A few words of caution….if raw reality, vulgar language, and the human condition offends you, do not read this particular blog post. It is written as a fictional piece based on real-life events that I have observed in the Emergency Department. I have taken many creative liberties to preserve anonymity. Although I write in the first person, this is the story of many emergency providers and patients combined together. It was difficult to publish for many reasons, but illuminates a condition that I felt needed a voice. There are more gentle writings available elsewhere on this blog.
The “genital foreign-body complaint”, a.k.a. something stuck in a place where it doesn’t belong, was never surprising but most often amusing. The title bestowed upon me early on in my emergency medicine career – Queen of Dildo Retrieval – had followed me no matter where I worked. My collection of such tales was legendary, and it appeared I would be adding one more.
The most beloved artifact amongst my peers had always been the vibrating Mickey Mouse toothbrush that I extracted. Colleagues had taken bets as it seemed an impossible feat to recover without surgery, since the activated battery caused it to migrate past the patient’s happiest place on earth, his rectum. Up until now, all my stories involved a male patient and his orifices.
When I entered the examination room to find a well-dressed, composed white female in her mid-40s, I was a bit surprised. But when she finally spoke, I was shocked. I envisioned a new winning legend for my collection that would surely defeat those of any of my ER contemporaries, and forever cement my title in the history of the BAFERD.*
“I have a gun in my vagina.”
It was not uncommon to encounter some kinky fetishes gone wrong in a busy, urban emergency department but this was a first, even in my twenty years. Vaginas usually only lost tampons, not firearms. So many questions poured immediately into my mind.
Was it loaded? What was the caliber? Did it have a safety? Was it on? Had she had intercourse with the gun or anyone else? Had she or her partner/partners tried removing it? Any other objects in the cave? Had she done this before? Was this actually enjoyable? Was she in pain? How long had it been stuck?
Already devising my retrieval plan, I kindly explained that I would need to call my ultrasound and x-ray techs to help fully delineate the position of the object with imaging. Then I would know how to delicately deliver this weapon from her womanhood without injuring her or myself in the process.
“You should also call the police.”
She coolly interrupted my musings with some sage advice which I had not yet considered. She appeared to be an intelligent woman in her demeanor and poise. She likely knew it was illegal to bring guns into the hospital, even if it was one trapped inside her vaginal vault. Maybe it was unregistered or more likely, she thought that the police knew how to disarm it better than a seasoned ER doc. I assured her I was an expert, in fact the reigning queen of foreign body retrievals, but I still naively asked why I needed to call the po-po.
“I have a gun in my vagina, and I plan to use it to shoot Donald Trump between the eyes.”
The nurse by my side, a staunch Republican, walked steadily towards the patient and her potentially-weaponized vagina. This former combat medic mustered the most tranquil voice she could, and managed to coax the patient to lie down in preparation for an exam, deliberately holding her hands together in a prayer position. She reassured the patient she would keep her safe from her loaded lady parts while the doctor went for her tools, instructing her not to move.
She bravely bought me time to bolt from the room to summon more help, call the police, and determine whether we were dealing with a trained assassin, a psychopath or just psychosis. The biggest x-ray tech I could find and I donned our fakest smiles, along with x-ray protective garments that resembled bulletproof vests, and re-entered the room with my portable ultrasound and x-ray machines. Our ER’s one unarmed guard and several nurses, holding massive doses of tranquilizers at the ready, silently waited on the other side of the curtain, in case I gave them the word.
Luckily, my hopes of winning this year’s “best foreign body award” were dashed as I announced, in the loudest voice possible and without tipping her off about my lurking colleagues, that there were no signs of a foreign body detected on either study. She laughed.
“Of course not. It’s a 3D printed gun and the magazine is not engaged.”
She readily consented to the pelvic exam that I was trying with all my expertise to avoid. I started to wonder if this was her actual fetish but knew there was no way of getting out of this medical exam, especially if she needed to go to jail or the psych ward. Asking her to take a deep breath and do her best to relax, I prepared to place the cold metal speculum inside her vagina, noticing for the first time in the thousands of times I had done this procedure, that it was in fact the shape of a pistol. She flinched briefly but then slowly spread her legs, allowing me to perform the examination. There was no gun.
“You fucking, idiot bitch! Go get me a competent man doctor that knows his way around a pussy and stop wasting my precious time!”
Like Glocks being cocked, I knew the sweet sound of syringes being readied by my unseen troops as I politely smiled and reassured her that I would find her a new physician.
Dr. Carlos gladly joined the charade now that the whole department had heard the buzz. And I had to admit, he was perfect for this patient. He was known for his suave female anatomy abilities that caused nurses with no self-control to drop their panties. He was handsome – stunning, in fact – with his long dreads, mocha-colored skin and an ego that knew it. But I needed him more for his huge, cut muscles and black-belt abilities, in case this patient flipped further. We calmly walked into the room, both armed with enough hidden drugs to tranquilize an elephant if she turned violent, as I made the introductions.
“Put your hands up! Higher! Close your fists tight!”
She commanded and Dr. Carlos complied, attempting to pacify her.
“They will know your power! Black power!”
“Black power!” he yelled back and took it all in stride when, in the next breath, she started screaming the N-word and ordered us all to repeat it multiple times, as loudly as possible. Dr. Carlos once again complied. I froze. Her non-white supremacist nurse refused, explaining that it was not a word she felt comfortable saying.
The patient calmed and briefly explained, as if to a child, that it was code. It was necessary. And it was the only way to get Lady Gaga into the building. Finally, I could relate, as I am a huge Lady Gaga fan (Little Monster). I offered up the idea that knowing Lady Gaga’s public stance on love, kindness and equality for all, it surely didn’t seem like a word she would want us uttering, let alone screaming. As a distraction, I pressed play on my favorite Gaga tune on my phone, “Born This Way.” She began to dance and sing and relax. Dr. Carlos released his arms and stopped yelling the racial slur. She bolted upright.
“You fucking nigger! Don’t stop! Not until she gets here! She has the missing magazine! We are killing Trump together! Why do you think she is really singing at the inauguration? You are ruining our mission! Get this gun out of my pussy now! We have to save the world.”
As she lunged for his throat, the nurse slammed her body supine, while we both injected each thigh with the anti-psychotics. 4-point restraints were applied until the thrashing and biting stopped. We were now able to take blood and urine samples, to determine what level of drugs or alcohol was causing this insanity.
All tests returned normal. And her emergency contact had finally arrived.
She was the mother of three and had no psychiatric history or substance abuse disorders. According to her friend, she was likely one of the most upstanding citizens I had ever treated. She was a seasoned, trained social worker who had worked in some of the most difficult inner cities for decades. Despite the dark atrocities she had witnessed and helped with, she was always the light for her patients, her family and her friends.
As I described the events that had taken place in our emergency room, her loved one gasped in disbelief, which quickly turned to guilt. She cried that she should have known something was not quite right. Yet, she admitted that the patient was always so good at hiding her pain, so together and astute. And then the fragmented reality of her delusions began to make sense, as her friend started to share more.
The patient had recently worked a case in which a young black woman had been brutally raped at gunpoint, in her own home, by a white man who had suffered no consequence. She had been shaken, but that had always been part of her job. She had cried briefly.
Her estranged father had blown out his brains around the same time as a mutual colleague had done the same, both corpses rotted before being discovered. It had been at least a year or two ago. She was smart and got counseling – once.
It had been difficult for her to accept that the one man she had finally loved and trusted, an ex-military sniper, turned out to be a Trump supporter and bigot. But hell… that was over 4 years ago. She fled and moved on.
The strain of the pandemic, coupled with the rampant, blatant racism and sexism and conspiracy theorists were disturbing to her, but she certainly didn’t belong to any wings, left or right. And she definitely didn’t own any guns or condone violence.
She had seen so much worse suffering in her lifetime, both personally and globally, that this national crisis didn’t seem like that big of a deal – at least that’s what she told herself to cope. She had work to do and people to save and there was never enough time. That was her mission, saving her small world.
She was looking to the future for hope and had seemed quite optimistic about the inauguration, especially Lady Gaga’s performance. What had taken place at the Capitol not long before now had broken her heart. She certainly was no assassin and never a psychiatric patient.
“I don’t understand how this could happen to her”, her friend exclaimed. “It’s like she’s been possessed, or is living in someone else’s body.”
I sadly smiled and replied, touching her hand:
“Yes, a foreign body.”
Mental illness and suicide have become rampant among health care providers and in our general population. The only people that are helpless are the ones that don’t ask for help. It is much more difficult for those in the caregiving role to seek this help for a multitude of reasons. If you or someone you love is struggling with trauma and/or mental illness, please reach out, even anonymously. It could save a life.
*BAFERD=Badass Fu***** Emergency Doctor
Image: PIxabay.com
