lying won’t help you.”
The rest of the appointment was spent interrogating me about everything I said.
Better yet, once she knew I had a boyfriend, my entire appointment centered around his wants and needs. I should get an IUD because HE would like it more if we didn’t use condoms. When does HE expect us to start trying to conceive? How many children does HE want? Is HE aware of my bisexual “preferences.”
Plot twist: we don’t want any children, and he doesn’t want me to get an IUD. I was entirely erased from my medical care just because a man was involved, and my bisexuality deemed me a liar.
Throughout all of my experiences, I consistently felt like I was the person of least concern in the room and that no one understood how to care for a bisexual patient. I wish the doctors had a better understanding that not all bisexual people are polyamorous, that same-sex partners can pass on STIs, and that bisexuality is real. My credibility went out the door the moment my bisexuality was mentioned due to the biphobic belief that bisexuality isn’t real and only something people make up for attention.
Bi+ people are more likely to delay seeking medical care and are less likely to be out to their medical provider compared to gay and lesbian people. Experiencing biphobia from medical professionals can keep a population that already doesn’t seek out care to avoid the doctor’s office further. Advocating for yourself at the doctor’s is critical to receiving the care you deserve, making medical providers know that they have Bi+ patients, and making them aware of the health issues Bi+ people face.